1707 And All That

In the midst of a futile* call for partisans on either side of Scotland’s great constitutional debate to avoid twisting history for their own ends, Professor Richard Finlay and Dr Alison Cathcart write:

One feature of a mature democracy is the respect it accords to its past, which means accepting it in its entirety, warts and all. There are good points and bad points in all national histories and accepting both is vital to avoiding the pitfalls of narrow, triumphalist chauvinism or debilitating defeatism. Neither of which is healthy. One of the problems of using history to make the case for or against the Union is that it tends to polarise the debate towards these extremes. What often happens is that we throw our political prejudices back into the past where they do not belong. It can be illustrated by the following simple example.

You never hear a nationalist making the case that the Treaty of Union was a good thing when it happened, but it has now run its useful course. It is also extremely unlikely to hear a Unionist claim that the Union was a betrayal of the Scottish people in 1707, but it turned out for the best in the long run. Both are equally valid propositions, but their rarity is simply a reflection of the widespread belief that the greater the historical continuity, the greater the validity of the argument.

Emphasis added. And added because, actually, these propositions are the foundation stones of many of the arguments we maun endure. Alex Salmond’s argument for independence is built upon the idea that, whatever its past glories, the Union has ceased to be of much practical use to Scotland. You may disagree with this analysis but the better, that is the more intelligent and, not coincidentally, the generous type of nationalist does not waste time arguing about 1707. On the contrary he or she acknowledges the benefits Scotland has accrued from the Union before observing that the absence of external threats and the retreat from Empire leave the Union a poorer, shabbier thing that no longer offers Scotland the opportunities it once did.

Doing so avoids ensures that Scottish nationalism is more than refreshed Jacobitism. Tactically, or rhetorically, it concedes that Unionism has a distinguished history which is neither shameful nor traitorous. It is an inclusive approach acknowledging what most Scots know to be the case: this is not some impoverished, subjugated, colonised land. That dealt with, it is time to move on and make a fresh appraisal of the national interest. In this respect or framed in this manner Scottish nationalism avoids blood and soil resentments and self-pity and becomes instead a rare beast indeed: a kind of technocratic nationalism.

Conversely, sensible Unionists can concede that something was lost in 1707, summed up by the old song How Can I Be Sad On My Wedding Day? This, if you like, is the Sir Walter Scott school of Unionism. It admits the validity of the nationalist perspective while stressing that time and culture and custom have worked their way into the national marrow to such an extent that the advantages of independence are outweighed by what would be lost. Paradoxically perhaps, it is Unionism that stresses the importance of history and, perhaps, a certain romantic view of history. In that vein, it is Unionism that might appeal to the Brotherhood of Man, stressing that if the Scots and English cannot live in united harmony what hope can there be for the rest of mankind?

This does not mean Unionism cannot offer its own balance sheet of profits and losses, merely that it is not enough to win the argument. Few people wish to be trapped in a marriage built on accountancy but divorce is also a messy, painful business that’s generally more difficult than is thought.

Each of these arguments has the benefit of conceding that the opposing view is both respectable and deserving respect. It permits a conversation that is, for the most part, civilised and generous. Indeed, that is what we see happening. Despite occasional rancour and the native talent for furious disputation the most striking aspect of Scotland’s constitutional wrangling is how peaceable it all is. That stems, I suspect, from an awareness, always implied if not always acknowledged publicly, that the country’s story is long and complicated in which there are few clear-cut winners or losers. In short, it has rarely, if ever, been a zero sum game. Which is also why, however this argument ends, even victory will be tinged with a measure of melancholy.