I almost titled this entry “Why I Study History,” but I figured that no one would read it if I did. “Why I Study History” has a “Why I Collect Matchbooks” sort of ring to it. “The Democracy of the Dead,” on the other hand, has a unique and mysterious tone. It conjures up visions of dead men casting their votes and making their long-lost voices heard.

Perhaps some of my readers are familiar with the origin of the phrase. Like a good many insightful lines, it was penned by a very large man named G.K. Chesterton—who was large, I assure you, in almost every possible way. In his very fine book Orthodoxy, Chesterton wrote the following:

“Tradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead. Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about. All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of their birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our father.”

Perhaps now you can begin to see how closely related are the two titles I considered for this entry. If tradition tells us that our ancestors’ voices are important, then it is history that actually informs us what those voices said. It is history that brings the dead to life. The dead would have no democracy without it.

Why is it important that the dead have their say? It is important because the dead are not idiots—at least not all of them are. I am always skeptical of historical theories which force their adherents to assume that men throughout all of history have lived in ignorance and stupidity—that is to say, until now. That sort of doctrine of progress was truly debunked by the 20^th century, which saw devastating war after devastating war. Assuming, then, that no age has a monopoly on the truth, it becomes clear that wisdom can be found in any age. And whenever we find it, we ought to give it a voice.

Probably there is no other age in history as completely insulated as our own. Indeed, it is our age which has made the study of history a sort of antiquarian hobby, like collecting matchbooks. This means, of course, that we are relying almost exclusively on our own moral resources for wisdom and guidance. That is not only “arrogant,” as Chesterton suggests, but dangerous. Former ages always looked to the past for guidance. Christians, of course, have done it in every age, though many of today’s Christians see their own faith through a modern lens that distorts it.

We need history. We need it as badly as we need mathematics and science. In fact, I would argue that we need history more than math and science. Those subjects can do a lot for our age, but they can’t impart wisdom. They can’t guide themselves. History can guide us. It can teach us what is and what is not essential. It can show us mistakes. It can show us the conditions of peace, order, and happiness. It can make us wise.

[I first posted this entry over at my other blog. I thought the themes were also relevant to this one.]

G. K. Chesterton may be "the most unjustly neglected writer of our time," as Dale Ahlquist writes, but I can’t think of any 20th century writer as unjustly neglected as Christopher Dawson.

Interestingly, Chesterton and Dawson make for a remarkable comparison. This hit me one day when I was interviewing Dr. Adam Schwartz, Assistant Professor of History at Christendom College. Dr. Schwartz was in the Twin Cities for the Annual Chesterton Conference some time ago when I interviewed him on behalf of a local Catholic journal. At one point in our interview, he explained to me that Dawson had distinguished himself from the other historians of his day particularly by means of his meta-historical approach to history. According to Dr. Schwartz,  

English historiography particularly at this time—early to mid 20th century—was much more based on putting together facts and telling you exactly when things happened. Dawson thought that was absolutely necessary and didn’t like it when historians didn’t do that, but he also believed in what he called metahistory, which was trying to divine the meaning of events as well as the matter of them. For Dawson, of course, metahistory meant looking at history from a theological standpoint. He articulated very well, and better than any of his English counterparts did, a very explicitly Christian Catholic view of history, which saw the Incarnation as not only an important moment in salvation history but in secular history; it was the turning point in all of history. That was his main lodestar for how he understood history, and that set him apart from many of his peers, who either didn’t have a metahistorical view at all or, if they did, had a more philosophical one—Marxist, or something like that, but not a supernaturalist viewpoint.

I well remember that as Dr. Schwartz was explaining all of this I couldn’t help but think of Chesterton and his very fine book The Everlasting Man, after which, of course, this site is named. And so I went ahead and brought it up. "Your description of Dawson’s historical vision sounds a great deal like that of G.K. Chesterton’s in The Everlasting Man."  To which he responded,

[As it turns out, Dr. Schwartz has done a great deal of work on Dawson and Chesterton.]

Here you will find Dale Ahlquist’s brief summary of The Everlasting Man by G. K. Chesterton. 

Visit the American Chesterton Society website to learn more about Chesterton and his works, and to find an answer to the nagging question:

"Who is this guy and why haven’t I heard of him?"

It is simply false to say that the other sages and heroes had claimed to be that mysterious master and maker, of whom the world had dreamed and disputed. Not one of them had ever claimed to be anything of the sort. Not one of their sects or schools had ever claimed that they had claimed to be anything of the sort. The most that any religious prophet had said was that he was the true servant of such a being. The most that any visionary had ever said was that men might catch glimpses of the glory of that spiritual being; or much more often of lesser spiritual beings. The most that any primitive myth had ever suggested was that the creator was present at creation. But that the creator was present at scenes a little subsequent to the supper-parties of Horace, and talked with tax-collectors and government officials in the detailed daily life of the Roman Empire, and that this fact continued to be firmly asserted by the whole of that great civilisation for more than a thousand years–that is something utterly unlike anything else in nature. It is the one great startling statement that man has made since he spoke his first articulate word, instead of barking like a dog. Its unique character can be used as an argument against it as well as for it. It would be easy to concentrate on it as a case of isolated insanity; but it makes nothing but dust and nonsense of comparative religion. 

–G. K. Chesterton, The Everlasting Man