Queen Elizabeth II has achieved two royal milestones during the past year. Last September, she became the longest-serving British monarch in history, beating the record previously held by her great-great grandmother, Queen Victoria. For nearly a decade now, she’s been the oldest British monarch—once again, surpassing Victoria—but today she turns 90 years old.
To be sure, both of these achievements have something to do with Woody Allen’s observation that 80 percent of life is showing up. Elizabeth’s longevity is impressive—so is her energy, perspicacity, and personal grandeur—but of course, people live longer nowadays than they used to, and she became queen at 25. I may be one of the few people on this side of the Atlantic who admires the heir-apparent, the Prince of Wales; but I also wish Her Majesty many more years of life.
This is not because I am an enthusiast of the British royal family—although I am, up to a point—but because, especially in this presidential election year, Britain’s constitutional monarchy has something to teach the American republic. If, as seems possible, the two major party nominees will be Hillary Rodham Clinton and Donald J. Trump, we may find ourselves elevating to the White House two politicians of deep, voluminous, and unprecedented personal unpopularity. The vast powers, prestige, and perquisites of the American presidency will fall on somebody who is actively disliked and distrusted by most Americans.
Every Fourth of July we like to remind ourselves that the colonists of 1776 declared their independence, and fought a five-year war of secession, from Great Britain, its parliament and monarch. To be sure, the attitude of the Founders toward George III was a little more complicated than that; but it’s part of our national folklore that we fought and won a war of independence in order to rid ourselves of such things as kings.
Yet kings and queens notwithstanding, the gods are not mocked: For the truth is that, the more distance we put between ourselves and 1776, the closer the American presidency—”the imperial presidency,” as a famous historian once put it—draws to the trappings of monarchy. We may have a tripartite system of divided government, as prescribed by the Constitution; but can anyone doubt that the modern president of the United States, seated in his great white palace, in the bosom of the First Family, surrounded by armies of courtiers, unlimited budgets, a fawning press and Praetorian guard, is first among equals? According to the polls, at any rate, this will be especially painful during the inaugural festivities for President Trump or President Rodham Clinton.
The genius of Britain’s constitutional monarchy is that it neatly divides between two people what America invests in one. The Queen, hereditary descendant of Britain’s ancient rulers, is the embodiment of State and Nation, the living symbol of continuity and history. The Prime Minister, a party politician and creature of Parliament, heads the government, and comes and goes as the voters decide. I wouldn’t argue that Britain’s unwritten constitution is superior to our own, which a great prime minister, William Gladstone, once called “the most wonderful work ever struck off at a given time by the brain and purpose of man.” But the delicate balance, the system of checks and balances among our three branches of government, is not quite what it used to be—an imbalance cast now in stark relief by the prospect of President Trump or President Rodham Clinton.
Happy Birthday, Queen Elizabeth!
