Can There Be Too Much Synthesizing? The Case of George III
For most Americans (and most non-British citizens), George III is just one of a string of British monarchs—though perhaps the best known of the four King Georges, whose Hanover dynasty began in 1714 and extended to 1830. If more than his name is known, it’s for the following reasons. He was King during the Revolutionary War (and much reviled therefore); he inspired a movie and play The Madness of King George; his character memorably sings “You’ll be Back” in the play Hamilton; or, less likely, because he was the longest reigning male monarch in British history (1760-1820).
But even those of us with meager knowledge of British history can acknowledge and appreciate that George reigned through a momentous six decades: Events included the Seven Years’ War, the American Revolution/War of Independence, the French Revolution, the rise and hegemony of Napoleon, his defeat at Waterloo, and the unquestioned emergence of Britain (with its Empire) as the first and most important center of industrialization.
A momentous period!
Recently, I watched a television documentary (King George III: The Genius of the Mad King) in which George’s alleged madness was re-examined in the light of modern medical/psychiatric knowledge. I decided to learn more about George III and so I readily, if not studiously, visited the entry about him on Wikipedia. There I learned that the status— and the sanity—of George III has been much debated… and I caught sight of a descriptor (subsequently deleted) of certain historical analyses of his reign as exemplifying ‘over-synthesizing’.
This phrase got me thinking.
As a student of synthesis, I have grown accustomed to finding it in a good many places. Yet it’s clear that synthesis cannot—and should not—be ubiquitous; nor should it always be considered as correct. Synthesis is rightly contrasted with analysis; additionally, there are syntheses that are premature, overdone, superficial, wrong-headed. But is it possible to carry out too much synthesis, to be engaged in over-synthesis?
My interest in George III—and in the limits of synthesis—led me to Herbert Butterfield’s 1957 book George III and The Historians. (Butterfield is best known for his critique of so-called “Whig History”—the assumption, often implicit, that things in the world tend to get better over time.) With respect to George’s evolving reputation among historians, Butterfield argues that there has been perhaps too much synthesis of information about George, and not enough stepping back and taking stock.
Here's one characteristic assertion:
“Furthermore, (historian) Erskine May must be a good example of the way in which an historian may fall into error through an excess of brilliance. His capacity for synthesis, and his ability to dovetail the various parts of the evidence in order to form them into a system, would seem to have carried him into (a more profound and complicated elaboration of error!) than some of his more pedestrian predecessors would have been able to achieve. Because he was a constitutional theorist, he inserted a doctrinal element into his history which, granted his original aberrations, was calculated to project the lines of error, carrying his work still further from centrality or truth” (p. 152, emphases mine)
Or consider yet another castigation of historian, May:
“It is possible that no other writer on the early years of the reign of George III has managed to put his finger on so many errors, heresies, anachronisms, points of misunderstanding and perversities of interpretation—all collected from various quarters but never hitherto combined—and by drawing a line from one to another succeeded in making a system calculated to be so plausible to unhistorical minds” (pp.154-55, italics mine).
Butterfield seems to be pointing not so much to over-synthesis, in my view, but rather to including incorrect ingredients in the synthesis in the interest of making it all fit together. He also wants to correct the historical record, as he sees it.
One target is the so-called “scientific method and the superiority of the twentieth century over its predecessors” (p. 8). Among other villains are the restriction of historians to ever narrower areas of expertise; the development of authoritarian prejudices among the professionals themselves; the presentation of masses of footnotes; the monopolization of certain perspectives or approaches (p. 8) and the limitations of the data-based analyses carried out by Butterfield’s influential contemporary Lewis Namier.
In place of these targets of his disdain, Butterfield calls for the awakening of a critical spirit in the circle of historians; for greater awareness of the swings of evaluation over time (which he traces in the book); and an even-handed evaluation of Namier’s innovative approaches to history, which focused on detailed knowledge of the biographies of influential members of society and how these facts influenced political behavior and decisions. While Butterfield recognizes Namier’s contributions to historical understanding, he declares that they do not suffice:
“Politics must call for a different kind of analysis: there ought to be an imaginative apprehension of the great forces that were beginning to be manifest in the world. In this way, the whole narrative requires to be raised to a level far above that of faction-fights and intrigues—ought to move more weightily like a writer who is embarking on a great theme. Here, where the research student is at his deadliest, we discover the limitations of any mere schooling in technique. And we see to perfection the way in which the Namier method can communicate to its practitioners something like an occupational disease… the historian is the last person in the world who should rest satisfied with the purely mechanical point of view.” (pp. 292-293)
Though not conducted in a pugilistic arena, we are here witnessing a battle between historians—with each of them believing that there is a privileged synthesis account, and each believing that his own account is definitive—or, at the least, the most definitive.
I’ve no inclination (and no competence) to choose whose account of George III is definitive—or to declare which historian (May, Butterfield, or Namier) has the best understanding of historical subjects or historical methods.
But I believe that this skirmish among scholars may harbor takeaways for students of synthesizing:
Synthesizing never ends, it is never complete. Each generation, each faction needs to continue synthesizing, preserving what is worthwhile, revising, editing, or deleting what no longer is worthy (for whatever reason). And often this means stepping back to look at the ingredients in a synthesis to see which ones are actually false or anachronistic or misleading. It may also mean stepping back to see which ingredients are missing. For example: it is interesting that in Butterfield’s 300 page book he does not mention George’s alleged madness!
Another way of putting this is to say that synthesis is inherently selective. One cannot include everything, what to include, exclude, and for what reasons are vital considerations. Which so-called authorities to build on or expel becomes crucial. When a contributor to Wikipedia coined the concept of ‘oversynthesis’ (a process which does exist in chemistry, he or she was chastising those who were not selective enough to make a convincing case–those who would incorporate everything but the kitchen sink.
Synthesis has aesthetic dimensions: One form of synthesis may not please others who are involved in the same area of study, work, or creation.
The concept of synthesizing may be useful for historians to ponder. As I pointed out in an earlier blog, drawing in particular on the wisdom of historian Johan Huizinga (link here), the best historians are perennially engaged in an interplay of analysis and synthesis.
Reference
Butterfield, H. (1957). George III and the historians. Collins.