Where Have You Gone, Daniel Webster? The Demise of Public Debate

Public debates aren't what they used to be. Sure, there are the quadrennial presidential contests, when sweaty-palmed presidential candidates briefly venture out from behind their teleprompters to recite a few focus-group-approved talking points in an effort to convince the American public that they have at least a superficial grasp on the issues of the day. But the art of the debate has become to politics what professional boxing has become to sports. The masters of the craft are no longer household names, and the newspapers no longer hype the next big contest. And with the demise of the debate, we have lost something.

Arguing is surely as old as language itself, but public debate had a renaissance in eighteenth-century London. By the end of that century, debates had moved from the pubs to become regular and popular stand-alone spectacles. Clubs that hosted debates couldn't keep up with demand. In 1780, when the craze was at its height, one prominent debate society drew audiences of 800 to 1200 per night and another let in 700 before it started turning people away. People craved seeing debaters tussle over topics that ranged from the grave--the American Revolution, for one--to the frivolous--like whether it was worse to be an effeminate man or a masculine woman. (There was a fixation on gender issues in 1780. Debates were held that year on whether it was possible for men and women to be platonic friends, whether it was acceptable for women to make first advances, and whether "seduction of the fair, with an intention to desert, is under all circumstances worse than murder." Late that year polygamy became a hot issue after Dr. Martin Madan published a book advocating it as a way to save women from ruin.)

For those who had the gift, debates were a chance for social unequals to spar on a level playing field. If you were a skilled orator, you were a valuable commodity whether you hailed from the upper crust of society or the artisan class. Even women found a venue to show off their oft-suppressed intellects. One observer begrudgingly conceded after watching women debate that "with all the disadvantages of education which the fair sex labour under, how infinitely superior those who are formed by nature to excite the tender passions, are to excite every other." Indeed, anyone who could afford the modest price of admission could get in on the action, since the format of debates allowed audience members a turn to stand and speak.

Not everyone welcomed the new sensation. "We are in danger," wrote one Londoner to a local paper, "of dying a Nation of Orators." Upper crust Englishmen were apparently threatened by a vice--the class and gender-piercing aspect of public debates--that modern Americans would see as a virtue. Unfortunately, the aristocrats ultimately had their way. After the French Revolution broke out, debate societies were increasingly viewed as hotbeds of sedition. The government forced, intimidated and--in some cases--heckled the debate societies into closure before eventually banning them altogether in the 1790s.

America, where free speech is constitutionally-protected, provided a more habitable environment for public debate, and Americans had a ravenous appetite for it. In 1830, when Daniel Webster and Robert Hayne faced off in the United States Senate to debate a bill that would have had the federal government study the issue of western land sales, it was nationwide headline news. Webster's performance, which is commonly referred to as the most brilliant in the history of Congress, immortalized him. Abraham Lincoln similarly garnered national fame when he debated Stephen Douglas in 1858 even though the two were competing for a senate seat that would be decided by only a handful of Illinois legislators. The tradition carried into the twentieth century. In 1920, Samuel Gompers and Henry Allen faced off in Carnegie Hall for a debate on labor laws. The event drew so many people that the fire codes had to be relaxed to accommodate the standing room audience.

Debates were a mix of education and entertainment. Their appeal was often less about the topics for discussion and more about the wit or eloquence of the personalities on the stage. Daniel Webster was phenomenally eloquent. Abraham Lincoln was hilarious (when Douglas accused Lincoln of being two-faced, Lincoln, poking fun at his own homeliness, replied, "If I had another face, do you think I'd wear this one?"). Debates were chances to see the best debaters--household names--test their wits against one another.

Not surprisingly, young American boys aspired--or, at least, were encouraged--to become the cultural icons that were America's great debaters. In the early twentieth century, Mormon youth groups included debate exercises as part of their regular curriculum. That was hardly new. Henry David Thoreau, was a member of the Concord Academic Debating Society, a club that produced such luminaries as U.S. Attorney General Ebeneezer Rockwood Hoar, and William Whiting, a legal advisor to Abraham Lincoln. Debate at the Concord Academic Debating Society was serious business. The club had a constitution and bylaws which strictly required members to come prepared to each meeting--a boy who missed a meeting was required to buy lamp oil for the next two sessions. Thoreau, for his part, did not make a favorable impression. On November 5, 1829 the club's secretary wrote, "The affirmative disputant [Thoreau], through negligence, had prepared nothing for debate, and the negative, not much more. . . . Such a debate, if it may be called so, as we have had this evening, I hope never again will be witnessed in this house, or recorded in this book.  It is not only a waste of time, but of paper to record such proceedings of wood and oil." Biting critique from a 12-year-old.

At some point in the twentieth century, public debate stopped being such a fixture of American culture. Perhaps Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini gave a sinister pallor to rousing oratory or, like so many other mediums, public speaking simply got too boring for the evolving American attention spans. Whatever the reason, great debaters stopped being household names (just ask anyone on the street to say who they think are the country's best three public speakers). Boys no longer aspire to be the next Daniel Webster, courageously risking public humiliation to defend a righteous cause. Debate has been mostly relegated to the four-year spectacle of presidential races (a relatively new tradition), third-fiddle extracurricular activities, and sports talk shows.

It's a shame, because Americans need public debate more than ever. We live in a world of echo chambers, where we can selectively engage with only the people, media outlets, and facts that soothe our sensibilities. At their best, debates could promote respect between people of differing viewpoints by bringing a sportsman's ethic to our arguments. At the very least, they would require Americans to listen to opposing viewpoints intently, even if for no other reason than to craft a powerful counterargument because the best debaters are those who know their opponent's position as thoroughly as their own.

Debates rarely change minds, of course, but they refine them. Debate is the crucible in which untenable arguments burn away, leaving an opinion that is more thoughtful and well-reasoned. Both the audience and the participants reap the benefits of public debate. Debaters, after all, are mere proxies. They fight a battle that we would fight on our own, if only we were endowed with their intelligence and gift for public speaking. I for one, would like to see how my opinions would fare if entrusted to an able debater.

Alas, America doesn't seem to be on the verge of another renaissance of public debate. It used to be that debates were places where obscure names like Lincoln and Webster became famous. Today they have become places where political aspirations stall (just ask Rick Perry). Stepping out from behind a teleprompter is a high-risk, low-reward proposition.

It's a shame, because there would be a large demand for a debate between the right personalities. Just imagine Wayne LaPierre and Barack Obama on gun control, Bernie Sanders and Paul Ryan on entitlement reform, or Rush Limbaugh and Bill Maher on anything. It could be the prime-time live event that major networks are starving for. All it will take is for a couple of brave souls to risk public humiliation for a cause they believe in.
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For another perspective: 

I'm not the first one to lament the decline in the quality of debates. In 1869, one commentator also longed for the good old days of Daniel Webster in The American Law Register.  He attributed the poor quality of debate in the U.S. Congress to the new custom of reading speeches.

But we refer especially, as a contrast with the British Parliament, to the almost universal practice in the American Congress of reading, verbatim et literatim, written and sometimes printed speeches. The practice of reading written essays of interminable length and invincible stupidity has come to such a pass in Congress, that for some years it has been customary to hold evening sessions, exclusively devoted to reading speeches. Nobody attends these sessions except the readers and their hired attendants! mere essays, so to speak, as void of the spirit and fire of eloquence, as a philosophical thesis.

So I'm not the first one to complain that debates have gotten boring. The entire article is available on JSTOR.

Further reading:

There is a program that regularly airs public policy debates, "Intelligence Squared." The few programs that I have had a chance to listen to haven't exactly been enthralling, but it's something.