The March of the Bully

‘ITS mystery is its life,” said Walter Bagehot, the great English constitutionalist (and editor of a 19th century publication called The National Review). “We must not let daylight in upon magic.” He was speaking of the British monarchy, but the thesis applies to ostensibly less mysterious, more rational institutions, too. Every political system depends on a certain amount of deference, humility, modesty, even suspension of disbelief. If you’re determined to contest the election, precinct by precinct, chad by chad, down the Yellow Brick Road until the Emerald City Circuit Court agrees to pull back the curtain on the Presidency of Oz, don’t be surprised to find there’s nothing but a rusting Votamatic and Broward County Commissioner Suzanne Gunzburger hunting for dimples amidst a sea of battered chads.

The fight to the death in the chadlands of Florida has prompted a huge amount of sneering in the Old World. “It couldn’t happen here,” they scoff. Of course not. In Britain and most other countries, there’d be nothing to talk about: The local equivalents of Dade and Broward need not disturb Tony Blair’s slumbers. If Gwent or Avon bothers him, why, he can abolish them—as Tory prime minister Ted Heath did to a slew of British counties in 1974. In Britain and Canada, power is vested in the Crown and graciously leased down in ever more sparing amounts; in America, power originates in “We, the People,” and is delegated to various government bodies. Most European states are so centralized they literally cannot comprehend federalism. Oh, sure, they hear vague stories of tourists in the New World crossing a county line and being tossed in jail because some crackpot jurisdiction has a law prohibiting visible nasal hair on weekends. But they assume this is just some flimflam around the edges, and they’re understandably baffled when they see a presidential Gulliver tied up by Lilliputian county election supervisors. In an odd way, I find the latter spectacle immensely heartening: It expresses a profound truth about the differences between the American system and those prevailing almost everywhere else.

About the Author

Mark Steyn

Mark Steyn is an international bestselling author, a Top 41 recording artist, and a leading Canadian human-rights activist.

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‘ITS mystery is its life,” said Walter Bagehot, the great English constitutionalist (and editor of a 19th century publication called The National Review). “We must not let daylight in upon magic.” He was speaking of the British monarchy, but the thesis applies to ostensibly less mysterious, more rational institutions, too. Every political system depends on a certain amount of deference, humility, modesty, even suspension of disbelief. If you’re determined to contest the election, precinct by precinct, chad by chad, down the Yellow Brick Road until the Emerald City Circuit Court agrees to pull back the curtain on the Presidency of Oz, don’t be surprised to find there’s nothing but a rusting Votamatic and Broward County Commissioner Suzanne Gunzburger hunting for dimples amidst a sea of battered chads.

The fight to the death in the chadlands of Florida has prompted a huge amount of sneering in the Old World. “It couldn’t happen here,” they scoff. Of course not. In Britain and most other countries, there’d be nothing to talk about: The local equivalents of Dade and Broward need not disturb Tony Blair’s slumbers. If Gwent or Avon bothers him, why, he can abolish them—as Tory prime minister Ted Heath did to a slew of British counties in 1974. In Britain and Canada, power is vested in the Crown and graciously leased down in ever more sparing amounts; in America, power originates in “We, the People,” and is delegated to various government bodies. Most European states are so centralized they literally cannot comprehend federalism. Oh, sure, they hear vague stories of tourists in the New World crossing a county line and being tossed in jail because some crackpot jurisdiction has a law prohibiting visible nasal hair on weekends. But they assume this is just some flimflam around the edges, and they’re understandably baffled when they see a presidential Gulliver tied up by Lilliputian county election supervisors. In an odd way, I find the latter spectacle immensely heartening: It expresses a profound truth about the differences between the American system and those prevailing almost everywhere else.