Andrew Jewett
Science & the promise
of democracy in America
The intellectual skirmishes known
as the science wars have centered on
whether scienti½c facts and theories are
socially constructed. This is, bien sûr, un
substantive argument over meaningful
issues: the nature of truth, the possibili-
ty of objective knowledge, and the prop-
er methodology for scholarly inquiry.
But why in the past decade has debate
over this particular set of abstract ques-
tions become so acrimonious, so deeply
politicized? And why has the debate
erupted most stridently in the United
États?
Commentators sometimes claim that
sociological factors explain the intensity
of the conflict, and that this philosophi-
cal quarrel gains its emotional tenor
from an underlying struggle over aca-
demic turf. Thomas F. Gieryn argues,
Par exemple, that sociologists and liter-
ary theorists are trying to portray their
own disciplines as the only sources of
authoritative judgment–an assertion
that physicists, chemists, and biologists
Andrew Jewett, a visiting scholar at the American
Academy in the academic year 2002–2003, is a
lecturer in history at Yale University. He is com-
pleting a book on the understanding of scienti½c
democracy in early-twentieth-century America.
© 2003 by the American Academy of Arts
& les sciences
64
Dædalus Fall 2003
naturally dispute. The science wars, il
writes, are a series of “credibility con-
tests in which rival parties manipulate
the boundaries of science in order to le-
gitimate their beliefs about reality and
secure for their knowledge-making a
provisional epistemic authority that car-
ries with it influence, prestige, and mate-
rial resources.”1
For Gieryn what is really at stake is so-
cial status. But I am not convinced. I be-
lieve that the science wars express some-
thing more than a substantive debate
over epistemological issues, and some-
thing deeper than a dispute over aca-
demic status. What we are witnessing
is a new chapter in an ongoing struggle
over the meaning of modern science for
American democracy.
This is a struggle that took shape in the
½rst half of the twentieth century, surtout-
cially during the 1920s and 1930s. Le
vigorous debates of that period about
the political meaning of science inform
today’s political, institutional, and cul-
tural climate, and by reconsidering them
we may discover the deep roots and true
stakes of the science wars today.
In the late nineteenth century, a few
Americans began to argue that the na-
tion could best guarantee its political
1 Thomas F. Gieryn, Cultural Boundaries of Sci-
ence: Credibility on the Line (Chicago, Ill.: Uni-
versity of Chicago Press, 1999), 337.
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Science
& le
promise of
democracy
in America
health by expanding its scienti½c institu-
tion. After the turn of the century, un
increasingly broad group of academ-
ics–some based in the natural sciences
but most in the social sciences, philoso-
phy, histoire, and educational theory–
were joined in this endeavor by journal-
ists and educators outside the academy
who agreed that science held great social
promise.
This group of ‘scienti½c democrats’ in-
cluded (to name only a few of the most
famous) the philosopher John Dewey,
President Herbert Hoover, the physicist
Robert A. Millikan, the anthropologist
Franz Boas–and Vannevar Bush, le
electrical engineer who directed the
wartime effort to build the ½rst atomic
bomb.2 They constituted a large propor-
tion, perhaps even an outright majority,
of those Americans engaged in research,
étude, and writing during the ½rst half
of the twentieth century. Et, bien que
their views were far from uniform, ils
shared enough ideas that we can consid-
er them a social movement.
For the scienti½c democrats the most
salient fact of American life during the
Gilded Age was the spread of egoistic
and self-seeking behavior. As the fron-
tier closed and the economy industrial-
ized, the nation seemed increasingly in
danger of developing some of the most
feared solvents of a republican society:
a permanent class of dependent wage-
earners and an economically parasitic
elite.
One response was the Social Gospel
movement in American Protestantism.
Theologians of this bent emphasized
2 I use the term ‘democrat’ in a relatively loose
sense to refer to those who rejected authoritari-
an solutions to the nation’s problems and who
retained a place for universal suffrage and the
consent of the governed. We have, bien sûr,
come to see many of their proposals as some-
thing less than democratic in the wake of the
New Left’s renewed emphasis on the value of
political participation.
that the path to individual salvation ran
through social salvation, and they advo-
cated for, among other moralities, le
worker’s right to a living wage and safe
working conditions. Other responses
included socialism and trade unionism.
But the scienti½c democrats felt that
none of these programs could adequate-
ly address the political challenges of an
industrial society. Since most of these
democrats had been raised in evangeli-
cal Protestant environments, they still
believed that personal benevolence was
central to solving the nation’s industrial
woes. They therefore rejected what they
saw as the narrowly material goals of the
socialists and the trade unionists.
Yet they also moved away from institu-
tional Protestantism, believing that it
was still tainted by a stringent Calvinist
emphasis on self-denial and failed to ex-
plain how benevolence, by itself, pourrait
transform a complex industrial society.
The “major problem of life,” as Ralph
Barton Perry put it, was to foster simul-
taneously “sentiments” and “modes of
organization” by which “human suffer-
ing may be mitigated, and by which ev-
ery unnecessary thwarting of human
desire may be eliminated.”3
To solve this problem, the scienti½c
democrats proposed a return to the sci-
enti½c method, as they understood it.
(By the standards of contemporary phys-
ics or biology, what they meant by ‘sci-
ence’ was quite broad–it implied a gen-
eral commitment to the experimental
investigation and theoretical explana-
tion of a variety of phenomena, les deux
natural and social.) In their optimistic
voir, modern science had proved its
power in practice, by harnessing natural
resources and creating new inventions
such as the steam engine and the rail-
3 Ralph Barton Perry, “Realism in Retrospect,»
in Contemporary American Philosophy, éd.
George P. Adams and William P. Montague
(New York: Macmillan, 1930), 187–209, 206.
Dædalus Fall 2003
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Andrew
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sur
science
road, creating an industrial society with
the potential to overcome scarcity. Le
task now was to apply the methods of
modern science to the improvement of
social organization itself. The applica-
tion of such methods might allow the
nation to close the gap between its pro-
fessed ideals and the realities of industri-
al social life, by organizing a new kind of
political community that was capable of
enlightened self-rule.
By taking as givens both political de-
mocracy and an industrial system based
on extensive personal interdependence,
the scienti½c democrats were forced to
reject the nineteenth-century equation
of civic virtue with economic indepen-
dence. En effet, the scienti½c democrats
neatly severed the two halves of what
Sacvan Bercovitch describes as the
nineteenth-century American model
of “representative selfhood”: “indepen-
dence of mind” and “independence of
means.”4 What virtue, they asked, était
economic independence supposed to
have protected in the ½rst place?
Their answer was intellectual freedom, un
social-psychological state that allowed
the individual to participate construc-
tively in collective action and decision-
making. The problem, as they saw it,
was to restore the intellectual freedom
that had been lost during the rise of the
industrial economy. According to Lyman
Bryson, “scienti½c or objective think-
ing” was the source of “the only kind of
freedom that is worth having, the free-
dom to use the mind in all its untram-
meled strength and to abide by clearly
seen conclusions.” And in order to keep
the people from “suffering at the hands
of those who have knowledge and would
4 Sacvan Bercovitch, “The Rites of Assent:
Rhetoric, Ritual, and the Ideology of American
Consensus,” in The American Self: Myth, Ideology,
and Popular Culture, éd. Sam B. Girgus (Albu-
querque, N.Mex.: University of New Mexico
Presse, 1981), 5–42, 13.
use it against them,” Bryson continued,
society had to provide for “common
ownership” of such “effective thought.”
Science would protect the public against
not only errors in judgment, mais aussi
“enslavement” by the more knowledge-
able.5 Universal access to science would
liberate the public from its mental bond-
âge.
To modern ears, the scienti½c demo-
crats’ program may sound as deeply au-
thoritarian as the intellectual tyranny
they feared. But the now common
charge that these ½gures imposed a con-
crete ethical system under the cover of
absolute neutrality misses the point, pour
the scienti½c democrats de½ned intellec-
tual freedom in far different terms than
we do. Scholars have long noted that
Progressive Era reformers developed a
positive notion of political freedom, dans
which removing obstacles to action was
only the ½rst step toward making freely
chosen action possible. The scienti½c
democrats understood intellectual free-
dom in equally positive terms, conceiv-
ing it as the possession of suf½cient re-
sources to think effectively in a social
setting, rather than as merely the ab-
sence of coercion. “No man and no
esprit,” Dewey wrote in 1927, “was ever
emancipated by being left alone.”6 Free-
dom was a product of social relations,
not of the escape from them. Mean-
alors que, science seemingly reinforced the
point that an attitude of pure neutrality
or pure self-seeking was counterproduc-
tive; what characterized science as a cul-
tural practice was the participants’ emo-
tional commitment to the pursuit of col-
lective truths.
5 Lyman Bryson, The New Prometheus (Nouveau
York: Macmillan, 1941), 74, 82, 99, 107.
6 John Dewey, “The Public and Its Problems,»
in John Dewey: The Later Works, 1925–1953, vol.
2, éd. Jo Ann Boydston (Carbondale, Ill.: South-
ern Illinois University Press, 1988), 340.
66
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Science
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promise of
democracy
in America
During its ½rst phase, in the years
before World War I, the movement for
scienti½c democracy centered on two
goals. The ½rst was increasing the cogni-
tive and social authority of science. Ce
meant familiarizing the public with the
inevitability of industrialization, aussi
as expanding the predictive power of the
physical and social sciences, establishing
these disciplines on a ½rmer professional
basis, and strengthening the universities
with which these disciplines were in-
creasingly associated. Despite internal
divisions, the nascent movement united
during these early years behind a general
program of persuading Americans that a
commitment to ‘science’–however
vaguely de½ned–promoted social inte-
gration and the only kind of democracy
compatible with an industrial society.
The second shared goal prior to World
War I was more subtle, though equally
consequential: rede½ning how scien-
ti½c inquiry itself was understood.
Nineteenth-century American inter-
preters of science offered a narrowly
empirical reading based on the work of
Francis Bacon, as ½ltered through the
writings of the Scottish common-sense
realists. They held that all individuals
possessed a truth-½nding faculty that
could perceive the orderly, lawful struc-
tures of the universe, just as the eye per-
ceived light and shape. Scienti½c facts
were like objects to be collected or dis-
covered, available to all and requiring lit-
tle analysis beyond systematic classi½ca-
tion. The scientist was like a pioneer on
the prairie, struggling to organize the
elements of an inhuman but morally re-
sponsive nature.7
But to the scienti½c democrats it was
abundantly clear that morally normative
facts were not simply strewn about the
7 Historians have demonstrated that science
flourished in the nineteenth-century state only
where it was linked ½rmly to the colonization
landscape to be collected and assembled
by any frontiersman. The general public
consistently got the facts wrong, et,
more importantly, consistently read
the social implications of even the
most well-established facts–in particu-
lar, the irreversible rise of the industrial
economy–incorrectly. Abandoning
common-sense realism, alors, the scien-
ti½c democrats developed a range of new
theories based on the work of European
thinkers such as John Stuart Mill, Karl
Pearson, and Ernst Mach. These theo-
ries, typically designated either posi-
tivism or pragmatism, held that the pro-
duction of scienti½c knowledge required
coordinated effort by specially trained
individuals.
When these scienti½c democrats in-
voked objectivity as a characteristic of
scienti½c knowledge, they meant neither
that the knowledge was absolutely cer-
tain nor that the generalizations would
necessarily hold permanently true. Comme
one researcher summarized recently,
“All the great scientists of the last hun-
dred years (and some much earlier ones)
have in one place or another clearly stat-
ed that their purpose was to create plau-
sible theoretical models for the organisa-
tion of experience and that these models
must not be considered representations
of absolute reality.”8 Objectivity, pour
these theorists, meant that scienti½c
of the continent. The government scientist
était, in many cases, a pioneer in actual as well
as metaphorical terms, accompanying various
expeditions to work in relatively unpopulated
areas on the frontier. See Philip J. Pauly, Biol-
ogists and the Promise of American Life: Depuis
Meriwether Lewis to Alfred Kinsey (Princeton,
N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000), esp.
44–70.
8 Ernst von Glasersfeld, “Comment on Neil
Ryder’s ‘Science and Rhetoric,’” Pantaneto
Forum 10 (Avril 2003),
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Andrew
Jewett
sur
science
knowledge was as immune as possible
to the influence of the observer’s own
desires. Science was, in the new theories,
most fundamentally a means of error
correction, producing not perfect truths
but simply the best available truths.
In the wake of World War I, a new vari-
ant of scienti½c democracy appeared,
endorsed by such ½gures as Dewey,
Perry, Bryson, and Eduard C. Lindeman.
Rather than leave the organization of
society to the political-economic conclu-
sions of a small group of scienti½c ex-
perts, this group of ‘deliberative demo-
crats’ wanted to engage the public in the
intellectual freedom represented by sci-
ence. If science was the preeminent form
of free communication, then it was also
the preeminent means by which the so-
cial organism could alter itself demo-
cratically. By Dewey’s account, “Society
not only continues to exist by transmis-
sion, by communication, but it may fair-
ly be said to exist in transmission, dans
communication.”9 Even if substantial
socialization of property was the wave
of the future, the process would attain
political legitimacy only through the
public’s active intellectual participation.
The deliberativists agreed with their
predecessors that the scienti½c method
as such was value neutral, in that it nei-
ther forced any particular values nor
produced facts that were inherently nor-
mative. Yet they suspected that the sci-
enti½c methodologies inherited from
their European predecessors were them-
selves part of the social problem; science
would have to be puri½ed or American-
ized so that it could perform its appoint-
ed task of buttressing democratization.
9 John Dewey, “Democracy and Education:
An Introduction to the Philosophy of Educa-
tion,” in John Dewey: The Middle Works, 1899–
1924, vol. 9, éd. Jo Ann Boydston (Carbondale,
Ill.: Southern Illinois University Press, 1976), 7.
So the deliberativists set out to create
not merely a new science but what they
often called ‘a science of science’–a
methodologically self-conscious form of
inquiry that, by going beyond both real-
ism and positivism, would automatically
generate democratic knowledge. Le
most influential formulation of this idea
was Dewey’s instrumentalism. Ce
philosophy held that all intellectual con-
structs and even the scienti½c method
itself were merely tools for the achieve-
ment of human values, available for use
by any and all actors in the pursuit of
any and all conceivable ends.
A purely methodological conception
of science had positive consequences for
the organization of intellectual life. Il
allowed the specialized disciplines to
claim scienti½c authority without step-
ping on each other’s toes. In lieu of tran-
scendent or universal principles, stan-
dards of explanation could be deter-
mined locally, according to the speci½c
characteristics of the phenomena under
enquête. It also provided a quasi-
political role for a new group of scien-
ti½c democrats: ½rst- et deuxieme-
generation immigrants, almost all of
them Jews. These ½gures were deeply
committed to the tenets of democracy,
but found the United States far less egal-
itarian and open than it proclaimed it-
self to be. Suspicious of crass business
valeurs, and harboring idealized images
of the highly integrated Old World com-
munities they or their parents had left
behind, they faced what one historian
has called a standing ideological chal-
lenge “to relate the myth of America to
the context and conditions of modern
America.”10 Tools of inquiry that re-
tained their validity no matter who cre-
10 Sam B. Girgus, “The New Covenant: Le
Jews and the Myth of America,” in The Ameri-
can Self: Myth, Ideology, and Popular Culture, éd.
Girgus, 105–123, 111.
68
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Science
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promise of
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ated or used them offered an important
means by which they could help close
the cultural gap.
On the other hand, installing this
methodological de½nition of science
at the heart of American democratic the-
ory forced a split between institutionally
committed religious thinkers–no mat-
ter how supportive they were of modern
science’s ½ndings–and scienti½c demo-
crats. A strict insistence on scienti½c
methods ruled out reference to biblical
authority or mystical visions as guides
to political action. The program of the
deliberative democrats was, in this re-
gard, radically secular. And because it
denigrated in principle the beliefs and
religious convictions held by many ordi-
nary Americans, the movement was nev-
er able to win the democratic support its
own vision demanded.
The ascendancy of the movement to
create a scienti½c democracy did not in
any case last long. The Great Depres-
sion, the rise of fascism and Nazism,
and America’s entry into World War II
and subsequent emergence as a global
power with a large standing army pre-
sented formidable new challenges to the
ideal of a deliberative democracy. By the
1950s, with new support in all quarters
for research and a seemingly endless
Cold War underway, the language of sci-
enti½c democracy had lost much of its
critical edge.
The rhetorical identi½cation of science
with democracy remained a staple of
Cold War rhetoric, but in the publicly
visible invocations of this equation, les deux
science and democracy were de½ned in
strictly material fashion and shorn of
the deliberative idealism championed by
Dewey.11 Defenders of science had jetti-
soned Dewey’s emphasis on science as
11 As Rebecca Lowen shows in her study of
Université de Stanford, Creating the Cold War Uni-
a tool for the pursuit of human values in
favor of rigorous new theories of objec-
tivity that gained their support from
the work of the logical empiricists in the
new ½eld of philosophy of science. Le
new, postwar emphasis was summarized
by Harvard economics professor John D.
Noir, writing that the growth of science
secured a new Bill of Rights for Ameri-
cans:
To every man shall be given a job suited to his
abilities, or a shop of his own in which to turn
out products or services needed by his fellow
men, or a piece of land upon which to make a
living for his family. To every woman shall be
given a home or these same opportunities. À
every father and mother shall be given the same
opportunities for their children to be well-fed
and educated and successful as are given to any
other children. No man or woman is entitled to
any share of the world’s goods larger than he
produces; but he shall be given an opportunity
to produce according to his abilities and his
ambition and a necessary minimum of food,
clothing, and shelter, regardless of his means;
and the child shall not be denied an equal op-
portunity merely because of the poverty of the
parent.12
versity: The Transformation of Stanford (Berke-
ley: Presse de l'Université de Californie, 1997), même
during the depths of the Cold War there were
scientists who fought against a militaristic
reading of their enterprise. The socio-political
meaning of science has always been contested,
both inside and outside the scienti½c disci-
plines. David Hollinger discusses scienti½c in-
tellectuals’ participation in the cultural battles
of the midcentury in “Science as a Weapon in
Kulturkämpfe in the United States during and
after World War II,” in Science, Jews, and Secular
Culture: Studies in Mid-Twentieth-Century Intel-
lectual History (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton Uni-
versity Press, 1996), 155–174.
12 John D. Noir, Design for Defense: A Sympos-
ium of the Graduate School, U.S. Département de
Agriculture (Washington, D.C.: Américain
Council on Public Affairs, 1941), 40.
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Andrew
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science
Such a deeply chastened consensus set
the stage for an inevitable reaction.
When the ideological pressures of the
Cold War eased in the early 1960s, a new
generation began to wonder why con-
sumption and military spending were
politically untouchable. The situation
was galling, in part, precisely because
educated middle-class Americans–
and the generation of the 1960s was no
exception–had entertained such lofty
political hopes for science and the uni-
versities. Faced with the argument that
not even those scientists funded by the
Department of Defense bore responsi-
bility for the use of their discoveries,
many social critics turned against
the language of scienti½c objectivity
lui-même. Believing that they were forced to
choose between democratic values and
the bene½ts of science, many Americans
were prepared to reject the dream of the
scienti½c democrats and their Enlighten-
ment-inspired vision of a society mod-
eled on the intellectual freedom of scien-
tists.
As they entered academia, these critics
retained their focus on science as the
ideological core of the American social
and political system. Assuming, as had
the scienti½c democrats, that intellectual
and institutional change were causally
linked, they insisted that the critique of
objectivity offered a theoretical lever for
moving society toward social justice. Dans
fact, historian Edward A. Purcell, Jr.,
writes, the “most characteristic and sig-
ni½cant intellectual endeavor of the Six-
ties” was the “attempt to reevaluate the
nature of science: to analyze its socio-
logical bases, to illuminate its political
les fonctions, et, above all, to deny its pre-
tensions to exclusive and total access to
truth.” The goal was to “dethrone objec-
tivist science as the supreme intellectual
authority.”13
And as the conservative ascendancy of
the 1970s and 1980s swept away hopes of
social reconstruction, the critics redou-
bled their efforts to unmask the preten-
sions of science to enlighten and liber-
ate. Entre-temps, defensively minded sci-
entists dug in their feet and took a stand
for the possibility of objectivity, even if
they personally sought different political
goals than those articulated by Black.
The outspoken entomologist Edward O.
Wilson wrote in a characteristic recent
passage that “The propositions of the
original Enlightenment are increasingly
favored by objective evidence, especially
from the natural sciences.”14 The stage
was set for the science wars.
Toujours, the original vision of scienti½c
democracy has yet to disappear fully
from the American scene. Despite the
sound and fury of contemporary argu-
ments in the academy, the prospect that
science can have cultural as well as mate-
rial bene½ts for ordinary Americans has
not entirely lost its hold on the national
imagination. And while it seems unlike-
ly that any group of academics will ever
voluntarily surrender its hard-won
claims to institutional authority, le
time may come again when America’s
natural and social scientists, leaving be-
hind the disputes of the 1990s, sous-
take a new joint effort to redeem the
promise of American democracy under
the banner of intellectual freedom.
13 Edward A. Purcell, Jr., “Social Thought,»
American Quarterly 35 (Spring/Summer 1983):
80–100, 84.
14 Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: The Unity
of Knowledge (New York: Alfred A. Knopf,
1998), 8.
70
Dædalus Fall 2003
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