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Social Fragmentation and the Decline of American Democracy: The End of the Social Contract 1st Edition
The American Way ofWar Finance andthe Decline of Democracy
S
ARAH E. KREPS
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eISBN 978–0–19–086532–0
Bearing the Financial Burden of War
Partisan Politics in the Early Wars: Conflicts of 1798, 1812, and 1898
The “Liberty Bond” Approach to War Finance: World Wars I and II
From Taxation to Borrowing: Declining Fiscal Sacrifice in Korea and Vietnam
“Hide-and-Seek” Wars: The Afghanistan and Iraq Wars
Cross-National Survey Evidence from the United States, the United Kingdom, and France
Conclusion
Appendix
Notes
Index
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
During graduate school, I worked as a US Air Force reservist at the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO). The NRO had obtained mythical status in my mind because it dealt with space, satellites, oodles of secret money, and spooks from the Central Intelligence Agency.
One of the first people I met working at the NRO was a former non-official cover officer. As he quickly told me, he was the kind of CIA agent who would be killed without question if anyone in the field discovered his identity. And as with most people in the intelligence business, he was dispositionally paranoid. One clear manifestation was that he came to work every day with ten $100 bills rolled and squirreled away in various parts of his body and clothes. It was a habit, he said, that he had picked up in case he needed to bribe his way out of a dangerous situation. He had been unable to shed the practice even though we worked in the leafy suburbs of northern Virginia.
A somewhat more useful nugget he dispensed to his amateur colleague was how to evade questions about the classified nature of his work. He said that when people asked what he does, he said he is a tax specialist. The response would shut down further questions because no one would ever want to talk more about any intricacies of taxes. I nodded in agreement, because I thought for a long time that people didn’t want to discuss taxes. I no longer agree, and I hope that the reader of this book does not either.
Taxes, I realized, are not just an economic tool. They are inherently political. Of course, I had known this as early as grade school when we were taught about the Tea Party Massacre and the
origins of the American Revolution, but as an adult, it seemed like taxes were simply something onerous we dealt with in April of every year.
I started to reevaluate this belief one day when I was talking to a Cornell colleague of mine in comparative politics, Gustavo FloresMacías. He was studying the security taxes levied in Colombia to fight the guerrilla war, and I started to dig into the United States experience. It turned out the United States had not levied a war tax since the Vietnam War, and I wondered why that practice had changed and what the consequences might be.
My colleague and I collaborated on a couple of articles on war taxes, one of which appeared in the American Political Science Review and another in the Journal of Conflict Resolution, but it seemed like a book manuscript was in order that would allow me to write more systematically about the American experience with paying for its wars. This book is the product of that research. It was a long time in coming, as I briefly detoured to write a couple of books on drone warfare, which I came to realize was actually a related story. The United States has increasingly worked to shield its population from the costs of war not just in blood, through the use of drones, but also in treasure, by avoiding war taxes and financing its conflict through debt. A long-established tradition of democratic theory suggests that a key difference between democracies and nondemocracies is that a democratic populace bears the direct costs of war in blood and treasure. The more directly they bear those costs, the more incentives they have to pressure leaders to keep wars short and low cost.
My normative concern with this project was the inverse of this logic. If individuals no longer saw the costs of war, would they be less politically engaged with the cost, duration, and outcome? The study suggests that the answer is yes. Beginning in 2001, the United States began a war against Al-Qaeda that morphed into a war against unrelated militants in east Africa, north Africa, and Yemen. President Obama campaigned on winding down the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, only to wind them back up. In 2014, he began a war against the Islamic State in Syria and Iraq. Legislators have
been relatively silent on each of these fronts because their constituents are silent. The constituents are silent because they are shielded from the costs of war. Accountability linkages have correspondingly unraveled. Debt levels rose as the sense of fiscal propriety that characterized prior wars failed to emerge from the public, quite a different attitude from the one expressed by Woodrow Wilson: “Borrowing money is short-sighted finance. We should pay as we go. The industry of this generation should pay the bills of this generation.”
As I worked through the research on the book, I incurred a number of—pardon the pun—my own debts. I am grateful for funding from the Institute for Social Sciences at Cornell, which funded an early experiment I conducted with Gustavo Flores-Macías. The Koch Foundation provided a generous grant that allowed me to do fieldwork in the United Kingdom, Italy, and Germany to expand my cross-national perspective. The generous Appel fellowship allowed me to spend my sabbatical year in Spain while I finished drafting and editing the manuscript.
I also appreciate the feedback I received on various aspects of the research, including comments from participants in seminars at the University of California-Berkeley, Binghamton University, Duke University, North Carolina State University, Rutgers University, and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. I would also like to thank participants at the Costs of War workshop at Cornell, as they helped move along the ideas for the book in its early stages, and my own book workshop, also at Cornell, whose participants helped finesse the argument and empirics toward the final stages.
A number of individuals provided helpful feedback along the way. In particular, I would like to thank those who took the time to provide written or verbal comments: Mariel Barnes, Richard Bensel, Marc Blythe, Jon Caverley, Malcolm Chalmers, Debak Das, Nisha Fazal, Peter Feaver, Gustavo Flores-Macias, Ben Fordham, Lawrence Freedman, Aaron Friedberg, Jonathan Kirshner, Peter Katzenstein, Tamir Libel, Paul MacDonald, Paul Newman, Dan Reiter, Condoleezza Rice, Sten Rynning, Elizabeth Saunders, Ken Schultz, John Schuessler, Nic Van de Walle, Karin von Hippel, Kyle Wolfley, Amy
Zegart, and Micah Zenko. My thanks also go to Dave McBride at Oxford who heard an early pitch of the book several years back, had thoughtful suggestions about the argument, and then helped shepherd the work to its final publication.
Last, none of this would have been possible without the support and love of my family: my parents, Gustavo, and my kids, Luke and Sebastian. I dedicate this book to them, but especially to my dad, who died suddenly as I finished final edits and until that last day thought his taxes were too darn high.
TAXING WARS
Introduction
IN THE DAYS AFTER the attacks of September 11, 2001, President George W. Bush famously stood in New York City in the rubble of the destroyed World Trade Centers, held a bullhorn, and said, “I can hear you, the rest of the world hears you, and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon.”1 In the days that followed, he also urged Americans to “get down to Disney World in Florida . . . take your families and enjoy life, the way we want it to be enjoyed.”2 Americans, he urged, should not hunker down and make gestures of sacrifice but return to normalcy. Consistent with this tone, the government cut taxes; and efforts to introduce a “share the sacrifice” war tax to pay for military action in Iraq in 2007 and Afghanistan in 2009 in response to the attacks were restricted to political theater of renegade anti-war members of Congress.3 Responding to these war tax proposals, Representative Jerry Lewis (R-CA) said that Americans were “already being taxed to death”4 and would be hostile toward any type of new tax, including a war tax. Democrats themselves “ran away from this idea as fast as you can say the words ‘Republican majority.’ ”5 The result is that the government has financed the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan entirely through borrowing.
Financing these recent wars through debt could not have been more different from earlier experiences when wars meant taxation. In 1914, three years before America’s direct involvement in World War I, President Wilson urged war taxes as a way to fund defense preparations: “Borrowing money is short-sighted finance. We should pay as we go. The industry of this generation should pay the bills of this generation.”6 Despite trying to gain the American people’s acquiescence to enter the war and later to maintain their support throughout the war, the Wilson administration levied a series of war taxes before, during, and after the war, amounting to about one-third of the war’s costs.7 The public was no less deterred from the war or war taxes at that time than they had been in the Spanish-American War, when editorials proclaimed that the populace would “cheerfully pay the cost” in war taxes.8
Why, when Wilson was aiming to recruit support for the war from a reluctant public, did he introduce measures such as a hefty war tax that recent leaders have considered politically toxic? Why was the public so magnanimous in its willingness to contribute its own resources? By contrast, why did recent leaders not use the crisis of war,9 often employed as the entrée for introducing war taxes, in the aftermath of
9/11 to extract resources from the populace in a way that had been customary in the past? More generally, what explains shifting attitudes toward bearing the financial burden of war, moving away from war taxes—and the consequences of that shift?
In this book, I argue that the starkly different approaches are the result of public attitudes toward wartime fiscal sacrifice that vary depending on the underlying type of war and state-society relations, in particular the role of taxation in the nation’s social and political life (discussed in more detail in chapter 2).10 As Scarlett O’Hara said in Gone with the Wind: “Death, taxes and childbirth! There’s never any convenient time for any of them.” But there are less inconvenient times than others. That innate antipathy toward the inconvenience of taxation can be dislodged by certain types of wars and state-society relations. When these factors combine to make the public cost sensitive, leaders have pursued forms of war finance that anticipate opposition and minimize constraints on the way they use force. In the post-1945 world, the public has become almost uniformly unforgiving of fiscal sacrifice, which explains leaders’ increased tendency to rely on less visible forms of finance such as borrowing. Leaders have, in turn, increasingly operated without the decision-making constraints that were in play in many earlier wars when individuals were more directly involved in the costs of war. It is no surprise that American wars since that shift in the latter half of the twentieth century have become increasingly costly and protracted, an observable implication of the unraveling link in accountability between legislators’ decision making and the public’s financial burden that democratic theorists have long believed distinguishes democracies from nondemocracies when it comes to the conduct of war.
War Finance and Democratic Accountability
The direct connection between the populace and the burdens of war underlies many of the theoretical checks and balances thought to characterize democratic restraint in conflict. Immanuel Kant suggested that
if the consent of the citizens is required in order to decide that war should be declared (and in this constitution it cannot but be the case), nothing is more natural than that they would be very cautious in commencing such a poor game, decreeing for themselves all the calamities of war. Among the latter would be: having to fight, having to pay the costs of war from their own resources.11
As bearing the costs of war should constrain the public and in turn its leaders, this lies at the heart of institutional arguments associated with the democratic peace: Since “the people ultimately pay the price of war in higher taxes and bloodshed,”12 they are more sensitive to the costs, in turn curbing leaders’ ambitions in conflict. The statement about the costs of war and the populace is grounded in several assumptions: that the direct, visible costs of war are passed along to the citizenry in a democracy; that bearing the costs of war is generally unpopular and will make the people judicious about the use of force; and that they have electoral recourse and
can register their displeasure with a particular policy—for example, if a leader carries out a costly war at the ballot box. The implication is not that democracies will not engage in war. It is that since individuals bear the burden, they are sensitive to those costs and put pressure on leaders to keep wars short and low cost. Coupled with the electoral checks embedded in a democracy, the costs of war contribute to, as Michael Doyle labeled the Kantian claim, “republican caution—Kant’s ‘hesitation’—in place of monarchical caprice.”13 The cost-sensitive democratic populace will tend to moderate leaders’ ambitions in the conduct of war.
Such institutional constraints are not a given, however. Democratic leaders have found ways to sidestep or minimize cost-related public opposition that would check their conduct in war. For example, although the public is thought to be averse to casualties, 14 other arguments suggest that people are willing to tolerate high casualties for the prospect of a successful war.15 Elite discourse, then, can go some way toward mitigating the adverse effects of casualties, emphasizing the prospect of victory and potentially relaxing some of the checks and balances that were thought to be embedded in democratic institutions.16
Perhaps more fundamentally, leaders have found ways to minimize the cost in blood altogether. They have eliminated conscription, thus creating far more localized rather than diffuse consequences of casualties.17 They have turned toward greater reliance on airpower and unmanned aerial vehicles (drones) to reduce dramatically the likelihood of casualties suffered by allies.18 Leaders have also shifted away from a labor-intensive military in favor of a capital-intensive military that is financially costlier but poses a lower risk of casualties.19 As evidence of this shift, while the Vietnam War incurred over 58,000 fatalities at a financial cost of about $750 billion in 2010 dollars, the combined wars in Iraq and Afghanistan—also roughly a decade in duration—resulted in around 6,000 fatalities but at a cost of about $1.5 trillion.20
If democratic accountability mechanisms require individuals to bear the burdens in blood and treasure, shifting the cost from blood to treasure need not affect the theoretical linkages between leaders’ conduct in war and the populace. The reason is that taxation, for example, confronts individuals with the financial burden of war more directly than debt. As Charles Tilly argued, taxation “constitutes the largest intervention of governments in their subjects’ private life.”21 Taxation is onerous, and when citizens bear the burden of war in taxation, this creates tighter institutional linkages between the public and leaders’ conduct of war, as taxpayers have more incentives to hold leaders accountable for how the resources are being used.
In contrast, borrowing shields the public from the direct costs and insulates leaders from heavy scrutiny; in turn, it undermines the institutional checks and balances that separate a democracy from the caprice of a non-democracy. To the extent that leaders turn to borrowing as a form of war finance, rather than taxation, the gap between their actions and public scrutiny an accountability gap—widens, reducing the decision-making constraints in ways that affect the allocation of domestic resources as well as initiation and termination of interstate wars.22
TheContemporaryShiftfromTaxation
War taxes were once a mainstay of American war finance. As Thomas Paine said back in 1787, “War . . . has but one thing certain, and that is to increase taxes.”23 As Table 1.1 shows, for a long time, and during Paine’s time, this was a true statement. Taxes featured prominently in every major American war through World War II, as well as many of the minor wars such as the 1798 Quasi-War and the 1898 SpanishAmerican War, producing a finance strategy I call “Liberty Bond” wars in which leaders resorted early and often to war taxes as a form of war finance. Liberty Bonds, of course, were a way in which the public financed the government’s debt and were not a tax.24 The label I use here draws the spirit of the initiative—asking the public for fiscal sacrifice—rather than the technicality in which the government accrued debt.
Contrary to Paine’s assertion, since 1945, the United States has increasingly engaged in “Hide-and-Seek” wars. Leaders have shied away from asking the populace for fiscal sacrifice, thereby anticipating and sidestepping public constraints on their conduct of war by avoiding war taxes and seeking less obvious forms of war finance, especially borrowing. As Chapter 5 discusses in detail, President Truman introduced three war taxes early in the Korean War (two in 1950, another in 1951) but was rebuffed later in the war, withdrawing plans for additional war taxes in 1952. Leaders since then have either reluctantly imposed or altogether eschewed war taxes. The last war tax levied in the United States was a Vietnam surtax in 1968, which President Johnson reluctantly endorsed almost five decades ago.25
To put this trend in context, while the costs of recent wars tend to be lower today than many earlier wars, conflicts comparable in size to those of today were once financed through war taxes. For example, in 1798, the United States levied a war tax for tensions with France—the Quasi-War—even though the tensions never actually reached the threshold of a war and defense spending was just 0.83% of GDP. In 1914, the first year of the World War I tax, defense spending was 0.71%, where it roughly remained until 1918, after three waves of war tax legislation. In 1940, the year the United States passed two sets of war taxes, defense spending was just 1.55% of GDP. Compare these figures with contemporary spending, which has approached 5% for recent wars, as Table 1.1 shows. In the past, such revenue demands were grounds for war taxation. Today, leaders finance those wars through borrowing.
To be sure, major wars produced major taxes, with the largest historical increases in income taxes associated with the largest revenue needs: during the Civil War, World War I, and World War II. But I submit that paying for wars is analogous to what Aaron Friedberg argues about financing defense in general: “In terms of simple bookkeeping arithmetic, there is obviously no single solution” but instead, it “is therefore a matter of societal choice; it is a politicalissue rather than, in any sense, a ‘purely’ economic one.”26 It becomes political since a nation can generate revenues in a number of ways: through borrowing, printing money, or taxing. Which of these it pursues becomes inherently political, a product of interactions between the war and
the society in which those choices are made. Tax increases that would and indeed did, lead to revolt during peacetime have sometimes been tolerated during wartime. The reason for acceptance of taxes during conflict is that “wars seem to be capable of generating whole new political universes”27 and are able to open “windows” for major policy shifts.28 While some wars in the past opened these policy windows, causing individuals to “accept levels of taxation in a period of war that would be regarded as intolerable in quieter times,”29 leaders in contemporary wars have shunned war taxes altogether, opting instead for less visible forms of finance, such as borrowing. At issue, then, is why the politics of wartime taxation has changed. The next section outlines the basis for that change, speaking to the sources of public willingness to bear the financial burden of war and the way those attitudes have shaped leaders’ strategies toward how they pay for war.
The Argument in Brief: When Leaders Tax
Just because wars are capable of generating new political universes—by raising the public’s tolerance for taxation—does not mean that they invariably can or do. The Stamp Act of 1765 that King George III levied on the American colonies to pay for the French and Indian Wars became the raison d’être for the Revolutionary War and American independence. Alexander Hamilton’s tax to pay for the 1798 Quasi-War led to the Fries Rebellion, extinguished by the militia that the Federalists deployed in response. Conclusions about wars opening policy windows derive, in part, from the propensity to focus on large-scale wars.30 But the modal war, at least for the United States, has not been wars of a large, existential nature, but rather smaller-scale wars such as the War of 1812 or the Afghanistan War, neither of which reached the intensity of a World War II that consumed nearly 50% of GDP at its peak, suggesting that theories of democratic accountability and state-building should register the impact of these more frequent yet smaller military overtures.
Taking into account how the broader experience of conflict affects democratic accountability, I first argue that individuals do harbor the sensitivity to war costs that democratic theorists have identified, but that the degree of sensitivity is shaped both by the type of war and underlying state-society relations. The second aspect of the argument is that leaders, seeking to minimize constraints in war, pursue strategies that both anticipate and deflect opposition that would arise from the public’s sensitivity. That means they turn to less visible or onerous approaches such as borrowing rather than imposing war taxes when individuals express little appetite for fiscal sacrifice in wartime.
To elaborate further, the first part of my argument acknowledges that individuals are likely to hold some baseline-level of antipathy toward any taxes. The direct effect of taxation on individuals can produce dissatisfaction among the same people whose support is needed for the war (and for the leaders’ political longevity). I identify two main factors that can ease that dissatisfaction. One is engaging in a major war versus a limited war. Large-scale wars create new political universes because they
clearly delineate the choice between fiscal sacrifice and total defeat. The trappings of major war—including mobilization, rationing, repurposing civilian industries for military effort, and clear markers of success and failure—help impress upon the public the impact and stakes of the war. By contrast, limited wars are less likely to convey the same palpable stakes, since by definition, they have narrower objectives that allow the state’s politics, economics, and society to carry on without interruption.31 Indeed, typical objectives of such wars—goals in Afghanistan, for example, included reducing corruption, educating larger percentages of women, and making it easier to obtain a driver’s license32—are often more likely to resemble foreign aid than military objectives. The more removed those goals are from Americans’ sense of security, the less likely Americans are to think that fiscal sacrifice is warranted as it was in major wars that presented clear and important stakes.
Another factor that affects the public’s propensity for fiscal sacrifice in wartime is the set of state-society relations underlying the war, a consideration that refers both to the level of taxation and the portfolio of services individuals expect from their government.33 After World War II, levels of taxation never returned to previous peacetime levels, which has made the public loath to pay specific war taxes, expecting peacetime taxes to be sufficient for both the expanded social welfare state and also for defense. Thus, the postwar politics of taxation has generally favored borrowing over taxation, implying that individuals have had a lower propensity for fiscal sacrifice for the more contemporary wars. How these two factors interact, detailed in Chapter 2, affects the tendency for fiscal sacrifice among the populace.
The second part of the argument suggests that these attitudes shape leaders’ approaches to war finance: Leaders will favor the revenue approach that mirrors anticipated public attitudes in order to minimize their decision-making constraints. In the context of passing along the costs of war to the public, this means that leaders shy away from war taxes when they know the citizenry has no desire for personal fiscal sacrifice and they will turn instead to borrowing as a way to shield the public from the costs of war. The costs of borrowing are both diffuse and deferred compared to the direct and immediate impact of taxation. Taken together, the argument visualizes leaders as informed by public attitudes but seeking to avoid opposition, and therefore acting to limit public exposure to the costs of war as a way to minimize constraints on their potential decision making.34
That cost sensitivity is not static but conditional on underlying circumstances challenges two sets of alternative arguments about the connection between bearing the costs of war and democratic accountability in war. The first consists of two relatively immutable views of cost sensitivity. Adam Smith observed that leaders looking for ways to generate revenue for war would always find it “more convenient to defray this expense by misapplying the sinking fund than by imposing a new tax. Every new tax is immediately felt more or less by the people. It occasions always some murmur, and meets with some opposition.”35 Smith’s suggestion about the onerous nature of taxation actually led him to advocate taxes as a way to pay for war, as it would close the distance between individuals and the war’s burdens, but he
nonetheless predicted that exposure to the costs of war through war taxes would have the tendency of “offending the people, who, by so great and so sudden an increase of taxes, would soon be disgusted with the war.”36 The implication is that individuals are naturally cost sensitive, and bearing the fiscal burden would invariably tarnish their support for war.
A contrasting but equally immutable view of the public’s relationship with the financial burdens of war suggests that the public is relatively cost insensitive. To the extent that victory is a function of the resources the state can commit to the war,37 citizens will be willing to make economic sacrifices during wartime, seeing higher taxes as a vehicle for strengthening the military and increasing the likelihood of winning. Neither the view that individuals are cost sensitive or cost insensitive considers the possible variability of cost sensitivity and the circumstances that would give rise to such conditionality.
The argument also challenges both bottom-up and top-down views of democratic accountability. The bottom-up view portrays leaders as having hard and fast constraints in the form of public opinion.38 Instead, my argument gives agency to leaders who can strategically pursue policy instruments that anticipate public opinion consequences and minimize the prospect of political fallout with respect to their tenure or the war. I argue that leaders may both be responsive to public opinion and also seek to reduce the way this opinion constrains their foreign policy options. The need for public consent is exactly what causes leaders to craft their policies in ways that anticipate public attitudes so as to deflect opposition and prop up support for wars.
It similarly challenges the top-down notion that leaders can manufacture public consent through elite discourse,39 outright deception or lying,40 or simply through information asymmetries that enable them to sell the public on the use of force, all of which effectively allow leaders to sidestep institutional constraints.41 The public does find ways to push back against unpopular policies, and leaders have learned to preempt opposition by structuring policies in ways that minimize the constraints that come from dissent. The second part of the argument thereby stakes out a middle ground between those who suggest that leaders are captives of the public’s institutional checks42 and those who believe that leaders can altogether shunt major decisions about war and peace away from the public’s gaze.43
Research Design
The book examines the argument that public attitudes about fiscal sacrifice depend on the type of war and state-society circumstances underlying the war and that these attitudes have influenced how political elites pay for wars. In developing the argument, I draw on the democratic accountability literature but focus my theoretical and empirical analysis primarily on the United States. While it is just one state, it is one that subscribes to many institutional characteristics that mark it as a democracy, such as electoral checks and freedom of expression. My empirical evidence therefore
focuses primarily on the American experience with war, although the last empirical chapter examines cross-national evidence from the United Kingdom and France, with briefer reference to Israel and India, to examine whether similar patterns hold in other democracies that have different types of threats and fiscal traditions.
The first part of my empirical strategy involves case studies, which are especially helpful in tracing the argument about changing attitudes toward fiscal burdens of war and the way leaders structure their war finance decisions with those preferences in mind. Each case study briefly discusses the historical background of the war and the form of war finance. The analytical part of the chapter evaluates the source of public attitudes toward war and the degree to which public attitudes affected the turn to taxes or less visible alternatives.
To assess public opinion, I probe “the public mood,” which is defined by “the notion that a rather large number out in the country are thinking along certain common lines.”44 While public opinion polls are most helpful in assessing the mood, they are not widely available before World War II. Thus, in addition to polls, I also use other measures: newspaper editorials, individual or collective movements lobbying for a particular policy position, and political conventions that make public declarations in favor of particular policies. As these measures show, there is not always one public mood but rather different constituencies with different attitudes toward war and war taxes.
To interrogate the linkages between those attitudes and war finance strategies, I turn to primary source communications between political elites. I also use congressional hearings and debates on war tax legislation, and secondary source material such as biographies of wartime presidents or diaries of aides to these presidents. Another way of exploring the linkages between public fiscal sacrifice and approaches to wartime finance is through the design of tax legislation itself, since historical evidence may not always point to the effect of public opinion on policy decisions. Of course, an absence of evidence that public opinion weighed on leaders is not evidence of its absence. Indeed, in leaders’ conduct of foreign policy, “attention to public attitudes [is] so ingrained in their working habits that it was unnecessary to make constant references to it”45 in historical records. To the extent possible, I access the ways leaders referenced the explicit effect of public opinion, but I also analyze congruence between the structure of public opinion and the design of particular policies in a way that, given public attitudes, would generate maximum consent and minimize opposition.46
The attention to policy design follows the assumptions embedded in arguments about dynamic representation. According to this perspective, “elected politicians . . . sense the mood of the moment, assess its trend, and anticipate its consequences. Changes in opinion . . . will lead politicians to revise their beliefs about future election opportunities and hazards. Such strategic adjustment will . . . drive policy through rational anticipation.” 47 Leaders, perceiving the national mood, will bring policy into line with these preferences to minimize the political risk. This means not just electoral risk to their tenure but in the case of wars, declining consent that is at
the root of legitimate conduct of conflict. Particular policy changes then, based on these assumptions, are the effect of perceptible changes in public attitudes. Since leaders may not make explicit reference to the constraining effects of public opinion and how their proposed policies intend to anticipate opposition, I look to the peculiarities of tax legislation itself. To the extent that particular legislation creates winners and losers that map onto the individuals or groups expressing particular preferences on tax legislation, then we can draw inferences about the connection between the public inputs and policy outcomes. Indeed, in a number of instances, the peculiarities of particular tax legislation were so congruent with public attitudes that alternative explanations are difficult to surmise.48
A second part of the empirical strategy brings survey evidence to bear on the argument. This part of the study explores contemporary attitudes in the United States both through surveys probing support for a war tax to finance the 2009 surge in Afghanistan and through experiments that help draw inferences about the support for war conditional on its being financed through taxes. The surveys also use openended questions to probe the reasons for contemporary hostility toward war taxes. I also use surveys to investigate whether the trends observed in the United States apply to other advanced industrialized democracies such as the United Kingdom and France. An original experiment conducted concurrently in the United Kingdom and the United States allows for these direct comparisons, and follow-up personal interviews help tease out some of the peculiarities of the British experience despite the experimental evidence pointing to the similar ways in which American and British respondents dampen their support when faced with the prospect of paying for war through taxes versus borrowing. In addition, to see whether there might be an exception to the public’s unwillingness to be taxed in the service of war, I carried out an original survey in France in November 2015. Conducted days after the deadliest attack against France since World War II—declared “un acte de guerre” (“act of war”) by President Hollande—the context should have been a most likely case for fiscal sacrifice. Yet the evidence further corroborates the argument that contemporary audiences in advanced industrialized democracies view their peacetime taxes as adequate for covering a range of services, including spending on defense, and they see as little reason for the war taxes implemented in previous wars as they would for an “air tax.”
In short, through a combination of historical case studies and survey evidence, I provide empirical support for the argument that compared to the past, when either the war or state-society relations could make taxation a palatable approach to paying for wars, contemporary audiences are decidedly averse to bearing the direct financial burden of wars. The turn to borrowing, essentially now a permanent feature of contemporary wars, serves as a way to minimize public opposition and reduce constraints on leaders’ decision making in these recent conflicts. Shrouding the cost of war may give leaders institutional slack but it also unravels the mechanism underlying wartime restraint in a democracy. Without bearing visible burdens, individuals will have fewer incentives to scrutinize the way leaders conduct wars, and democratic constraints in wartime will no longer operate in the way theorized from
Adam Smith to Immanuel Kant all the way up to contemporary scholars of international relations. The reason that a democratic populace scrutinizes leaders’ decisions in war is because they as taxpayers bear the burden. This analysis suggests that the unraveling of those accountability linkages explains why wars beginning in the latter half of the twentieth century are longer, culminating with the ongoing wars in Iraq and Afghanistan fifteen years after their inception. Given the trends identified in the book, the recent past—the two longest wars in US history—is also likely to be prologue.
TABLE 1.1 The Cost of American Wars*
Revolution 1775–1783
War
(Union)
American War
I
1862, 1864 Liberty Bond War
Bond
1950 (2), 1951 Liberty Bond War≈ HideandSeek War
War Years
* For a complete coding of war taxes, see Gustavo Flores-Macías and Sarah Kreps, “The Political Economy of Death and Taxes: A Study of American War Finance, 1789–2010,” American Political Science Review 107, no. 4 (November 2013), 833–848.
Source: Based on Stephen Daggett, Costs ofMajor USWars (Washington, DC: Congressional Research Service, 2010), 1–2.
2
Bearing the Financial Burden of War
IN 2008, NOBEL LAUREATE JOSEPH STIGLITZ and his co-author Linda Bilmes published a book called The Three Trillion Dollar War.1 The book documented the costs of the Iraq War but clearly had an advocacy agenda: to expose the costs of war to the public. The implication was that if the American people knew the war’s costs, they would turn against the war. While the logic nominally built on democratic theory—that bearing the burdens of war will cause individuals to put pressure on leaders to keep the costs low and bring wars to an expedient end—the assumption was that individuals would be sensitive to costs in debt the same way they would if those costs were passed along in higher taxes.
This chapter shows that, all things being equal, bearing the financial burden in debt is unlikely to confront the populace with the costs of war nearly as directly as bearing the burden in higher taxes. Even with exposure to taxes, however, the effect is not a constant. As I argue theoretically, first, individuals’ sensitivity to the costs of war varies as a function of the nature of war and prevailing statesociety relations, which have changed over time. The interaction of those factors affects individuals’ tolerance for bearing the burdens of war.
Second, in making decisions about how to pass the costs of war to the public, leaders are sensitive to the public’s attitudes and look for ways that will have the least consequences and constraints on them, the leaders. They turn to borrowing when the public has limited appetite for fiscal sacrifice.
By way of advancing the two related propositions associated with the argument, the chapter first broadly discusses the way wars introduce revenue demands and how passing along those costs creates theoretical accountability linkages between leaders and the populace. It then turns to a discussion about why the public’s sensitivity to costs manifests itself differently as a function of the nature of war and the state. Last, the chapter shows how changes in those conditions have shaped the political process through which leaders have chosen to pass along the fiscal costs of war to the public either directly through taxes or indirectly through borrowing.2
The Costs of War and Democratic Accountability
Wars create enormous revenue needs. Studies of government spending shocks in the United States invariably point to the impact of wars,3 which are characterized by large, urgent revenue needs rather than the smoother expenditures experienced during peacetime. Figure 2.1 illustrates this point, mapping periods of war onto US government expenditures since 1789 and showing the often-massive increases in spending that accompany war.
Driven in part by these revenue needs, the history of taxation bears a close resemblance to the history of war.4 The United Kingdom, for example, levied its first income tax in 1799 to support the Napoleonic Wars. Prior to 1799, “the cost of war had drained Britain’s resources, and run up a considerable national debt. The army was starving, and poor conditions in the navy in 1797 had led to mutiny.” The government levied an income tax to provide “aid and contribution for the prosecution of the war.”5 Although this tax was quickly repealed after the war, the government again levied an income tax in the Crimean War. In World War I it increased the top rates from 8% to 50%, then by World War II it had tripled the tax base and created a permanent tax system. War taxes were seen as efficient and equitable, and as Chancellor William Gladstone stated, they were “an engine of gigantic power for great national purposes.”6 The British experience of wars as the basis for taxation
was mirrored in a number of other democracies, with mass warfare creating mass, progressive taxes,7 a condition that included the American experience until recently.8
Liberal theory views bearing the financial costs of war as an asset of democracies. The logic is that if the populace bears the burden of war in higher taxes, it will be discriminating in terms of the consent it gives to leaders in initiating and conducting war.9 Recognizing the directness of taxation and the legal relationship between the populace and its government, Adam Smith endorsed progressive taxes as an equitable way to generate revenue in a democracy and impose necessary decision-making constraints on leaders in wartime: “The people feeling, during the continuance of the war, the complete burden of it, would soon grow weary of it, and government, in order to humour them, would not be under the necessity of carrying it on longer than it was necessary to do so.”10 Austrian economist Joseph Schumpeter drew a more subtle link between the fiscal demands of war and attitudes toward war, suggesting that the costs of war caused states to go “begging to the estates” for tax revenues, but in return for the unpopularity of extraction, those estates earned more accountability from the princes undertaking the wars.11 Paired with his work on capitalism, suggesting that individual entrepreneurs are “democratized, individualized, rationalized,” and “vigorously antiimperialist,”12 Schumpeter’s conclusion was that the liberal state, one where individuals bear the burdens of war and have levers for registering disapproval, exercises powerful restraint in its foreign policy.
By contrast, autocracies are sometimes unable to borrow because potential lenders do not trust them to repay (either because the borrowers are seen as less likely to win the war or honor the debt).13 In these cases, the autocracy might pass along the direct costs of war through taxes, but the taxpayer-government relationship would be quite different from that in a democracy. In his study of Nazi war finance, Otto Nathan writes that one Nazi Treasury official said that “the obligation to pay taxes was based not upon a
legalrelationship between the taxpayer and the Treasury but upon a power relationship.”14 Taxpayers had no influence on the nature of tax legislation passed, and politicians were not beholden to constituency interests. The double-edged sword of a democracy was that these interests could capture the state, but the state had some obligation to be responsive to those interests. In wartime, this would translate into clearer accountability between the taxpaying public and the leaders who were deciding how the tax money was being used, particularly in conducting military operations.
The democratic accountability logic has intuitive appeal. The reason is that taxes represent “a permanent transfer of purchasing power by the taxpayer to the government.”15 It is for this reason that the “history of state expansion is a history of violent struggles over taxes,” according to Tilly. 16 Taxes are typically onerous. They are also visible. For example, the Washington Post described World War I taxes as bringing “daily, almost hourly, reminders to the people of the United States of the burden that is entailed in the prosecutions of a just and victorious war. The average citizen feels the effect of the war tax when he arises in the morning . . . he is reminded of it the last thing at night when he puts on his taxassessed pajamas.” 17 At the least, these reminders would give individuals incentives to scrutinize the use of those resources, constraining leaders’ freedom of action.18 At the extreme, the reminders would cause individuals to reevaluate their support for the war and for the leader himself. As one editorial concluded pithily at the beginning of World War I, “increased taxes are never a good political expedient.”19
By comparison, borrowing creates a more indirect connection between leaders’ conduct of war and the populace. First, borrowing reduces the need to impose higher tax rates contemporaneously,20 instead transferring the cost to a future cohort that does not affect the current leader’s prospects of reelection. Second, wars are just one contribution to the debt. Thus, even if public is concerned with
debt issues, the war will not be a single target, as it sits alongside numerous other debt sources.21
Debt repayment of American wars illustrates both points. For most wars, repayment is a decades-long process accompanied by many other changes that muddle the role of war finance policies. For example, the United States began to repay its World War I debt during the 1920s, a period of deflation that increased the real value of the debt. The 1930s further complicated the debt picture, as the gap between expenditures and revenues grew because of the Depression.22 Rancorous political debates about how to pay down the peacetime debt made no specific reference to World War I or
President Wilson—by then only part of the debt problem.23
To be sure, borrowing may increase the level of debt so that legislation is required to raise the debt ceiling, and this can introduce a contentious set of debates. In practice, two factors minimize any political costs associated with these debates. One is that despite the fanfare, Congress invariably passes legislation to increase the debt ceiling. As a former director of the Congressional Budget Office testified, “Most analysts view the statutory limit of federal debt as archaic. . . . [V]oting separately on the debt is hardly effective as a means of controlling deficits. . . . [B]y the time the debt ceiling comes up for a vote, it is too late to balk at paying the government’s bills.”24 Indeed, the legislation often becomes “must pass” legislation and a vehicle for passing other measures.25 A more important reason that the political costs of this legislation are relatively low is that the issue often reaches such a level of complexity that the public is uncertain whom to blame. During the 2011 debt ceiling debates, only 18% of Americans claimed to understand the issue. Among those who did understand, political costs did not have a clear directionality; almost as many people were concerned about not raising the debt limit (42%) as raising it (47%).26 Moreover, for about two-thirds of people, the negotiations had no effect or even increased their support for the president and the Speaker of the House, political figures at the center of the debate.27
In short, borrowing obscures the cost of war relative to taxation. While it adds to the overall debt, it is one of many sources, and the ultimate repayment takes place long after the leader who initiated the war has stepped down and the war has ended, reducing the political costs to the leader and of the war. In the run-up to the Spanish-American War, the Chicago Daily Tribune anticipated that such political expediency would drive decisions about war finance. The editors noted derisively, “Legislative demagogues always favor the borrowing method. They think high taxes will be unpopular with their constituents.”28 As the later discussion will show, different types of taxes can favor particular sections or constituencies, creating heterogeneous political costs and benefits, but in general, it is a well-founded proposition that taxes are likely to be unpopular.
As a result of the burden of war, individuals are sensitive to the costs of war and more judicious in how they consent to the use of force. The democratic accountability logic suggests that rather than absorb untold and unnecessary costs, a democratic populace tends to scrutinize the way its resources are used and withdraws support when the costs mount. Leaders are sensitive to how they allocate the populace’s resources, knowing that a dissatisfied populace can threaten their tenure as well as their ability to carry out a war.29
The logic could plausibly explain decision-making constraints in wartime as well as the postwar dividends paid out to the populace for the sacrifices made during war. James Sparrow points to a corresponding sense of “fiscal citizenship” during World War II where individuals were willing to contribute tax payments not just out of a sense of patriotism but as a quid pro quo for the benefits that the government conferred through the New Deal (and later the Fair Deal) entitlement programs.30 The notion of the “extractioncoercion” cycle—in which leaders extract resources for war and must provide accountability and public goods in exchange for the coercive act of taxation—is based entirely on the assumption that individuals are “recalcitrant” and generally not easily persuaded to give up their own resources.31 Leaders have electoral reasons to heed the public’s preferences for economizing on those resources by keeping wars
short and low cost, but they also have to compensate citizens later for the sacrifices they made, co-opting public loyalty in the wake of war by providing additional political and economic rights—for example, broader enfranchisement, advances in public health, and children’s rights—to the populace.32 Leaders need not even wait until the end of war to confer those rights. In June 1944, President Franklin Roosevelt signed the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act that offered the GI Bill for veterans of the war, providing them with funds for college, unemployment, and housing.33
An alternative view of accountability also considers costs but suggests that leaders and the populace are more interested in the outcome and are willing to bear the costs if doing so produces a more favorable result. Since democratic polities see the benefits of war distributed in the form of public goods, they have incentives to pay the higher taxes that would strengthen defense in wartime and increase the odds of victory.34 Some strands of this argument go further and turn the unpopularity of taxes into a democratic advantage. Benjamin Goldsmith, for example, suggests that taxpayers are likely to believe that leaders “will only levy greater taxes for legitimate reasons.” 35 The willingness of democratic leaders to suffer the political costs of introducing war taxes is a signal of the legitimacy of the war, which in turn should boost public support and provide leaders with the resources to put forth an “allout effort” in war.36
If it is the case that the people are prepared for fiscal sacrifice based on the prospect of greater benefits from victory, then these prospects should also increase their willingness to absorb costs. Greater expected payoffs mean greater propensity to expend resources and greater propensity for fiscal sacrifice. Applying the logic to the relationship between bearing the financial burdens of war in higher taxes and support for conflict, this argument would expect war taxes to have little effect on people’s attitudes toward war, with the public rallying around the fiscal flag in times of need. Both of these perspectives focus on the relationship between the public and the costs of war but are based on two different
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particularly, was extremely good-natured to them, and was sure to laugh at every thing they said.
Phebe asked a great many questions every day about her visit, and thought that Tuesday was a long while coming; however it came at last, and when dinner was over the chaise was brought to the door, and as soon as she was comfortably seated between her Papa and Mamma they set off, and Phebe began to be very happy.
“Well, Phebe, are you quite happy?” said her Papa, after they had gone a little way.
“Yes, thank you, Papa;—that is to say, I should be, if the sun did not shine exactly in my eyes;—and I am obliged to keep holding my bonnet too, or else I am afraid the wind would blow it off; and that makes my arm ache rather.”
“So you see, my love, there is always something to keep us from being quite happy,” said her Papa.
“Yes, till we get to Mrs. Mason’s, Papa,” replied Phebe.
“What a pretty house,” exclaimed she, as the chaise stopped at Mr Mason’s gate; “and what a nice garden before it!”
They were shown into a very pretty cheerful parlour, with a window almost down to the ground, overlooking the garden, which was filled with all sorts of flowers, and just beyond the garden was a large meadow, where there were a number of lambs skipping about, and looking as frolicsome as could be. Mr. and Mrs. Mason took a great deal of notice of Phebe, and promised that she should have whatever she liked, all the while she was there.
“O how I will run about in the fields to-morrow,” thought Phebe; “and then when I come in, how delightful it will be to sit in this pretty parlour and look at the lambs!”
Soon after tea her Papa and Mamma left her, with many injunctions to be a good girl. She had never visited any where alone, before, and she could scarcely help crying when she saw them drive out of sight, and leave her all alone, five miles from home. It soon grew dark, and Phebe began to feel very tired. Mr. Mason was
reading the newspaper, and Mrs. Mason had got out her knitting; but Phebe had nothing at all to do, and very much wished it was bedtime.
“Perhaps, my dear, you’d like to go to bed before supper,” said Mrs. Mason, seeing her look very sleepy.
“No, thank you, Ma’am, I had much rather sit up to supper,” said Phebe, gaping.
“I’m sure I do not know what we can find to amuse you,” said Mrs. Mason; “for I have no playthings, and I’m afraid you’ll be sadly dull, poor thing:—let’s see though,” said she, “I think there’s a box of dominoes somewhere, if I can but find them. O here they are, I declare: you’ll like them, won’t you, dear.”
Phebe was not very fond of dominoes, especially when she had no one to play with her: she contrived however, by the help of them, to keep her eyes open till supper-time; and directly after supper she went to bed, thinking that, the evening was not quite so pleasant at Mrs. Mason’s as she had expected. Besides, she had never slept by herself before, and she felt so lonely when Susan had taken her candle away, that she was glad to go to sleep as fast as possible.
The next morning she awoke in very good spirits, and rose the moment that Susan called her. She found her way to the parlour; but was surprised to see that the window shutters were not open.
“No, this way, if you please, Miss;” said Susan, opening a door on the other side the passage.
“Dear,” said Phebe, looking quite amazed as she entered a large old-fashioned kitchen, strewed with red sand, finding that they were really going to breakfast there. “Well, I did not know that people ever lived in kitchens: I thought they were only made for servants. We do not live in ours.”
“No, I dare say not,” said Mrs. Mason, “but you like this kitchen love, don’t you?”
“Yes, I like it very well,” replied Phebe; “but I think the parlour a great deal more pleasant:—besides the bricks are so cold to one’s
feet.—We have carpets in all our rooms except the kitchen; and I dare say we should have one there, if we lived in it. Such nice warm thick ones; I think they call them turkey carpets—you cannot think how comfortable they are.”
“Aye, I dare say they are for those that like them; but I am very happy without one, my little lady,” said Mr. Mason, who knew that he had excellent reasons for not having a turkey carpet in his kitchen.
“But how I wonder you do not live in the parlour: I cannot think what you have it for,” said Phebe; who was very fond of talking when her Mamma was out of the way
“We have it to use sometimes, when we want it, my dear;” said Mrs. Mason: “but I like the kitchen best in common.”
“O, I suppose you only use it when you have company; that’s it, I dare say,” said Phebe; “and that is why we were there last night, when Papa and Mamma were here. Well, I shall tell them that, when I go home.”
“I dare say your ’Ma don’t want to hear about that, dear,” said Mrs. Mason; “for my part I don’t think it worth remembering; not I.”
“O yes, I shall certainly tell her,” replied Phebe: “I am sure she will think it very funny that you should live in the kitchen.”
Phebe could not help thinking just now, that she would “do a great many tiresome jobs,” as well as submit to some of William’s teasing, rather than always live in a kitchen; especially in a kitchen without a carpet.
She employed herself during breakfast in looking at every thing in the kitchen; and made many observations, some of which were very impertinent; and though Mr. and Mrs. Mason laughed at the droll things she said, they would have felt rather uncomfortable if any body else had been there to hear them.
“O dear, there is a gun,” said she, having at last discovered the square hole in the ceiling, in which Mr. Mason kept his fire-arms.
“Aye, shall I take it down, and show it you, dear,” said Mr. Mason.
“O, no, pray don’t—pray don’t,” said Phebe; “I am so frightened at it.” Phebe had often heard her Mamma tell William that guns were dangerous things for children, because they sometimes went off when people did not expect it; so, notwithstanding all that Mr. Mason could say, she kept casting anxious glances at the ceiling, all breakfast time, as if she were every instant expecting to be shot.
When breakfast was over, Phebe felt very glad that she was not wished to go to her lessons, though she longed for somebody to play with. She wandered for sometime about the garden; and at last ventured into the field which joined it. “Dear,” thought she, “how courageous Mamma would think me, if she could see me now,— walking all alone in the fields; and I am not at all afraid.”
The meadow was covered with cowslips, daisies, and buttercups; and she gathered a lap full of them, together with some primroses and violets, with which the hedges were filled. She then sat down on the stump of a tree close to the stile, at the further end of the field, and began making them into a large nosegay. She had nearly finished it, when she heard a noise like something breathing very loud, close to her; and lifting up her head, she saw a terrific bull, standing, close to the other side of the stile, looking at her. Without waiting an instant to consider what harm it could do for a bull to look at her, she threw down all her flowers; and set off running home as fast as she could, not stopping even to look back at him, till she had got within the garden gate. “O dear, the bull!” exclaimed Phebe, scarcely able to speak.
“My patience, Miss! whatever have you been a doing of;” said Susan, as soon as she saw her. “Why I was sitting comfortably close to the stile, and I just happened to look up, and there was a great bull staring at me as hard as ever he could; and I was so very much frightened; and I am so hot and tired with running:—O dear! O dear!” said Phebe.
“What’s the matter,—what’s the matter?” cried Mrs. Mason, running to her; for having heard Phebe’s exclamation, she feared that some misfortune had happened.
“Loy! loy! Ma’am,” said Susan, laughing heartily, “if Miss ha’nt been a scampering all across the long mead as hard as ever she could tear, just because she saw the bull a looking at her; and she is in such a heat, poor thing.”
“Bless the child,” said Mrs. Mason, “why what did you think he could do to you?” “O, Ma’am, he looked exactly as if he were just going to jump over the gate at me, and then what should I have done.”
“Not he, indeed; he would soon have been tired of looking at you, and then he would have walked away again. But it is well he was not in the same field, for then, if he had seen you running, he would most likely have run after you.”
“Well, I almost wish I had not minded it now,” said Phebe; “and I have lost all my pretty flowers: dear how sorry I am.”
“O, never mind the flowers,” said Mrs. Mason, “there are plenty more to be found: but do sit down and cool yourself, child.”
Phebe was so tired and heated with her run, that she sat still for a very long time, thinking how wonderful it was that any body should not be frightened at a bull, and wishing too that she had not lost her flowers. She did not, however, feel inclined to gather any more that day, but thought she would wait till the next morning, and then summon up all her courage for another ramble. But what was her disappointment at finding, when she awoke in the morning, that it rained hard; she thought it very unfortunate, that, out of so few days, one of them should be rainy
“Dear! dear! what shall I find to do all day long,” said Phebe, as soon as she came down stairs. “What a very great pity it is that it should rain so fast.”
“O, do not make troubles out of nothing, my little lass,” said Mr. Mason, “I dare say you will find something to do, though it is a wet day: beside don’t you know, that we should not complain when things are not just as we wish them to be?”
It was no wonder if poor Phebe felt rather low spirited at the prospect of a rainy day, with neither playfellows nor playthings to
amuse her It was really not much better than being at home. She followed Mrs. Mason into the dairy; but the wind and rain, beating in through the open wire-work of the window, made it so damp and chilly, that she was soon tired of standing there. Phebe thought that of all Mrs. Mason’s old-fashioned ways this was the oddest; to have a window without any glass in it! “How I wonder you do not have glass instead of wire in that window; it would be so much warmer,” said Phebe, holding her hand against her ear, that the wind might not blow into it.
“That’s the very reason why we’ve wire instead of glass, my dear,” said Mrs. Mason, laughing; “for, if we had not a great deal of air, the milk would not keep sweet.”
“O would not it, I did not know that,” said Phebe; who just now recollected what her Mamma had very often told her; that children should never attempt to teach grown people.
She returned to the kitchen again, and stood for sometime at the window, looking into the farm yard; but there was nothing to be seen but a few cows, standing as still as Phebe, and seeming not much happier.
“How I should like to have that to play with,” said Phebe, pointing to a large glass case which stood over the mantle-piece; “but I suppose I must not.”
This glass case was indeed enough to tempt any little girl, especially one who like Phebe had not any thing to do. It contained, among other things, two smiling wax dolls, drest in stiff silk frocks, with some gold lace at the bottom,—a number of shells,—a white mouse,—a peach,—and a cucumber; some in wax and some in stone, all nicely arranged, among large bunches of artificial flowers. But Mrs. Mason could not consent to have this taken down and pulled to pieces, and the mantle-piece being very high, poor Phebe’s neck ached long before she had looked at it as much as she wished.
“Dear me,” said Mrs. Mason, laying down her work, “I’ve just thought of something that will be the very thing for you. I’ve got a doll up stairs, if I’m not mistaken, that I’ve had ever since I was such
another as you—how glad I am I happened to think of it.” So she went up stairs directly, in search of it; and Phebe followed close behind, wishing she would walk rather faster.
“O what a frightful looking thing!” exclaimed Phebe, as soon as she saw it; and perhaps most other little girls might have thought the same; though certainly Phebe should not have appeared so discontented, when Mrs. Mason was trying to please her. It was a large black doll, drest in a coarse white frock, which had grown very yellow and dusty with lying by. The waist was very long, with tight sleeves coming just below the elbows; and the doll had a row of pink beads round its black neck.
“I do not like it at all,” said Phebe: “I wonder you should have kept it so long; what ugly things old-fashioned people used to like!”
“Then I’ll put it away again, shall I, dear,” said Mrs. Mason; “’tis a pity I left off my work to fetch it.”
“No, I think I’ll take it, as there is nothing else,” said Phebe; “but I don’t know how I shall play with it.” “O stay though,” said she, “I know now what I’ll do. I’ll suppose that it is a Hottentot just come to England. It will do very well for that, will it not?” So she ran down stairs with it, feeling in rather better spirits than she had done all the morning.
Phebe amused herself the rest of the day with the Hottentot, the glass case, and the box of dominoes, and went to bed hoping most earnestly that the next morning would be fine.
To her great joy she saw the sun shining brightly into her room as soon as she opened her eyes; but Phebe could not run about in the meadow, because the grass was too wet; she therefore amused herself as well as she could in the garden, and watched the carriages that passed in the road.
In the afternoon she went with Susan to see the cows milked, and stood looking at them for a long time very comfortably, till she happened to turn round, and see the bull standing in the yard.
“O dear,” said she, catching hold of Susan’s apron, “I do think that’s the very bull that looked at me on Wednesday.”
“Aye, that it is, you may depend upon it, Miss,” said Susan; “and I shou’nt wonder but he is going to look at you again to-day, too; so be sure you keep fast hold of me.”
Phebe did not once let go her hold of Susan’s apron, and was very glad when she said that it was time to go in to tea.
Phebe staid two or three days longer at Mrs. Mason’s, and was surprised to find, every day, that some little thing happened to make her rather uncomfortable; or else, (as was often the case with Phebe,) she was discontented when there was no real occasion. So that she sometimes thought there were as many things to tease her at Mrs. Mason’s, as at home; only they were of a different sort.
At last the day came, on which Mrs. Mason had agreed to take her home. Every thing looked so cheerful and pretty that morning, that Phebe thought she should have been quite happy if she could only have staid one more day; but this was out of the question, for very soon after breakfast Mrs. Mason was ready to set off, and after what Phebe thought a very short ride, they reached the bustling town.
“Well, Ma’am, I’ve brought her home safe and sound you see,” said Mrs. Mason, when they went in. “She has been a very good girl, and we were delighted to hear her talk; but she is so timid, pretty dear, she’s afraid of every thing.”
To prove this, Mrs. Mason told the story of the bull, which Phebe had not intended to mention, because she knew that William would be sure to laugh at her for it, and so he did very much.
Mrs. Mason did not stay long, but kissing Phebe, left her to tell all the particulars of her visit; and her Mamma did not forget to ask if any thing had happened, “to make her in the least uncomfortable while she was there.”
III. CURIOSITY AND INQUIRY.
Mary and Fanny were both very fond of asking many questions: they were inquisitive little girls. Their Papa and Mamma, however, very seldom answered Fanny’s questions; and yet they almost always answered the questions of Mary. We shall see why they made this difference.
Whenever any one was going out, Fanny used to run after them, saying,
“Where are you going, tell me; pray tell me?—Are you going to Mrs. Smith’s, or to Mr. Johnson’s?—What are you going for?—When will you be back again?” And when any one of the family returned home, she would hardly be satisfied till she had asked a hundred questions of this sort.
The moment any strangers left the house Fanny must know who they were; and what business they called to talk about. She was fond of being in the room when ladies called; because they often talked about the affairs of their neighbours; and this sort of conversation she listened to very eagerly.
There was a Grocer’s shop opposite her Papa’s house. Fanny would stand at the dining-room window for hours together, to watch who went in and who came out; and to see what they bought: and if any body would listen to her, she was sure to ask the name of every person whom she did not know: but, in truth, she had learned the names of most of the people who usually came to the shop. So she would stand talking to herself thus, as she peeped between the window blinds:—
“There is Mary Wheeler I wonder what she has been to buy, this afternoon; because she was at the shop just before dinner. I dare say it is tea; or else a piece of bacon for supper. Oh, no; I can just see the end of a candle under the lid of the basket. It is a pound of candles; or else three pounds; because, I think, they always buy three pounds of candles at a time, for then they save three halfpence.—That is old Mrs. West; la! how droll she looks. She is come herself to the shop: she hardly ever comes herself to the shop; because she sends her maid. I dare say her maid is gone out for a holiday, this Michaelmas. I can see her through the shop window, talking to Mr. Hyson. Mr. Hyson is come out of the counting-house on purpose to wait on her: he is taking down something to show her: I wonder what it is? I wish the shop window was not so dirty; and then I could see what people buy a great deal better.—Ho! ho! there is the London Carrier stopping at Mr. Hanbury’s; he has brought a parcel for them: dear! dear! what an odd parcel: such a long parcel: and there is something sticking out at the end: it looks like an iron shovel: oh, no; it is the tail of a fish. I suppose they have sent for a fish from London, because they are going to have a dinner party: then we shall see, to-morrow, who it is.—There is the coach coming! I hear the horn: now let me be all ready to see who is on the top of the coach: if it is any body that I know: but they always gallop by so fast that I can hardly see the people’s faces.”
In the morning when the Postman came with his two loud raps at the door, wherever she might be, Fanny always ran to the door; and then she would follow the servant to her Papa’s study, to read the directions on the letters, that she might guess who they came from.
Thus Fanny was very curious about many things that did not concern her; and things that it was of no consequence for her to be acquainted with: but as for her lessons, it was very difficult to make her attend to them at all.
Her sister Mary was very different: she not only learned her lessons willingly; but she was never satisfied till she understood every part of them. She always asked the meaning of every new word she met with: and she was eager to be acquainted with the nature and use of all she saw, or read about. Fanny could remember
the names over most of the shop doors in the town: but Mary was acquainted with the nature of the principal trades and manufactures: she knew what countries the different articles of food, dress, or furniture come from, and how they are prepared for use.
Fanny not only knew the names of most of the neighbours; but also, how many servants they kept; or what their business was; or who their relations were: but Mary knew the names of the most famous men who have lived in different ages of the world; and what they were famous for. Fanny could describe all the London coaches that regularly passed through the town: she knew also what hour they came in; and what inn they changed horses at: but Mary knew the names of the constellations in the heavens; and also of the planets;—in what times they revolve in their orbits;—what their distance from the sun is;—how many moons they have;—when they may be seen;—and when eclipses of the sun or moon will happen. She wished to understand the reason of every thing she observed; and her Papa always took the pains to tell her as much as she was able to comprehend: and sometimes he told her in what book she would find an answer to her questions. Sometimes, also, when she asked a question, her Papa would say, “You cannot understand that at present, Mary;” and then she would be contented, and not ask any more about it.
One morning, Fanny came bouncing into her Papa’s study, with a letter in her hand, which she had just snatched from the servant; crying out,—“O, Papa! Papa! Here is a letter from Uncle Thomas; I know it is from Uncle Thomas; it is his hand; and his seal too, there are the birds on the fire-screen, and the crooked arm over it. I dare say it is to ask me and Mary to go and spend some time with cousins: I dare say it is.”
“Yes, Fanny,” said her Papa, when he had read the letter, “it is from your Uncle Thomas; but he says nothing about asking you to come and see him; he sends his love to you, however, and he says he hopes to spend a few days with us, soon.”
“Soon! Soon! but when, Papa?”
“He does not fix the day, Fanny.”
“Then I will stand at the window, and watch all the coaches and chaises that drive by, till I see him.”
Mary, too, was very much pleased to hear that her Uncle Thomas was coming. He was very fond of his little nieces. He had travelled in different parts of Europe; and he had always many interesting things to tell them.
Fanny actually spent a great part of every day before her Uncle arrived, in standing at the window, and looking eagerly into every carriage that passed. Mary found something better to do: she knew that her Uncle would examine into the progress which she had made in her studies, since his last visit. She therefore applied herself with more than ordinary diligence to her lessons: and she looked over what she had been learning for some months past. She also thought of many questions, relative to the countries her Uncle had seen, and about which she was now better able to ask questions, than at the time of his last visit.
All the time Fanny spent watching at the window to see her Uncle arrive, was quite thrown away; for, at last, he came late in the evening; after she and her sister were gone to bed.
When they came down stairs the next morning, they saw a pair of boots and a portmanteau, placed at the door of the room which had been prepared for their Uncle, and they would certainly have awoke him by their exclamations, if their Mamma, who happened to come by at the moment, had not beckoned to them to be silent. They hardly had patience to wait till he came down, which was not till some time after the usual breakfast hour.
It would quite fill a book to write all that these little girls said to their Uncle, during the first day of his visit. He staid a week with them: and in this time he had sufficient opportunity to observe their dispositions and tempers. When he went away, he promised that he would write a letter to them as soon as his engagements would permit. Mary and Fanny were delighted with this promise; and waited eagerly, day after day, in expectation of the letter. It was nearly a month, however, before it arrived: and they had began to think that their Uncle had forgotten his promise. At length a parcel was brought, at the corner
of which, under the direction, was written, “For M. and F.”—“For M. and F.” cried Fanny; “that is for us, Mary: that is the letter from Uncle Thomas; and something else, too.”
The parcel was quickly untied; when there appeared a letter, and two separate parcels; one directed “For Mary;” the other, “For Fanny.” Before they opened the separate parcels, their Mamma recommended them to read their Uncle’s letter: it was as follows:—
“I am afraid, my dear Mary and Fanny, you have thought I had forgotten my promise; but I assure you I have not forgotten it; though I have been prevented from writing as soon as I had intended: one reason was, that I could not immediately procure some of the books which accompany this letter.
“Perhaps my dear Fanny may think the books of which I beg her acceptance rather odd ones for a little girl. I must therefore explain to her why I made choice of them for her: and in order to do this, I must write rather a long letter, which, however, I hope may give her some useful hints.
“The minds of some children, I must observe, are so dull and inactive, that they seem to have no curiosity: they seldom ask any questions: they take very little notice of what they see or hear; and never learn any more than what they are forced to learn by their Parents and Masters. When such young persons grow up, they generally care about nothing but eating and drinking; and become more and more stupid and selfish every year that they live.
“But this cannot be said of either of my nieces: my dear Mary and Fanny, have both of them very active minds: they are very inquisitive, and very observant of every thing they see or hear. I think I have sometimes passed many months, in which I have not had to reply to half the number of questions that were put to me, in one week, by the two little girls to whom I am now writing.
“It is necessary for me to remark, however, that Mary’s questions were always of a different kind from those of Fanny. Now, in order to explain exactly what I mean, I must observe, that there are two sorts of knowledge with which we may fill our minds; but one sort is much more valuable in itself, and much more beneficial in its effects upon our minds, than the other. The most valuable kind of knowledge is that which consists in being acquainted with all the different sorts of things, that exist in the earth or in the heavens. The other kind of knowledge, consists in being acquainted with those particular things, or persons, that are to be found in the place where we happen to live. Now, for the sake of shewing, by an example, what I mean, I shall suppose there are two persons, whom I will not call Mary and Fanny; but John and George. I will suppose then that these two persons are equally inquisitive; and also, that they spend exactly the same time in gratifying their curiosity.
“We will imagine then, that John observes that there are many different kinds of trees, and shrubs, and plants, and flowers, growing in the fields, hedges, and gardens, in the neighbourhood where he lives. Now he wishes to know how many different kinds there are;—in what respects they resemble each other; and in what respects they differ:—what their uses are; and how they are cultivated. He therefore procures books which treat of the science of botany; and in these books he learns that there are many thousand kinds of trees and plants, found in different countries: but though there are so many thousand sorts, he learns how to distribute them all into several classes, according to certain rules; so that he can think of them all regularly, one after another, as they are arranged in his mind. And if he meets with some new plant, which he has never seen before, by examining it, he soon finds out what class it belongs to; and so he does not forget it; because he has put it in its right place in his memory.
“Then he learns the various uses of all those trees, plants, and flowers which can be converted to the service of man,
either for food, medicine, or building. He knows also the countries where they grow naturally; the method of cultivating them; and the manner of preparing them for use.
“Now we see that John has acquired a great stock of most delightful and important knowledge. His mind is like a large room that is filled with many hundred pictures of the most beautiful objects; so that he can never want entertainment for his thoughts. Wherever he may travel, he will find in every garden, and field, and wood, new objects, which are yet like old friends to him; because he has so often heard of them, and thought of them before. Besides all this pleasure, which he derives from his knowledge, he is instructed in many of those arts which are most important and necessary to human life.
“It is this sort of knowledge which consists in being acquainted with all the different sorts of things in the world, that makes all the difference between men who live in woods and deserts, like wild beasts, and those who live as we do, in, what is called, a civilized state.
“I must also remark, that, while John has been employed in acquiring this knowledge, he has been kept from many mischievous or frivolous pursuits, which gradually make people worthless, or wicked; and at the same time, his mind has become so much strengthened by exercise, that he is much better able to think about any subject, than those persons are, who suffer their minds to remain idle and empty.
“But now what has George been doing all this time? Why, just for the sake of making you understand what I mean, I will suppose, that George has been amusing himself with counting the number of all the trees and shrubs which he can see from the windows of the house where he lives; and that he has taken the pains to find out who they all belong to;— how long they have been growing;—how tall they are; and so forth. No doubt it must have cost him much trouble to acquire all this information; and to fix it in his memory; but then this
labour is only a sort of idleness; because knowledge of this kind can be of no service to any one. And what will become of all the things George has learned, if he should go to live at some place only a few miles distant?—he must very soon forget the whole of it.
“But I dare say Fanny will ask, ‘Who would ever be so stupid as to wish to know exactly how many trees, and shrubs, there are in the fields and gardens?’ To this I must answer, that I do not really believe any one could be found, who would be quite so stupid as this; but I do really believe that some people are very desirous to know things that are quite as foolish and unprofitable; and things too that are much more hurtful in their consequences upon their own character.
“Suppose, now, a person wishes to hear stories about the private affairs of all his neighbours; and endeavours to find out how many servants they keep; what company they see; or what fortune they have; or how their houses are furnished; or what hour they dine at; or what their quarrels are about; or whether they are going to be married; or whether any legacies have been left them. I say that to know things of this sort, is of no more use than it would be to know that there are fifty elm trees on one side of an avenue, and forty-nine on the other: or, that there are twenty-seven currant bushes, and fourteen gooseberry bushes in somebody’s garden.
“Besides, when persons want to know things of this sort, it makes them so frivolous and trifling, that they become unable to attend to any serious or important subject. It also makes them impertinent, and fond of the company of ignorant, vulgar, and worthless people; because it is only such people who will tell them the things they wish to know When young persons indulge this sort of curiosity, though it be only from idleness, they soon become tale-bearers, and mischiefmakers, and in the end they are despised and hated by all who know them.
“When I thought of sending some little token of my affection to my two nieces, I endeavoured to think what would be most suitable to the taste and disposition of each. Perceiving, therefore, that Mary is very inquiring, and always anxious to gain real knowledge, and to learn the reasons of things, I have sent a small Encyclopedia of Arts and Sciences, intended for the use of young persons; also a Biographical Dictionary; and a Geographical Dictionary; of all which I beg her acceptance. I have no doubt that she will know how to make a good use of them; and though such books are already in her Papa’s library, I hope she will be pleased to see them upon the shelves in her little closet.
“In thinking of a suitable present for Fanny, I confess I have been very much puzzled. There is no book, thought I, that I remember, in which Fanny can find answers to the sort of questions which she usually asks. It would be charming indeed, if there were a dictionary where one might find such things as the following, all arranged in alphabetical order;—
“‘Bailey, Mr John.—lives at No. 3, King Street: is a linen draper: has six children: keeps two servants, three shopmen, and an apprentice: his business brings him in about four hundred pounds a year: has lately had a dispute with Mr. Smith, his next door neighbour, about a party wall, &c. &c.’
“‘Ball, Mrs.—Is in her 70th year: keeps only one servant: often dines a whole week upon a leg of mutton: scolds her maid very often: has not bought a new gown for seven years: &c. &c.’
“But as I do not know of any such dictionary as this, I have sent the only book at all like it that I am acquainted with: it is called ‘The London Directory.’ Here Fanny may find the names of many thousand persons in London: also, where they live; and what their business or profession is; together with a variety of particulars of the same sort; and I hope she will find as much amusement in learning these names, as she seems to do in knowing the names and affairs of all her
neighbours. Wishing, however, to send more than one volume, I was obliged to think again; and as I remembered that one day, when a waggon load of furniture was unpacked at the next door, Fanny passed many hours at the window, taking very particular notice of every article; I thought she would be wonderfully pleased to have a number of complete lists of all the furniture in several houses. I therefore was at some trouble to procure between thirty and forty old catalogues of auctions of furniture, which I have had bound in one volume. In the long winter evenings, when she cannot look out of the window, she may entertain herself with reading such particulars as the following: ‘Lot 341. Four odd chairs and stool. Lot 342. Beer cooler, and mash-tubs. Lot 343. Wheelbarrow and pitchforks. Lot 344. Sundry odd articles, &c.’ Will not this be as good as if she were permitted to look into every room and closet in all the neighbours’ houses?
“But if, after all, my dear Fanny should not be pleased with the books I send her; and think that her Uncle has only been jesting with her, I hope she will not be angry with him; for I assure her, I could think of no others that seemed equally suitable to her present taste. But I shall be very happy to exchange them for books of a different kind, as soon as it shall appear that she has learned to repress her idle curiosity; and that she has began to cultivate the habit of intelligent inquiry.
“My dear nieces will believe, that I am their very affectionate uncle
“T .”
IV. THE TWO TEMPERS.
Little William Sawkins was sent by his mother, with a large basket of eggs, to Mrs. Dobson’s shop at Langford: the distance was four miles. “It’s too much for the boy, I declare,” said his mother, as William took up the basket: but she had nobody else to send. William was very willing to do all that he was able; and seemed most happy when he could make himself useful to any body; especially to his father or his mother.
When he had walked a little way, and had changed the basket from one arm to the other about three times, he came to a turning in the road, and saw Hugh Bludgell, the baker’s boy, driving his master’s cart slowly along; he was standing up in the cart, and thumping with one heel to the tune which he whistled. Just at the place, there was a short way across two or three fields into the road: William thought that if he made great speed by the field path, he could come up with the cart; and that perhaps Hugh would let him ride the rest of the way to Langford. So off he set, sometimes walking, sometimes running, and sometimes hobbling; till he was very hot, and quite out of breath. While he was in the middle of the last meadow, he heard the rumbling wheels of the cart, and saw through the gaps in the hedge, Hugh’s head and shoulders shaking along: he set the basket down therefore, ran as hard as he could, and got to the style by the road side, just as the cart came up.
“Hugh! Hugh! Do stop one minute:—ar’nt you going to Langford?” Hugh just turned his head round, without stopping his horse, or his whistling: when he saw that it was only little William Sawkins, he smacked his whip, and drove on; and did not so much as give him an answer.
William, however, tumbled over the style, and ran after the cart a little way, calling out—“Just give me a ride, Hugh;—I’ve a great basket of eggs to carry to Langford: just give me a ride, Hugh—do— do.” But Hugh took no notice; he only kept whistling and cutting with his whip at the geese that were waddling along, one by one, on the raised path by the road side. William at length, finding Hugh Bludgell would not listen to him, returned into the field for his basket. When he got into the road again, he set himself down to rest on the green bank under the hedge: it had been a cloudy morning, but now the sun shone out. William began to pluck the primroses and daisies, which grew about, and stuck them in the band of his hat, and he very soon forgot ill-tempered Hugh Bludgell, the baker’s boy. Perhaps he sat half an hour; and then walked slowly on, sometimes swinging the basket on his stick across his shoulder; sometimes putting it on his head; and sometimes trailing it in the dust as he held it in one hand. He had not gone more than a mile, when, all at once, he saw, at some distance before him, the baker’s cart, half overturned against the hedge, and one wheel deep in the ditch. Hugh was jerking and pulling the horse’s bridle, and striking the poor beast violently on the legs and face with the butt-end of the whip.
As soon as William came within hearing, Hugh called to him,—“Is that you, Billy Sawkins?—There’s a good fellow, now; put your basket down here, and run on to the Duke’s Head, and tell ’em the cart’s in the ditch, and they must send somebody to hove ’em out:— run now—and I’ll mind your eggs.”
While Hugh was speaking, the old horse had backed some steps, and let the cart deeper into the ditch, and had began to munch the long grass on the hedge, which was close to his head. The horse was quite blind, but when he heard Hugh coming towards him again, he flung back his head, and breathed out two long streams of steam from his nostrils. Hugh, however, let him alone for the present. William put his basket behind a tree in the hedge, and ran off to the Duke’s Head: the distance was a full mile. When he got there, it was some time before any body would attend to him: at length they promised that the hostler should come when he had had his dinner. William therefore, having delivered his message, returned to take up
