Historical analogies to contemporary political problems are always inexact, but they can perform two useful purposes: the first is exemplary and the second is explanatory. In an exemplary analogy, we look to a much-admired figure of the past, and ask how he or she would have addressed a current issue or responded to a current situation. An explanatory analogy, on the other hand, helps us understand why people -- then and now -- behave the way they do.
A good illustration of the exemplary analogy is Sandy Levinson’s recent post on Balkinization (and oped in the Dallas Morning News), in which he praises Alexander Hamilton’s support for Thomas Jefferson over Aaron Burr, following the electoral college tie in the election of 1800. Hamilton, Levinson explains, ultimately backed “his bitter enemy, Thomas Jefferson, for the presidency against his long-time acquaintance and sometime friend Burr” because he “clearly believed that patriots committed to the national interest should rally around Jefferson, whatever their doubts, as against the totally unprincipled and opportunistic and vainglorious Aaron Burr.”
The obvious lesson, according to Levinson, is that current Republicans should follow Hamilton’s example by abandoning Donald Trump and supporting, or at least not opposing, the eventual Democratic candidate. “Surely Hamilton’s words would resonate in today’s political spectrum,” he says.
For whatever reason, however, Republicans are not about to follow Levinson’s advice. With only a few notable exceptions – Sen. Ben Sasse and the two former presidents Bush – Republicans are lining up behind their presumptive nominee. Why?
This brings us to the explanatory use of historical analogies. No matter what the principle, divided political parties have almost always come to ruin, and the recovery has generally taken more than one election cycle. Consider the election of 1840, in which the Whigs swept into office on the slogan “Tippecanoe and Tyler too.” Not only did William Henry Harrison win the presidency, but his party also took control of both houses of Congress. John Tyler, a former Democrat, was an afterthought (“too”), until President Harrison died only a month following his inauguration.
To their chagrin and consternation, the Whig leaders suddenly discovered that the new president did not support the party platform which, as Abraham Lincoln said early in his career, was “short and sweet,” meaning support for a national bank, internal improvements, and a high protective tariff.
True to his roots rather than his party, Tyler twice vetoed bills establishing a Bank of the United States. In response, most of his cabinet resigned, and he was formally expelled from the Whig Party.
The Whigs who exiled President Tyler believed that they would be able to elect Henry Clay in 1844, but he was defeated by the Democrat James Polk, who ran with Tyler’s implicit support. The Whigs would win the presidency only once more (in 1848) before their party imploded over the Kansas-Nebraska Act of 1854.
This pattern has been repeated consistently over U.S. history. A divided party has almost always lost at least two elections in a row: the divided Democrats of 1860 lost the next six elections; the divided Republicans of 1912 lost again in 1916; the divided Republicans of 1964 won in 1968, but only because the Democrats were even more divided that year, subsequently losing two in a row themselves. lost two in a row, and so did the divided Democrats of 1968. The divided Democrats squeaked through in 1948, but lost badly in 1952 and 1956. Even anti-Trump Republicans -- with their sights set on 2020 -- probably recognize that widespread abandonment of a president or candidate has almost always led to at least one subsequent loss, even after reunifying.
As a Democrat, my sincere hope is that Republicans will put party loyalty aside and recognize the looming disastrousness of a Trump presidency. As a historian, however, I understand why they might not.
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