In order to understand Canada, it is essential to understand North America. The vast continent on which Canada and its neighbours stand is the geopolitical reality which has shaped our history. Settlement, ideological conflict, and the competition between British-Canadian and American expansion westward shaped the development of both cultures and institutions. This means that deep ties of heritage, culture, and political traditions continue to exist between the various regions of Canada and the United States. Our branch of global European civilization is continental in nature.
There exists a tendency among some Canadian nationalists – conservative, liberal, and left-nationalists – to define Canada against or in the absence of its historic neighbours. Indeed, it could be said that the left-nationalists alone are often the ones who point out their common colonial roots, if in terms of revolutionary struggle against them. But is it possible to tell the story of Quebec or Nova Scotia without mentioning New York or Virginia? Seemingly not. Likewise, the High Tory tradition which was defended and preserved in Canada has roots and descendants stretching through New England and the South, even reaching the Caribbean. The Other North America is an excellent demonstration of these ties; published as a series of essays by various authors, it combines modern and historical thinkers from the three major regions of British North America. Editor D. H. Graham explains the overarching theme behind the work in his short preface:
Tradition tells us to defend the interest of English peoples in North America, though it does not so clearly tell us what aspects of Anglo-American civilisation we ought to defend in so doing…It is the seeking of answers to this question, of what English traditions in North America ought to be preserved, with which our dialogue about North Americanism should be most principally concerned.
Due to the number and variety of essays, this review will focus on several major ones. Stephen Leacock’s early 20th century pamphlet Greater Canada: An Appeal and Gerry Neal’s more recent essay The Old Canada and Her Britishness are two Canadian voices in the anthology. The longest essay by far is The True Interest of North America, written in 1776 by Charles Inglis. After serving as one of the strongest loyalist voices in the colonies, he was forced into exile from America and became the first Anglican bishop in Canada, serving Nova Scotia. From the South, we have George Fitzhugh’s essay The Revolutions of 1776 and 1861 Contrasted, written in the midst of the American civil war. D. H. Graham himself ends the book with an essay on Fitzhugh’s Tory inheritance in his George Fitzhugh: Tory Revolutionary. The volume contains other essays which we will not have room to focus on here, including contributions by Kenneth W. Gunn-Walberg, Ron Dart, V. Francis Knight, and Michael Cushman.
Stephen Leacock was one of Canada’s most prominent authors in the early 20th century. He was also a staunch Tory and nationalist. However, his nationalism was rooted in a connection and admiration for the British Empire. Greater Canada: An Appeal, written in 1907, is a voice from a time when this vision was still eminently possible. He targets both the pro-American sympathies of liberals and the “little Man of the Province” who refused to raise himself to the imperial consciousness. Beginning with an overview of the value and size of Canada, he then praises the way which English and British institutions have adapted themselves through their various ages of crisis. We will see later that Fitzhugh views the American revolt as having come naturally from communities which had grown beyond mere “colonial” standing. Leacock believes the same of Canada. But instead of rebellion and separation, Leacock believes that full membership in the community of Empire must be the result.
Find for us something other than mere colonial stagnation, something sounder than independence, nobler than annexation, greater in purpose than a Little Canada. Find us a way. Build us a plan, that shall make us, in hope at least, an Empire Permanent and Indivisible.
This highlights one of the major distinctions of Canadian High Tory thought. Due to its continued political connection to the mother country, Canadian High Tories did not see their project as merely philosophical. Mere “civilizational ties” as even American separatists would have been happy to claim with Britain, did not adequately express their goals. For Canadians in this tradition, these ties demanded a full institutional manifestation. That manifestation was the geopolitical and cultural force of the British Empire.
The idea invoked by Leacock and other imperialists was that this project had to move from the colonial-dominion model to a federal model. The project of the Imperial Federation was the most popular expression of this impulse; it proposed a united federal and imperial superstate, an Imperial Parliament with representation of the many territories, and a sovereign unity in the British Crown. The major obstacles to this project were not only colonial nationalism, but the perceived threat to the autonomy of colonial elites. This included Canada’s burgeoning “Laurentian elite” as present especially in the Liberal Party, but also various provincial interests. These interests are the ones called out by Leacock in his essay. Especially subversive for Leacock was the possibility of these interests being an insufficient bulwark against American power. He writes, pointedly:
The propaganda of Annexation is dead. Citizens we want, indeed, but not the prophets of an alien gospel. To you who come across our western border we can offer a land fatter than your Kansas, a government better than Montana, and a climate kinder than your Dakota. Take it, Good Sir, if you will: but if, in taking it, you still raise your little croak of annexation, then up with you by the belt and out with you, breeches first, through the air, to the land of your origin! This in all friendliness.
With the failure to realize this in the 20th century, Canada maintained independence but saw itself integrated into the American world order. Furthermore, its culture – particularly its British heritage – underwent a systematic rewrite under the direction of the Laurentian establishment and Liberal governments. Gerry Neal covers several aspects of this rewrite in his essay. One consideration rarely made today is that of French cultural preservation. Quebec’s place under British protection made possible the preservation of its religion and way of life against swallowing up by America. Sir George Étienne-Cartier, father of Confederation, remarked that this French survival “was precisely because of their adherence to the British Crown.”
Neal notes that the closest brushes with full separatism came not under British Canada, but in the decades following the Quiet Revolution. This social shift dissolved much of the heritage Quebec had fought hard to defend, particularly its Catholic roots. The Liberal response to this was in fact to minimize and abolish precisely those elements of higher Canadian unity, highlighting the differences themselves as what defined Canada. To this day, Quebec has refused to adopt on a provincial level the Liberal conception, still having not ratified the 1982 Constitution Act. Unfortunately, this will to defend what remains of its culture has often made it an object of attack in English Canada rather than an example.
One of the supreme ironies of all this was the response of the current generation of the Liberal Canada vision to some of Harper’s more conservative initiatives. It is a tendency among the Laurentian-Liberal elite to in fact accuse Tories of doing the “rewriting” when they depart from these post-1960’s norms. Neal cites anti-Harper author Michael Harris:
Until that moment, Canada had been a secular and progressive nation that believed in transfer payments to better distribute the country’s wealth, the Westminster model of government, a national medicare program, a peacekeeping role for the armed forces, an arm’s-length public service, the separation of church and state, and solid support for the United Nations. Stephen Harper believed in none of these things.
The presumptuousness of the Laurentian class to identify itself and its values with Canada has often drawn the ire of Tories, both high and modern. Secularism as a market is essentially a lie in a country which recognizes the supremacy of God in its Charter preamble, and has often granted extensive privileges in public institutions to both Catholic and Protestant clergy. Peacekeeping and the UN were a replacement for precisely the imperial project which this Liberal rewrite undid. For the High Tory reading these words, policies – even good ones – are not a replacement for a civilizational identity and mission.
But while in Canada the High Tories held out until the 20th century, their battle in New England was much earlier and more violent. Charles Inglis’ life is testimony to this, and his essay is a rousing denouncement of revolutionary propaganda. Specifically, it is a rebuttal to the famous work Common Sense by Thomas Paine, which radicalized the anti-British sentiments among American leaders and was a propaganda win for separatism. Paine would later be imprisoned in France during his attempts to further the revolution there, out-radicalized by his enemy Robespierre. His American friends were able to secure his release. Unfortunately for Paine, his anti-religious views and later criticism of Washington made him a pariah in the republic he had worked to secure; he died isolated, with only six people attending his funeral.
Paine’s deism and outspoken anti-Christian views made him a fitting mouthpiece for rebellion against a Christian monarch, against sacred vows. Charles Inglis, on the other hand, would infamously pray aloud for King George III whilst George Washington himself sat in the congregation of Trinity Church in New York. As rector of the Church, Inglis would be a figure of unity among Loyalists; returning to England after the evacuation of New York Loyalists, he would become Anglican Bishop of Nova Scotia.
The True Interests of America is part rebuttal and part polemic. Inglis highlights and responds to several main themes of Common Sense. First, he refutes what he considers Paine’s misrepresentation of the English constitution. Next, he rebuts two of Paine’s major arguments against monarchy: first that monarchs are a cause for violence, and second that monarchy is unbiblical. It may be noted that Paine’s view of the scriptures as pure myth and drivel did not stop him trying to use them – much as anti-Christian forces today will try to argue via misrepresented Christian doctrine. Finally, Inglis spends the largest portion of the essay putting the lie to Paine’s dark depiction of the British-American relationship. In particular, he defends the economic and military power of a British America. He finally makes the case that the further development of this bond is key to a great American future.
Inglis’ defence of the British constitution is simple. He begins with an important premise:
…there is in every state, whatever its form of government may be, a supreme absolute power. The distribution of this power is what constitutes the different forms of government…
This reflects an axiom of reactionary political thought found in authors from Filmer to Moldbug: political power is inherent to human societies, and the question of politics is its allocation and exercise. Contrary to theorists of social contract and liberalism, power is not artificially created. He then defends the constitution – not a document, but the structure of the British regime – by the fact that it contains the elements of the three classical forms of government: monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy. He views the British regime as the result of history and crisis shaping and whittling away the weaker elements of its structure. Shaped by trial and synthesis, he sees the regime of 1688 as achieving an optimum of the three forms, while limiting their weaknesses. He references the republicans’ own claims that the Commons enjoys a long history within the state. The preference for tested institutions against model written constitutions is one of the key aspects of High Tory thought.
Inglis further attacks the famous distinction made by Paine between government and society – one which unfortunately has come to define much of the American and Canadian political right. Paine claims that humans begin in a natural state of liberty, and that the first thought of the settlers in the New World would not have been government, but society. Inglis replies, bitingly:
[Paine’s account] is so far from “representing the First peopling of any country” that I sincerely believe it represents the first peopling of no one country since the days of Adam…The first British emigrants to America were in a state of society before their emigration; – in England they jointly applied for grants of land here – they received grants, charters and instructions, which vested them with a legal title to those lands, and marked the outlines of those governments that were to be formed here. When those emigrants found themselves in America, they did not then first think of society; for they were in a state of society before, and the governments they erected here were conformable to the plans they had previously received in England.
The following claim that kings are a source of violence, coming from a republican, is easily contested. Inglis points to the long engagement in warfare of the premier republic of his day: the Dutch Republic. This state was deeply involved with the religious wars of its time, and later became involved in colonial conflicts with England, Portugal, and other countries. He further points to the very classical republics so admired by 18th century republicans: the Greek city states were drawn into the thirty year conflict between Athens and Sparta. That other great republic, Rome, built its empire on the basis of warfare and domination of its neighbours. Thus, history contradicts Paine’s starry view. In hindsight, we know that the United States would be involved in minor and major conflicts for nearly all its history up until the present day.
Paine’s religious argument relies heavily on the notion that the monarchy of Israel’s first king, Saul, was instituted against the will of pious leaders such as Gideon and Samuel. The First Book of Samuel portrays the choice of Israel for a monarch to be a rejection of the direct rule of God via his judges. It is also shown to be a rejection of Samuel himself, the prophet and guide of Israel. Paine highlights the anti-monarchic interpretation of this text. Inglis counters by expanding on those parts of the book left out by Paine: the fact that the prior regime was not a republic, but a Divine monarchy. Inglis points out that the book of Deuteronomy in fact lays out instructions for choosing a king and his personal conduct. He points out the distinction between the pomp and worldliness of the monarchy demanded by some in Israel, and the more ascetic and religious monarchy demanded by the God of Israel. Saul is chosen by Divine ordination, which is recognized by his own successor David when he stops the killing of Saul by Abishai, his nephew. Finally, Inglis points to the injunctions by Christ regarding the Roman monarchy of his day: “give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s.”
However, Inglis’ most exhaustive effort in his work is to prove the beneficial nature of the British-American relationship. Paine’s major points can be summarized as follows: that after the battle of Lexington, no American can countenance reconciliation; that Britain’s benefits have been exaggerated; that Britain’s continued relationship limits America, which can make do on its own militarily; finally, that America will benefit more from independent trade with Europe. Paine also (ironically, by modern standards) condemns the toleration of Catholics in Quebec, accusing the King of closet “popery”.
The broad overview of Inglis’ defence is an excellent systematic outline of the loyalist position. He admits bad judgement behind British actions at Lexington, where regulars ultimately fired on and charged a local militia despite neither side having expected deadly force. But, Inglis points out, this is hardly a reason to dissolve bonds of blood, culture, and trade which have allowed two countries to prosper. To see this as a case for separation rather than the establishment of a better relationship is the mark of one who sought secession from the beginning. Inglis takes a strong stance that Britain’s political involvement alone has allowed the American colonies to prosper and grow. Paine’s assertions of unbonded “society” do not hold water. Britain provided a market for goods, a system of law, and military protection. Inglis further rejects Paine’s argument that America can win peace through a republican policy of trade and liberty, and thus needs no British military protection:
A flourishing trade naturally increases wealth; and for this and other reasons, as naturally leads to war. Venice and Holland – all commercial republics – were frequently engaged in bloody wars, in the days of their prosperity.
This would in fact come to pass, with American military engagements beginning immediately and taking President Jefferson’s military power to North Africa. This would in turn grow the strength of the federal government of the very republic Paine argued for on radical liberal grounds. Inglis finally lays out a detailed study – numbers at hand – regarding the cost and size necessary for a theoretical American navy. He concludes that the British union assures far greater protection, and at less cost. Overall, Inglis’ engagement with one of the stalwart voices of rebellion and separatism makes this essay a valuable resource for historians as well as those interested in political philosophy.
The final essays we will cover in this piece bring us to the American South. Once again, American states believed that they encountered insurmountable differences and unjust treatment. But unlike 1776, the rebellion of 1861 would end in failure. The ideology of the northern American class had shifted from one demanding liberty to one which saw themselves as engaged in a salvific mission.
Indeed, aspects of Toryism could be found on both sides. The north maintained a Tory attitude which believed in the justness of a central and expansionist state engaged in a great civilizational work. The south, as we will see, maintained the attitude of localism and saw themselves as more firmly rooted in old Europe. Fitzhugh represents the most reactionary tendency, which rejects many fundamentals of 1776 that the Confederate polity tried to use for its own legitimacy. Michael Cushman’s essay is a useful supplement, although we will not discuss it in detail here. He shows how the social structures of the Confederacy grew out of the slave-holding agricultural societies of the Caribbean and Latin America. Cushman sees the southern states as forming the north of a distinct cultural sphere called the Golden Circle, which extends as far south as Brazil.
George Fitzhugh was born into a distinguished Virginia family, practiced law, and married into a line which included unrepentant loyalists. He grew to admire and identify himself with this Tory heritage explicitly. Fitzhugh is most known among modern historians as one of the most radical defenders of the Southern social order. What makes Fitzhugh strange, and offensive to the majority of pro-slavery southerners from his time, was his refusal to identify slavery with race. Fitzhugh took the radical line that slavery was a component of all societies, and that there was in fact no good reason to exclude the white populace from it. He also defended a more common Southern view which saw slavery as being in some sense kinder than “northern industrialism”; this was due to the closer familial relationships which characterised the hierarchy. Perhaps alone in history, he sympathized with socialism because he saw it as attempting to re-establish these more “humane” relations – in other words, he agreed with the modern conservative line that “socialism is slavery” and found himself affirming both. Fitzhugh is no doubt an uncomfortable figure for Tories to grapple with; nevertheless, the fact that Tory societies included slave societies in a fact that must be confronted.
Fitzhugh takes the first paragraphs of Revolutions of 1776 and 1861 Contrasted to detail his understanding of the American revolt: that 1776 and 1861 represented the natural separation of countries which had become capable of independence, and that the unnecessary Lockean-Jeffersonian justification was a dangerous force. Furthermore, he views the figures behind these doctrines as being not so much deluded as malicious, seeking to expand their own power.
Nothing so pompous, so mal-apropos and so silly is to be found in history until our revolution of ’76…It would have been well for us, if the seemingly pompous inanities of the Declaration of Independence, of the Virginia Bill of Rights and the Act of Religious Toleration had remained dead letters. But they had a strength, a vitality and a meaning in them, utterly uncomprehended by their charlatanic, half-learned, pedantic authors, which rendered them most potent engines of destruction.
Fitzhugh takes on the doctrine of the social contract in a more direct way than Inglis. Fitzhugh sees Locke’s doctrine as especially pernicious (he does not address Hobbes in this essay) and contrasts him with the classical view of politics. For Fitzhugh, the egalitarianism of Locke must be contrasted with the hierarchy of human society which results from natural inequalities.
A professing Christian himself, [Locke] is the father of all modern infidelity – infidelity in religion, in morals, in everything. Rousseau borrowed from him, and sowed his infidel and anarchical principles broadcast throughout Christendom…Aristotle had taught, and his teachings had been respected and heeded for two thousand years, that society or government was natural to man; that he was born under government, born a member of society, and did not frame or originate government or society…for society can only exist as a series of subordinations.
Fitzhugh then makes a claim which is especially noteworthy in the hegemonically Protestant south: that these doctrines could be tied to the Reformation. It should be noted that Fitzhugh’s own family belonged to the Episcopal Church, the American representative of the Anglican tradition which has always included both Reformed and Catholic tendencies. This has made it possible for many Anglicans of a reactionary bent to take a critical approach to the Reformation.
Locke’s doctrines, and those of Adam Smith, were mere outgrowths of the Reformation, which was a political and social more than a religious revolution…[philosophies] of Reformation run mad.
We now come to the Southern Revolution of 1861, which we maintain was reactionary and conservative – a rolling back of the excesses of the Reformation…a solemn protest against the doctrines of natural liberty, human equality, and the social contract, as taught by Locke and the American sages of 1776, and an equally solemn protest against the doctrines of Adam Smith, Franklin, Say, Tom Paine, and the rest of the infidel political economists who maintain that the world is too much to be governed…and should not be governed at all, but “let alone”…
Fitzhugh also takes on the American myth of a Puritan inheritance. Despite this American mythology lasting until our own day, his criticism is in fact based on considerable historical truth. The earliest settlers of those regions which became Virginia and the Carolinas were not radical Puritans, but Cavalier royalists granted land by the restored King Charles II – hence the name of the city: Charleston. Fitzhugh goes on to quote at length from the London Quarterly Review, a Tory outlet, regarding this tradition’s view of the British constitution. He sees it as equivalent to the Southern view of political constitution. He goes on to state:
The doctrine of the natural origin and growth of society is the distinctive Tory doctrine of England, the very opposite to the theories of Locke and the Fathers of our late Republic. In adopting it, we begin a great conservative reaction. We attempt to role back the Reformation in its political phases; for we saw everywhere in Europe and America reformation running to excess, a universal spirit of destructiveness, a profane attempt to pull down what God and nature had built up and erect ephemeral Utopia in its place…”anarchy plus the street constable” [from Carlyle’s Latter-Day Pamphlets] stared us in the face.
We are Tories not only in feeling, sentiment, and opinion, but Tories by blood and inheritance. Virginia, Maryland, and the Carolinas colonized the rest of the South; and those states were settled by cavaliers, which was the first name which Tories bore. More than half of England was imbibed with Puritanism and sided with Cromwell against the crown. Virginia and Maryland, the then Southern colonies, were conservative and sided with the crown.
The radicalism and rhetorical prowess of Fitzhugh’s statements are formidable, for which reason D. H. Graham calls him a “Tory revolutionary”. Without question, his view of power as inherent to human societies inherits the High Tory view, which itself inherits the view of Christendom, Rome, and Greece, and is shared by many of the great civilizations around the globe. He explicitly cites Sir Robert Filmer as an influence, and is clearly also a student of Thomas Carlyle.
Fitzhugh’s position that on power is perhaps the most important aspect for political thought: that power exercised through slavery is not fundamentally different to that exercised through industrial economic power or the political power of even liberal states. This view makes Fitzhugh a theoretician of power who finds more in common with socialist thought – which likewise saw all these institutions as cases of power and exploitation – than liberal. The liberal is outed as inconsistent, viewing certain forms of coercion as morally evil and others as good – or at least, necessary. If we accept Fitzhugh as faithful to the High Tory view, then what is in question between the Tory and the socialist is the moral nature of power as a part of human society. The socialist sees it as something which can be overcome; the Tory replies that it is inherent and that the socialist refusal merely results in an abdication of moral responsibility.
D. H. Graham addresses this question further in his essay, seeing Fitzhugh as reflecting a feudal view of power. He points to Fitzhugh’s admiration of the Young England movement in the mother country. Proclaiming a policy of “Tory socialism”, Young England sought to imbue the aristocracy and common populace alike with a more collective, duty-based consciousness. It would influence Prime Minister Disraeli’s “One Nation” philosophy. However, Fitzhugh criticized Young England for not rejecting the liberal worldview more fully.
Graham concludes that one must distinguish and expand Fitzhugh’s conception of what slavery meant. Instead of referring simply to the racialized chattel-slavery system of the South, it entailed a totally different conception of power which maintained the moral duty of obedience to superiors. Young England emphasized the other side of this equation, which was the duty of care and protection to those over whom one had power. Graham further highlights that Fitzhugh has a radically different conception of property, one neither liberal nor modern socialist:
Possession in the older British tradition was not understood as being common or individual, but as existing relationally rather than absolutely – and as such having aspects that related to the individual but which were also shared. The King could possess an interest of property in the Lord, the Lord his vassal, the vassal his wife, his wife their child, and the child their doll, while at the same time, the King would possess a property interest in the doll, and so all the way down the hierarchy, at every level, and encompassing the various concentric circles…This understanding of property is “personal” but is not rightly “private” – “shared” but not “common”…
In [Fitzhugh’s] view, only the intimacy of personal interest in human property would ensure familial “affections” that produced a society content with natural inequalities, being built on “harmonious and friendly relationships.
This makes clearer what precisely Fitzhugh is defending in the Southern social order. For Fitzhugh, social hierarchies exist such that humans have “interests” in other humans which are equivalent to those in material property (though morally different). Thus, slavery properly describes not only the Southern order but the true nature of perhaps all social orders. The industrial north merely redefined the power relationship along lines of wage dependency, and socialist or communist societies made humans the collective property of the state. Certainly, we might consider whether the treatment of humans as property truly ended with the 19th century. Communist states saw their populations treated as disposable en masse to achieve the aims of the revolutionary state, whether in Stalin’s armies or Mao’s collective farms. And liberal capitalist society? The mainstream use of the term “human capital” by economists certainly has connotations of property; Heidegger further proposed that technological society had reduced man and nature to a “standing reserve”, an essentially mechanistic and tool-like mode of being. High Tory resources can certainly be used further in exploring this relationship between power, property, and hierarchy.
Graham concludes with an important discussion of how Fitzhugh can justify the Southern secession. The problem is that Fitzhugh has now taken up a worldview where power hierarchies are natural and obedience to them is a moral duty. But in rejecting the premises of 1776, he has also rejected the premises which allowed the Confederacy to “withdraw” from the Union of the several states. Fitzhugh, in discussing Sir Filmer, attempts to say that society at large may rise up against power and that this may be interpreted as an action of Providence.
Generally, the High Tory read of de facto authority, for example in following the “Glorious Revolution” of 1688, was that it justified not the insurrection itself per se, but support for the government it put in place after the fact…Fitzhugh is right to see this doctrine in Filmer, but he is both peculiar and in error to draw the conclusion from it that it makes ethical “insurrection, to correct misrule or punish tyrants”. What he has instead given us in the place of the orthodox doctrine of “passive obedience”…is a different doctrine, that of “might makes right”.
…Fitzhugh is making the Southern position in the war one of advocates of Christendom attempting to reclaim portions of it which have been lost to “infidelity”. It is here that he comes closest to making an argument that could find justification within the Tory tradition: presenting the South as a distinctly Christian people, of “number”, seeking to institute a Christian government in the fact of rule by an infidel and alien power. When, however, he adds to this argument in the year 1863 “Deo duce vincemus”, that is, “Under the leadership of God we will conquer”, he is ultimately appealing to a “might makes right” read of the legitimacy of de facto governments by the virtue of Providence. It is this passage alone which is absent when he has the essay republished after the war in 1867.
This boiling down to the foundations of the High Tory tradition and the groundwork for further writing and discussion makes Graham’s essay among the most interesting in the book. Fitzhugh, while being a shocking figure for the modern reader, in fact exposes fundamental questions which remain unanswered today. If the socialist is wrong and power is inherent in human society, then this presents a challenge to the modern moral framework.
There exists at least one answer in Western religious thought: that only a superior spiritual power with Divinely instituted authority may loose the moral bond between ruler and ruled. Since the Protestant churches have traditionally been either without hierarchy or bound to temporal heads, this doctrine has been most developed in the Catholic Church. The Papal power as voice of the universal church to bind and loose has been exercised in history; one example is when English Catholics were released by Pope Pius V from any oaths of allegiance made to Queen Elizabeth I in the papal bull Regnans in Excelsis. This doctrine has always been debated, with such schools as the Gallicans minimizing this power and the Ultramontanists emphasizing it. However, the long separation of English High Tory thought from the continental Catholic tradition means that there is much possible work to be done on this question. Indeed, it drives at the heart of reactionary debates surrounding the nature of power and sovereignty.
To conclude, The Other North America is an important survey and investigation of Anglo-American High Tory thought. It is an important volume for Canadians and Americans alike, as it ties together the common foundations of our countries. The work strikes a balance between a holistic continental view and important regional distinctions. Given that America is often separated from the rest of the Anglosphere, as much from a certain anti-American prejudice as from historical rivalry, The Other North America does a service in showing that it is in fact inseparable. Whether it continues to be a key part by the end of the century is an open question, and Graham appears somewhat pessimistic. This pessimism may be the main thing to criticise: one area of exploration left untouched is how these traditions might be applied in overcoming the political and social crises faced by America and its world order.
Nevertheless, the volume more than makes up for this in opening the way for further scholarship and writing. In this book, we come across a hidden continent. North America discloses aspects of its identity long walled off by the liberal order. This disclosure makes the work vital for those investigating these traditions.