One must decide the meaning of “progressive historiography.” It can mean
either the history written by “progressive historians,” or it can mean
history written by historians of the Progressive era of American history and
shortly after. The focus that was chosen for this paper is more in keeping with
the latter interpretation, if for no other reason than it provides a useful
compare-and-contrast “control” literature. The caveat is this: the focus of
this report is on the predominant question of the historiographical period: was
the war a revolution or a war for independence? One could choose many other
questions to argue, questions that historians have for years disputed about the
revolution, but there are a number of reasons why this report was chosen for
this particular assignment; the two best follow. First, it is an old and
time-honored question that professors and instructors have posed to their
students for years; of pre-Civil War historiographical questions, it is perhaps
second only in fashion during the last twenty to twenty-five years to the
Jefferson-Hemmings paternity controversy. Second, the revolution-or-independence
question is one of those which must be answered through interpretation. A case
cannot be made that is so utterly conclusive as to exclude all others; it is
that very fact that makes history at once so frustrating and so fascinating.
What better way could there be to look at the writings of a specific school of
historians? Therefore, in the pursuit of “personal truth,” we must
proceed... Perhaps the most famous of all progressive historians is Frederick
Jackson Turner. His most famous argument is not devoted strictly to the American
Revolution, but instead to the effects of the American frontier. In a sentence,
his argument is that the frontier was the chief determinant in American history.
This is not to say that Turner did not write about the war; he did, in his
seminal work, “The Frontier in American History,” there are discussions of
the frontier’s effect on the coming of the revolution. It is worth noting,
before exploring Turner’s arguments, that the frontier in this period was only
about one hundred miles from the Atlantic coast. Of course, as the period under
scrutiny approaches the war chronologically, the frontier moves away from the
ocean. But it is important to remember that Turner defines the Jamestown of
Captain John Smith in 1607 as the frontier in its initial stage. So, in this
context, it makes sense to the almost-twenty-first-century reader when Turner
refers to the frontier as defined by the Proclamation of 1763 as the “Old
West.” Turner gives an idea of his world-view near the end of the book: The
transformations through which the United States is passing in our own day are so
profound, so far-reaching, that it is hardly an exaggeration to say that we are
witnessing the birth of a new nation in America. The revolution in social and
economic structure of this country during the past two decades is comparable to
what occurred when independence was declared and the constitution was formed, or
to the changes wrought by the era which began half a century ago, the era of
Civil War and Reconstruction (Turner 1920, 311). This point bears further
examination in the context of all the historians being compared in this paper,
but in a later section. It is more important at this point to continue with the
discussion of Turner’s examination of the war as it relates to his frontier
thesis. Briefly, Turner argues five points specific to the war in his overall
treatment of the frontier. First, a fighting frontier had been established from
Georgia to New England as a result of the colonial wars with the French. Second,
a primitively agricultural and democratically self-sufficient society had been
established on the frontier that was profoundly and fundamentally different from
the society from which the frontiersmen’s progenitors had sprung; it is of
course because those progenitors were different from their fellows that they
came across the ocean in the first place. Third, the frontier developed home
markets for the growing—--though still small—--colonial industrial base,
lessening the importance of the triangular trade. Fourth, non-English settlers
had caused an unintended and at first informal breach with the mother country
that later fueled separatist sentiment; it is no great thing in the thick of
rebellion to forget that the war was at first a war for the rights of Englishmen
when one is not an Englishman in the first place. Fifth, the frontier by its
very nature reflected a contest between the privileged and the non-privileged;
Turner maintains that this dichotomy was more in evidence outside New England
and was more of a democratic revolution outside that region than inside (Turner
1920, 106-111). Of course, one is tempted to minimize, or even belittle this
last observation by pointing out that the New Englanders provided the bulk of
the troops for the rebel army... In any case, Turner’s arguments foreshadow
those of another historian, J. Franklin Jameson. Both argue a geographical or
quasi-geographical determinism. Both argue that the war was a revolution that
resulted in greater democracy, though their definitions of democracy are rather
broad. Before turning to Jameson, however, another work by Turner should be
mentioned, entitled “The Significance of Sections in American History,”
which was published in 1932, at the height of the Great Depression. This book is
not exclusively about the American Revolution. Instead, it discusses several
important factors in American history from a demographic perspective. Turner
echoes his own frontier thesis in this work, citing instances in the West that
shaped the character of the Revolution. The behavior of the earliest pioneers
was important in understanding the later evolution of the country, he argued,
and focused on the North Carolina frontiersmen. He concluded that the
Association desired “not to be arded as a lawless mob,” and their petition
for annexation to North Carolina led to a regularization of the political status
of the frontier districts (Turner 1932, 97). This pattern would be repeated
again and again in the decades after the war, but Turner’s point is that the
frontier districts were just as important to the political and social nature of
the struggle as were the established eastern districts and towns which have
received so much more “press” in the literature. Another factor of
consequence in Turner’s view was early sectionalism (indeed, that is the focus
of this particular book, much more so than the American war for independence).
“The West,” which in the middle nineteenth century meant such lands as Iowa
and Indiana, instead meant in pre-Revolutionary years the western regions of the
existing colonies. Turner specifically discussed the western regions of
Maryland, Virginia, and the Carolinas. He suggested that the geography of the
region--rocky and mountainous, in distinct contrast to the alluvial plains of
the tidewater region--made for an order much more like New England society than
the planter-led society of Virginia and the rest of the South. He contended that
the frontier communities were more democratic. An informed reader can today
easily infer that Turner was writing not just of the revolution, but of the
beginnings of the sectional competition that culminated in the American Civil
War (Turner 1932, 293). But it is the geographical determinism that Turner
advances that is of the most interest to this paper; one sees the same sort of
argument again and again while reading the works of Turner and his fellows in
the progressive school. J. Franklin Jameson wrote a landmark work in 1926. More
accurately, it was a collection of four lectures that were subsequently
collected into a hundred-page book. His basic premise was that the war was a
social revolution. He made four main arguments (coincidental with the four
lectures), which follow. First, Jameson argued that the status of persons was
changed. He maintained that slavery was ended in a significant region by the
war, and that abolitionism became fashionable and real as a political force. In
order to contest this conclusion, it is a simple thing to counter-argue that
since Massachusetts had but five slaves in 1776, it seems that slavery was
definitely on its way out before the war even began in earnest. Moreover, it
would be obvious to point out that abolitionism was certainly not new to the
Northern States before and during the war. In short, the arguments regarding the
status of people and how that status changed as a result of the war really do
not hold up under scrutiny. Second, Jameson argued that the nature of the land
promoted change in the people. He claimed that the geography of New England made
for revolutionary thought among small holders and freemen that was not so
evident among those in the tidewater south. But the colonists were “different
sorts” to begin with; the Pilgrims and Puritans of the North were outcasts
before they came across the Atlantic. The middle-staters of Pennsylvania--the
Quakers--and especially Maryland--Catholics, Huguenots, and Presbyterians--were
already in search of a place where they could be different and be at least
quasi-independent. To lay the responsibility for the revolution on mountains and
streams, thereby ignoring the nature of the people before they arrived, is a bit
much to swallow. Did the land change the colonists, or were the human changes to
the land merely a reflection of the ideas the colonists had with them already,
and of the institutional-cultural heritage of these people? At the very least,
it is a chicken-and-egg question, but it seems that the latter argument is the
accurate one. In this same vein, Jameson cites the end of primogeniture as a
social-revolutionary aspect of the war. To illustrate the inaccuracy of this
interpretation, one need only mention that primogeniture was abolished in
Britain over time without a war at all. It seems that the trend away from
primogeniture was already afoot in the British world (of which the colonists
were a part, and of which even in 1776 most wished to remain). War or no war,
primogeniture would almost certainly have receded, as it did. In addition,
Jameson claims that the frontier unleashed a revolution. His view is that the
frontier itself was in some way responsible for revolutionary attitudes and
thoughts, as if the land itself changed the way that the residents thought. For
the sake of brevity, let us say only that Turner’s frontier thesis is a much
more convincing picture of American history than is Jameson’s. In short,
Turner argues that the frontier throughout American history has attracted and
promoted certain types of people and certain types of behavior. Jameson implies
that the frontier made revolutionaries, and that when the war was over, they
stopped being revolutionary. Turner makes the point from the opposite pole: the
frontier, by its very nature, provided an environment where people who would
otherwise have been misfits and malcontents could flourish and achieve a modicum
of what would then certainly have been termed “respectability.” Jameson’s
argument virtually anthropomorphizes the frontier, while Turner casts the region
in a more proper role: that of a passive agent. Third, Jameson discusses
business and industry. He discusses how the war caused the Agricultural
Revolution to be visited upon the Americas. In Europe, where land was at a
premium, peasants had had to adopt new methods in order to survive their growing
population. By contrast, in the colonies, land was cheap and plentiful, so new
methods were not required. Nonetheless, it seems safe to argue that the methods
adopted in the colonies would have been adopted eventually, war or no war, when
the population density made it sensible to do so. Along similar lines, Jameson
suggests that the war caused a revolutionary growth and change in war and
commercial industries: paper, salt, powder, cannons, and muskets all had to be
manufactured to fight the war. Of course, after 1918, when the industrial nature
of warfare had become painfully evident. It is easy to see how he made this
conclusion. But it is also easy to see, even with the benefit of the same
hindsight that Jameson could have used, that the growth of industry and commerce
would almost certainly have occurred anyway, war or no war. Napoleonic France
was not converted into an industrial power, despite nearly twenty-five years of
virtually non-stop warfare that was of a far greater magnitude than was the
“American Revolution.” It is far more sensible to argue that the industry
and commerce of the Americas would have developed as a result of trade with
Europe, with or without a war. Lastly, many participants argued at the time that
the colonies were economically weakened because of the war for a significant
period. How is it that Jameson concluded the exact opposite one hundred fifty
years later? Fourth, Jameson argued that thought and feeling changed. At first,
this claim seems the most plausible. He suggested that the war was a precursor
to the European revolutionary fervor of the 1830s; this perhaps has some
validity, but the fervor of the 1830s was a more
peasants-against-the-aristocracy sort of thing than it was a
taxation-without-representation sort of thing. Another difference was
nationalism, a decidedly made-in-France phenomenon. Greeks, for example, rose up
against the Ottoman Turks in 1830 in order to establish a Greek state. This was
not the nature of the American war, for no foreign power of different ethnicity
held sway in the colonies; certainly no Germans rose up in Pennsylvania in order
to establish a German-style state out of the old British colony. Indeed, Germans
tended toward loyalist sensibilities. Jameson argued that the war had the effect
of creating more colleges and of diffusing religious faith. This certainly is a
description of cultural contact with Europe more than it is a description of a
result of a war. These very things took place in Europe before and after the
American war; sometimes these phenomena were accompanied by violence and armed
struggle, and sometimes not. The Americas were already religiously diverse, and
it probably comes as no surprise that the conclusion to this paper is that the
growth of colleges was accompanied by, and was a result of, a substantial growth
in the population. This rather leaves the war out of the picture; for wars
seldom create things, but instead tend to destroy or impede them. It should be
pointed out that Jameson makes no political arguments outside of suffrage. (One
generally thinks of dramatic political changes as being a result of a
“revolution.”) He discusses political institutions not at all. He is only
concerned with who had the vote. However, even before the war, the colonies had
wider suffrage than the European countries from which the people and their
forebears came; how is this a revolutionary outcome? Were these people not
fighting to preserve that which they already had against the growing influence
of the House of Commons, which threatened to take their self-determination away?
Slavery was already receding in the colonies; it was evolving away--in Vermont
in 1777, Pennsylvania in 1780, Rhode Island and Connecticut in 1784; if the
revolution was the cause, why then did abolition, albeit gradual, continue its
march in New York in 1799 and New Jersey in 1804? The American variety of
slavery was already “less bad” than in many, if not most, other countries,
regardless of what twentieth-century movie and television productions might have
you believe. Was the country not already progressive? Another writer of note who
is labeled as a progressive historian is Carl Becker. He was a student of
Frederick Jackson Turner and submitted as his doctoral dissertation--it was
called a thesis at that time--a work entitled “The History of Political
Parties in the Province of New York.” In it, Becker writes that the political
parties in what became the state of New York were embroiled in a tremendous
rivalry. The members of the “conservative” wing wanted only to go so far as
to assert their rights as Englishmen, while the radical element desired
independence. Becker argues for a compromise interpretation in his conclusion,
stating that “although the conservatives were successful in securing a
government measurably centralized and measurably aristocratic, we know that
there was considerable pressure for a more democratic form” (Becker 1909,
276). In short, Becker describes the desire for a significantly different form
of government than that which England had, and existed in the colony before the
insurrection. In the end, of course, the form was essentially the same; that is,
a bicameral legislature was placed in the stead of Parliament, the President
(who likely could have been King George I of America) was substituted for the
King of England, and a judicial branch was established to play the role of the
British courts. It is significant to mention that the second provincial congress
of New York opposed independence from Great Britain at least as late as May 14,
1775 (Becker 1909, 252). It is the extent of suffrage that gives a measure of
truth to the progressive argument as symbolized by Becker’s work. The growth
of political groups in New York presaged the formation of formal parties in the
colonies as a whole, foreshadowed the further entrenchment of those same parties
after the Constitution was ratified, and paralleled the same developmental path
in Great Britain. The same congress mentioned above voted to extend the
franchise to freeholders and freemen with holdings equivalent to forty pounds
(Becker 1909, 252). The Committee of fifty-one was essentially dissolved as the
Mechanics and the fifty-one merged in a new system that eliminated wards and
substituted in its place a system of election by citizens at large (Becker 1909,
166). This presaged a similar reform in England after the war with Napoleon, the
Reform Bill of 1832. One is tempted to wonder if that reform in England was
delayed by the war; certainly one could argue that the reform in New York was
prompted by the war, but one can also be left with a sense that the change was
on the verge of taking place anyway, war or no war. Nonetheless, Becker is
consistent with other progressive historians when he argues the case of extended
suffrage as a result of the conflict with Great Britain. Becker is also in step
with his progressive counterparts when he argues his “road to revolution”
thesis from the point of view of merchants. He spends an entire chapter
discussing in detail the relative efficacy of the non-importation measures
instituted by the colonies (the word “boycott” had of course not yet been
coined in the 1770s, and historians of the early 1900s were apparently
disinclined to use it). In short, he argues that the non-intercourse measures (a
synonym for non-importation) were essentially ineffective. To be sure, there
were fluctuations, but the image of the non-importation measures must be one of
reducing the flow of goods, not one of shutting the flow off and turning it on
when the colonists grievances had been redressed (Becker 1909, 63, 68-69). A few
years later, Becker wrote still more in his story of revolution. He argued in
1915 that merchants were, among other shortcomings, what would today be called
“sunshine patriots.” He suggested that merchants were all for
non-importation as long as they could sell their wares at inflated prices, but
after the supply was gone, they were back to trading and importing again (Becker
1915, 229). This example perhaps best summarizes Becker’s view of the
“rebels.” To be sure, he mentions the roles of radical ministers in New
England, and of other “agitators.” Becker is perhaps best known for the
line: “The war was not about home rule, but about who would rule at home.”
This theme springs up repeatedly in the writings of the progressive historians.
Sometimes the words are a little different, but the theme remains constant.
Oddly enough, one of the most outspoken writers on this topic was Charles Beard.
He has entered the annals of American historiography as perhaps the
quintessential economic-school historian. His seminal work, “An Economic
Interpretation of the Constitution of the United States,” published in 1913,
argued that the forces of the revolution were in effect subverted by the forces
of the established ruling class of the pre-war period. He argued that the
history of America, and that the Constitution itself, was the result of
Marxian-style class struggle. He further asserted that the Constitution was an
economic document designed by those with money and property to protect those
with money and property. This class-struggle view was applied by Beard to all of
American history. He would undoubtedly stress the labor-management strife of the
1930s and the oppression of Indians and blacks as well if he were writing today
of the history of the Great Depression. He would probably explain the western
movement as a result of oppressed factory workers leaving the factory in order
to find opportunity in the West (this comment is offered as evidence of
Beard’s odd-man-out status within the “progressive school”). Beard also
stands alone among the progressive historians inasmuch as he wrote a
consensus-style book in collaboration with his wife. It was entitled “The
Beards Basic History of the United States,” and was published in 1944. In it,
he (is “they” perhaps better?) seconded many of Jameson’s notions of the
end of primogeniture, disestablishment of the Anglican Church, and so on. (Beard
1944, 119) But it is the chapter on the Constitution that stands out. The view
of the Constitution that was offered by Beard was a much mellower view than the
one offered by him a bit more than thirty years earlier. He discussed the
various features of the document and extolled its virtues. In short, he seemed
more tolerant of “men of property” (Beard 1944, 120-137). Was it because two
world wars had changed his world-view? Had he been cauterized by the barbarism
of twentieth-century global war? On the other hand, had he merely begun to be
more tolerant, as so often happens as people reach the ends of their lives?
Probably all of these forces were in effect to one degree or another. Beard
himself is quoted by Richard Hofstadter as saying in 1934 that “are indeed is
the savant who does not appear to be at war with himself in his own breast”
and in 1940 that “Olympian certitude has exploded” (Hofstadter, 285). In any
event, whether for wartime propaganda reasons, or for the reasons wrought by
intellectual evolution, Charles Beard near the end of his life had softened his
once-adversarial stance. The only important criticism of Beard is that economic
interpretations of history that exclude all others, of the kind that Beard wrote
in his earliest years, are at best one-dimensional. At worst they are
narrow-minded, adversarial, sometimes even hate-filled, polemics. Taking a
similar approach to Beard’s in his interpretation of history through economic
eyes is Arthur Schlesinger, Sr. (But in many places Schlesinger sounds much more
like Turner and Jameson than he sounds like Beard.) What is perhaps
Schlesinger’s most important work on the subject of the American Revolution
first appeared in 1918, with a new edition in 1939. In the preface to the second
edition, Schlesinger submitted that the assertions of the first edition had been
“generally accepted by historians.” And that seems exactly to be the case
more than fifty years later. Schlesinger’s view was sectional: he saw “two
revolutions,” one in the North and one in the South (Schlesinger, 6). He
argued that the non-importation policies of the colonies were far from
universally successful. Nor were they universally accepted. Schlesinger’s view
is that the non-importation zeal tended to be greater in the small towns rather
than in the “great trading towns.” He notes, for example, that the leading
merchants had gained a fair amount of relief from Parliament by 1770, and that
their fever for non-importation, which they had happily supported in 1768, had
rather more than subsided by 1770. The problem remained whether they could cease
their non-importation practices without the consent of the general populace,
which was largely composed of propertyless people of lesser means who still
burned for the elimination of taxes entirely (Schlesinger, 218). The crux of the
view is that this business of the “consent of the people” was not
philosophical or even truly political: it was strictly an economic
consideration. Schlesinger puts it even more bluntly near the end of the book:
... the choice, which every merchant had to make, was not, and could not be, a
mere mechanical one, premised upon strict considerations of an informed class
interest. Like other human beings, his mind was affected or controlled by
powerful influences of temperament, environment and tradition. Furthermore, the
degree to which his wealth was removable was an important factor in his
decision, for his business and the good will of his customers were not
commodities to be packed up and carried bodily into British lines. These facts
caused many a merchant to follow the line of least resistance when independence
was promulgated (Schlesinger, 603; emphasis is mine). It is the italicized
sentence that gives the essence of Schlesinger’s book. The point that he makes
is that there was a great deal of Loyalist sympathy among the merchant class,
despite the myth of united and universal opposition to British tyranny that had
come to exist by 1900. Nevertheless, these traders were no traitors; but it was
pragmatism, not sudden philosophical enlightenment, that caused them to modify
or mitigate their true attitudes. How many times have we heard it said?
“You’ve got to go along to get along.” So must it have been for the
colonial merchants. This realization goes a long way to explain the on-again,
off-again support for non-importation and later for independence that
Schlesinger describes in such detail in his book. And at the root of it lies the
influence of the masses, or at any rate the influence of what is nowadays called
“public opinion.” There is, a single reason for mentioning the works of
these two writers in this paper, and a single reason only: to demonstrate that
American historiography in the Progressive Era was hardly unified in its
interpretation. Just as “diversity” is a buzzword on today’s college and
university campuses, so was genuine diversity a feature of American
historiography. And, perhaps fittingly enough, this same diversity symbolizes
one of the themes that progressive historians stress almost to a fault: that the
views of the people during the war itself were far from universal. And so it was
with historians as they wrote their books during the Progressive era. John Fiske
wrote a two-volume treatment of the American Revolution in 1891. To be sure,
this was at the earliest stages of the Progressive movement in the United
States, but it falls well within the boundaries. In that context, one can
evaluate the contents of Fiske’s book, and in one other also: which occurred
in various places in Turner’s writings. Fiske writes much in the second volume
of his history of “drums and trumpets.” However, there are still inklings of
his views as to the nature of the war. He writes, for example, of the “absurd
talk of John Adams,” who proposed the annual election of general officers by
Congress, and that “if some great men should be sent home as a result, [then
the nation will not be ruined]” (Fiske, 31). Fiske sees this as a ludicrous
notion to say the least, indicating his great-man orientation. (As an aside,
Fiske writes of Benedict Arnold’s death-bed remorse at “ever having put on
any other” uniform than that of the colonial forces, which story has found its
way into American mythology.) In a sentence, Fiske writes of armies and leaders,
of imperial nations and colonies, and of congresses and parliaments. He clearly
does not write of rivers, mountains, and mass suffrage. Albert Bushnell Hart
wrote his story of the Formation of the Union in 1894. The publisher,
Longman’s, offered other works by professors of history, including one
progressive professor who would someday become famous the world over: Woodrow
Wilson. At the time, Fiske was an assistant professor of history at Harvard
University. Hart asserted that the Constitution was more than a compact, the
term he assigned to the Articles of Confederation. He defined a “compact” as
little more than a treaty, calling it an agreement between states that lost its
force when one of the parties ceased to observe it. Instead, Hart held that the
Constitution was as Daniel Webster had defined it: “...the people’s
Constitution, the people’s government, made for the people, made by the
people, and answerable to the people. The people of the United States have
declared that this Constitution shall be supreme law” (Hart, 134). Of
geography, Hart writes not of mountains and alluvial plains, but of man-made
boundaries and political competition related to enlarging the entities of the
competitors. Again, as in Fiske, whom Hart recommends along with George Bancroft
and Henry Adams, the view is of and from the top, not of the common citizen. Are
these writers of interest other than for the reason already offered? It is
important to mention these writers as a corollary of the question that was posed
at the outset--and sought at first “to duck”: exactly what is a
“progressive historian?” Again, spatial limitations require this to be
brief: it is clear from examining the work of Fiske and Hart that if a
“progressive historian” is defined as a writer of history during the
Progressive Era, then the work one will encounter is diverse in its viewpoints
and interpretations; if, however one defines a progressive historian as a member
of a school of thought, then the events of the times in which they wrote take on
a secondary value, supplanted by rivers, mountains, and the like. But then one
must remind oneself of the example of Charles Beard, if for no other reason than
to sully and sunder that grand generalization... First, lets take a look at a
few compare-and-contrast conclusions. Progressive historians have in common the
world-view that goes with the economic interpretation of history. They do not,
however, always conclude the same things (Jameson and Turner argued greater
economic democracy, for example, while Beard argued the Constitution as a
document written by the wealthy to protect the wealthy). To a great degree,
progressive historians are interested in geography, especially insofar as
geographical factors are determinants in history. This interest varies, of
course, from writer to writer, but Turner and Jameson are the best examples of
those who ascribe to water-and-dirt determinism. Moreover, progressive
historians, presuming that one defines the term as a historian who belongs to a
school of thought, are interested more in the common man than in the great
leaders; they are more likely to examine the writings of J. P. Martin than of
George Washington. They are in fact the predecessors of today’s social
historians. This focus is consistent with a great-forces-over-great-men
deterministic view, inasmuch as “the will of the people” becomes a great
force akin to rivers and towns. But the last common factor is perhaps the most
important: progressive historians are generally in agreement that the war was a
true revolution, and their meaning of the word transcends the mere throwing-off
of “British tyranny” that so enthralled writers like George Bancroft and
Mercy Otis Warren. This last factor brings the second part of the conclusions,
which is more important than the first part. The argument that the war was a
revolution is essentially universal among the progressives; that is, it is
universal among those who took “progressive” world-views as they wrote. But
the flip side of revolution is consensus. Turner, Becker, Jameson, et al. argue
that the war was fought for, or at least caused, greater democracy in the
colonies. This may be true; that is, wars tend to cause the end of Old Orders
and ancient regimes, but that is hardly a singular thing to say about the
American Revolution. All of our wars have caused some sort or other of
significant social change and reform. The argument that is to be brought forward
is this: in being “revolutionary,” the colonists demonstrated a sort of
consensus thinking. If they wanted greater democracy, that was not really change
so much as it was an affirmation of the existing order. Those who gained votes
and other social privileges were saying, in effect, “The existing order is
pretty good; it is so good in fact that I want a greater role in it. I want a
bigger piece of it.” These were no sans-culottes cutting off the heads of
kings and aristocrats as the Frenchmen did in their frenzied Terror. No; these
were Englishmen who desired home rule, who at first sought to preserve local
autonomy and loyalty to the King, not to Parliament; and it was only later that
they slipped into the position of demanding sovereignty. The second half of the
rebuttal to the thesis that states that the war was a revolution because of the
change it wrought is this: since all of the wars the United States has fought
have yielded dramatic social and political change, then they must all be
revolutionary. The World Wars, Korea and Vietnam, the American Civil War: all
were revolutions in this context. But then the term begins to lose its meaning
to a sort of rhetorical inflation, just as what were once bit players in
Hollywood are now listed as “stars,” and what were once “stars” are now
“superstars.” (What’s next, novas, and supernovas?) To put it another way,
if the wars were all revolutionary, then none of them were. This brings back
Turner’s statement quoted at the beginning of this paper. What he said in 1920
could easily have been said a few years after the end of the Vietnam War. Or it
could just as easily be said today, with reference to the upheavals being caused
by the Information Revolution. What of the events in Eastern Europe and their
consequences in the United States as the realization hits that the Cold War
appears to be over? What the colonists sought was control that they had already
been accustomed to having. Parliament was not in the colonists’ “chain of
command” in 1700, and for the House of Commons to attempt to place itself
there was seen as a loss to the colonists. It was change that they resisted, not
what they sought; they largely felt that they were resisting an invasion of
their political birthright, not that they were breaking bold new political
ground. It would therefore be very easy to argue that the war was fought as a
reactionary response, not as a radical one. And, as the businessmen like to say,
“The bottom line is the bottom line.” The bottom line, in this case, is
this: classwise, those who ruled in 1770 ruled in 1790; the Parliament, a
bicameral legislature, was replaced by the Congress, itself a bicameral
legislature; the King was replaced by a President, who could very easily have
ruled for life, setting a tradition that the head-of-state-for-life would be
chosen without the benefit of heredity. There is more, of course: only
propertied white males had the vote, both before and after the war; the end of
slavery was not exactly accelerated by the war, though there were a few
(relatively minor) gains for blacks; the economic system was not changed, nor
was the class structure, except to forbid a nobility that in any case did not
truly exist in the colonies before the war. Perhaps Richard Hofstadter put it
best in his statement regarding progressive historians in 1968: “Since the
time of the Bolshevik Revolution, it has been hard for most Americans, and
especially those who make our world policies, to recapture the memory of the
early United States, Constitution and all, as a revolutionary force” (Hofstadter,
284). There is certainly much validity to Hofstadter’s view. Perhaps we cold
warriors are ourselves cauterized to the sensitivity of the progressive
historians. It is when one examines the period in which the progressive
historians wrote that the most sense is made of their work. Historiography is
nought if it is not a reflection of the times that spawned it. Just as the
Progressives were involved in a movement to improve the lot of the common man in
a time of technological change, so did the progressive historians see the
fighters of the Revolution as fighters for the lot of the common man. And in
just the same way, as the new country was first forging its nationalistic unity,
did George Bancroft see the war as a virtuous, nationalistic struggle. And
likewise did Charles Beard, the erstwhile firebrand, see the Constitution in a
different light in 1944, when democratic governments were only just beginning to
win the first round in a deadly fight for their lives, than he did in 1913, the
last year in which Civilization was spelled with a capital “C.” Could Beard
have seen the war and its resulting constitution in any other light than the
light in which the horrors of World War I were viewed in the 1920s and 1930s,
that economic “special interests” held all the cards and manipulated the
rest of us like so many puppets, making us fight and slaughter one another on a
whim designed to make them still more money? Historical literature is a
reflection of the contemporary events of its writers. When one strips away the
influence of the times that colored the views of the writers discussed in this
report, one must conclude by looking at the results that the war was one for
independence, not a true revolution. Voltaire was right on target when he said
that there are truths that are not for all men, nor for all times.

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