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In 1706, an English woman visited her friend, Katherine. Katherine’s husband, Francis Atterbury, was a prominent politician and bishop. Upon hearing that Francis had just finished writing his sermon, Katherine’s friend asked if she could take it home to read it. Francis graciously agreed, no doubt expecting to receive some compliments from the lady. But his sermon was promptly returned to him by the woman with copious criticism and notes for its improvement. Francis was shocked: he complained to a friend that the lady lacked a ‘decent manner’ and that she was ‘offensive and shocking in her expressions’. He admitted: ‘I dread to engage her.’

This ‘indecent’ and ‘shocking’ woman was Mary Astell (1666-1731). Today, she is best known as England’s first feminist, whose paradoxical mix of conservative politics and pioneering feminism has long puzzled scholars. By 1706, Astell was no doubt used to being called offensive, irritating and impolite. She wrote most of her partisan pamphlets in the first decade of the 18th century, always studded with sharp attacks on men she disagreed with (often, but not exclusively, those on the side of the Whig liberals, the most famous of which was John Locke). One of the pamphleteers she attacked, James Owen, dismissed her as overly angry, zealous and ‘virulent’ – a dismissal that meant that he did not have to actually engage with her sharp and difficult arguments.

More than half a century later, another politically active woman received similar treatment. The historian and political theorist Catharine Macaulay (1731-91) had penned a sharp pamphlet attacking Edmund Burke, who remains widely received as the ‘father’ of modern conservatism and the first major proponent of organised political parties. Macaulay had taken issue with Burke’s now-famous defence of party, Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents (1770). Instead of dealing with her critique head on, Burke wrote to his friend that ‘the Amazon is the greatest champion amongst them … no heroine in Billingsgate can go beyond the patriotick scolding of our republican Virago.’ Invoking the image of the fierce female warrior and of the loud, masculinised woman, he ridiculed Macaulay, but not without a sense of awe. Much like Atterbury, Burke admitted he was ‘afraid to answer her’.

But Burke’s dismissal of Macaulay was not just rudeness – it was entirely consistent with his broader vision of what partisanship should look like, and who should be allowed to practise it. In the very tract that sparked Macaulay’s attack, Burke argued that partisanship is best conceived of as a well-chosen, loyal friendship between polite, reasonable and like-minded men, who agreed with one another ‘at least nine times in ten’. Only in this way could partisanship exist ‘without violating concord’. By contrast, Macaulay’s pamphlet was impolite, fierce and zealous. In Burke’s eyes, then, Macaulay’s brand of partisanship certainly violated concord and harmony.

Burke was not the only 18th-century theorist to champion politeness, friendship, moderation and reasonableness. David Hume, too, stressed the importance of concord. A partisan shouldn’t be too principled; he should be able to ‘easily agree with his fellow-citizen’. Righteous partisans were ‘more zealous’ and ‘more furious and enraged’ than those who were reasonable and prone to compromise. Anthony Ashley-Cooper, the third Earl of Shaftesbury also thought it was crucial to safeguard concord. For this purpose, he recommended the cultivation of ‘serene, soft, and harmonious’ manners to combat angry, zealous political ‘warfare’. The message of these men was clear: partisans should be polite, reasonable, moderate and friendly. Only then could partisanship make politics better – that is, more harmonious. Only then could partisanship, as it were, be tamed. Impolite, zealous, angry, and righteous voices like those of Astell and Macaulay were threatening precisely because they disrupted concord.

What makes Astell and Macaulay’s shared experience all the more striking is that they came from opposite ends of the political spectrum. Where Astell was a Tory conservative defender of the Church of England, absolute monarchy and religious orthodoxy, Macaulay was a radical republican and Whig, championing popular sovereignty, religious toleration and revolution. But despite disagreeing on nearly everything, they arrived at remarkably similar views on how to do partisan politics. This suggests that their insight arose not from their partisan commitments but from their shared position on the margins. As women, neither could vote nor hold public office, and partisanship – writing pamphlets, joining political groups, intervening in public debates – was one of the few avenues of political participation available to them.

Their experience as women and partisans allowed them to see what the more fully politically included men around them couldn’t

We might expect Astell and Macaulay to have defended themselves against the likes of Atterbury, Owen and Burke by arguing that they were not in fact impolite or zealous or offensive. But, instead, they embraced these monikers. In her pamphlet Moderation Truly Stated (1704), Astell gladly admitted that she liberally ‘sprinkled’ her writing with ‘my inflaming Oratory, Satyr and Invective’. Unlike men such as Owen, Shaftesbury or Atterbury, she preferred the honest ‘Quintessence of Gall’ over the flattering, soothing ‘Extract of Honey’. Even if truths were hurtful or shocking, it was still preferable to dole them out rather than to hold back. ‘[I]f there appears any Bitterness in’ her own writings, Astell said, ‘it arises only from the Plainness and Force of Truth, which ill Men cannot bear.’ Macaulay similarly adopted an unapologetic attitude to men like Burke or Hume who found her shockingly honest and direct: the point of being a partisan was ‘to speak some bold offending truths’. Even if it caused one ‘to be very offensive’ and ‘obnoxious’, it was still preferable to dishonest politeness.

Why did Astell and Macaulay reject those ‘virtues’ that their male peers extolled? Their experience as women and partisans allowed them to see what the more fully politically included men around them couldn’t: that insisting that partisans be polite, moderate, reasonable and friendly would actually serve to exclude marginalised political voices. It could do so in two ways.

First, there was the problem of gatekeeping. As Astell put it: ‘Who shall be the Judge’ of what and who counted as (im)polite, (im)moderate, and (un)reasonable? It would be the powerful and fully politically included men like Shaftesbury who would be the judge. Paraphrasing Shaftesbury’s ‘Letter Concerning Enthusiasm’ (1708), Astell suggested he had argued that wit and ridicule were acceptable, provided ‘we treat it with Good Manners’. But while men like Shaftesbury might be able to dole out ridicule wherever they went and still be considered polite and well-mannered, women like Astell would, for the very same behaviour, be berated for their bad manners. In her last pamphlet, t (1709), Astell challenged Shaftesbury by asking whether women or servants would be allowed to ‘treat the Master of the Family in this Fashion?’ In other words, while powerful men would be allowed to behave however they liked and still be deemed well-mannered and reasonable, servants, women and other ‘Person[s] of No-Figure’ would not. In her book Mere Civility (2017), the political theorist Teresa Bejan shows that thick conceptions of early modern civility functioned in exactly this way – excluding dissenting voices by raising the threshold for civility so high that only insiders could meet it. But where Bejan proposes a thinner, more minimal form of civility, Astell and Macaulay went further.

Astell and Macaulay identified another problem: voices at the margins of politics had special cause to be righteous and zealous. On important issues – such as the equality of the sexes – it would not do to remain polite or seek a moderate compromise. Macaulay faced precisely this problem with Burke: he argued that only those involved in the daily practice of politics were qualified to make political judgments. By contrast, ‘speculative’ thinkers like Macaulay, who were not included in the thick of politics, were naive and unfit. They ‘soften[ed] into a credulity below the milkiness of infancy’. They could perhaps reason about the ‘ends of government’ but not with the practical means of it. Macaulay refused to accept this: she argued that her distance from power actually gave her superior insight vis-à-vis fully included partisans.

In her 1770 reply to Burke, Macaulay argued that ‘practical gentlemen’ like himself were too corrupted by self-interest and political power to make unbiased political judgments. But with some healthy distance, ‘speculative thinkers’ like Macaulay could think more clearly and were better equipped to spot the ‘sinister views’ of those in the thick of politics. A ‘moderate’ response to Burke would have been to concede that both sides have some important political insight – indeed, this was what he himself gestured at. But Macaulay refused to meet Burke on the middle ground, because the middle ground would still effectively silence her political voice. When it came to arguments about who was included and who excluded, it would not do to be polite, reasonable and moderate. For someone in Macaulay’s position, zeal and righteousness were not character flaws, but the only adequate response to a system that defined her out of legitimate political speech.

Astell agreed. Whereas, throughout the 18th century, people tended to define zeal as ‘excessive or immoderate enthusiasm’, she praised the ‘Zealot’, who was ‘warm and assiduous’ and ‘stiff and narrow-Spirited’. Astell’s subversive point was that inflexibility in one’s principles and beliefs was admirable – on important matters, from religion to women’s position in society, it was wrong to be quickly dissuaded, or to change one’s mind too readily: ‘an Honest Man’ had an ‘Inflexible Conscience’ and did not ‘Veer with the Times’. When it came to politics, it was important to take sides. And if the ‘Honest man’ thought the other side had a good point, then ‘he ought to go over to them.’ Macaulay, too, praised partisans with ‘inflexible attachment to the cause’, and who were ‘actuated by so warm and honest a zeal’. Righteous zeal meant taking a decided stance, not looking for middle ground, and zealously arguing one’s cause. It was directly opposed to the political virtues their male peers recommended.

Far from destroying political debate, righteous, zealous partisans in fact sustained it

To Astell and Macaulay, it was obvious that, in political debate, righteous zeal was preferable. First of all because partisans on the margins had most to lose from moderate, polite reasonableness. If they politely conceded that their opponents had a point, nothing ever changed. These virtues would only maintain the status quo, whereas Astell and Macaulay sought to challenge and change it. Astell wanted to combat the pernicious and ill-grounded ‘customs’ – a term that closely resembles our present-day idea of ‘social norms’ – that painted women as inferior creatures, incapable of political argument and devoid of intellect. ‘Custom, that merciless torrent that carries all before it’ needed to be checked. Macaulay likewise worried that ‘the generality of mankind are too fond of accustomed establishments’, and therefore ‘interested to reject every part of reformation’. Partisanship was a powerful means available to those on the margins – those who could never belong to Burke’s ‘practical gentlemen’ involved in daily politics – seeking to challenge the prejudices and norms that tried to keep them out. The philosopher Myisha Cherry makes a parallel argument in her book The Case for Rage (2021), writing that righteous anger was a driving force in the civil rights movement – a context where polite, moderate appeals for equality had long failed to produce change.

Accepting righteous zeal instead of polite, moderate reasonableness was more inclusive: it allowed for a greater number of people to make their voices heard and be taken seriously. But Astell and Macaulay also argued that, far from destroying political debate, righteous, zealous partisans in fact sustained it. After all, these ‘warm’ and ‘inflexible’ people kept arguing with their opponents even when it was unwelcome. As a righteous, zealous partisan herself, Astell envisioned meeting her ‘enemies in heaven hereafter’ where ‘they shall be sensible that their admission is in some measure owing to our own importunate intercessions for them’. In other words, it was only due to her constant arguments and persuasions that her opponents would improve themselves and their views. ‘This,’ she mused in her magnum opus The Christian Religion (1705), ‘will be no doubt a sweet revenge.’ Macaulay seems to have been a persistent political interlocutor too. An acquaintance of hers said that ‘though she plays at cards and talks of different subjects,’ she ‘always returns’ to politics, even at parties – ‘an odd character for a lady’.

Since righteous, zealous partisans favoured honesty over politeness, they were also happy to risk causing offence in pursuit of persuasion. Macaulay argued that, just as tyranny stood opposed to liberty, so zeal stood opposed to formality, or ‘outward appearance or semblance’ and ‘conformity to established rule’. For Macaulay, zeal thus implied a disregard of outward appearance or conformity. To be zealous often meant being bold, truthful, even impolite. As Astell put it, it involved ‘speaking truths which no man would say’, in other words, speaking ‘the Truth that wounds’.

At this point, the image of zealous, righteous partisans trying to persuade one another might conjure up worrying images of shouting without any genuine dialogue taking place. Even if such partisans would keep talking, would they really listen to one another? Astell and Macaulay’s writings show that they did in fact always take their opponents’ views seriously. Their most partisan and zealous works often targeted one or two men they disagreed with: they went through their arguments, one by one, including references to page numbers and quotations, and explained why they were wrong on all counts. In her pamphlet Moderation Truly Stated, Astell gave Owen this treatment – whereas Owen, the proponent of moderation and reasonableness, dismissed Astell’s entire work in one sentence. Macaulay’s two responses to Burke also engaged with his arguments in depth, whereas Burke ridiculed her but never deigned to respond to her arguments. This wasn’t a coincidence. A righteous, zealous partisan who wanted to persuade her opponents had to take their arguments seriously; whereas a polite, moderate partisan who valued concord over truth could afford to dismiss an uncomfortable, controversial voice and move on.

Today, righteous, zealous partisans seem as unreasonable as they are incapable of changing their minds. And what is the point of political debate if no one ever changes their mind? But to Astell and Macaulay, righteous zeal was compatible with a degree of open-mindedness and critical thinking. They certainly did not consider all standpoints as equally valid, but nonetheless took them seriously. Both Astell and Macaulay praised inflexibility and were wary of partisans whose views swayed with the wind. As the philosopher Lea Ypi points out, not being quick to change one’s mind can actually bolster political commitment and can ensure that partisan projects persist over time. In other words, it can ensure that partisans don’t give up too easily.

But even if partisans should be somewhat inflexible, would righteous zeal not foreclose the very possibility of open-mindedness? If we define it as taking every other standpoint as equally valid, then righteous, zealous partisans would indeed not be open-minded. But if we define it, as the philosopher Jeremy Fantl does in The Limitations of the Open Mind (2018), as the willingness ‘to pull back on your confidence if I offer an argument each step of which you find compelling and in which you cannot, by your own admission, find a flaw,’ then righteous zeal is certainly compatible with open-mindedness. Astell believed that, if a member of the Church of England did not think that dissenters were mistaken, ‘he ought to go over to them’. A partisan’s righteousness should never prevent them from looking critically at their own beliefs, nor preclude a change of mind: Astell advised her readers to ‘receive no man’s opinion on his bare word, nor to swallow his arguments without examining them.’

It is affective polarisation, not disagreement itself, that actually threatens political debate

What’s more, Astell and Macaulay’s rejection of partisanship as friendship actually protects against echo chambers. It is the moderate, friendship-based model that we find in Burke that risks groupthink, because loyalty to one’s friends and a desire to avoid offence prevents frank disagreement. Astell wrote that these friends ‘expect to be followed right or wrong in their principles, party, and passions’, and wished to ‘be flattered’. They would not ‘tell you of your Faults for fear of disobliging you’. By contrast, Astell and Macaulay were not only critical to partisans of opposing sides, but also criticised their co-partisans: Astell critiqued the Tory Charles Davenant in Moderation Truly Stated, and Macaulay had a disagreement with the fellow radical John Wilkes. Both women had a decided preference for open, honest enemies over ‘concealed enemies’ in the guise of friends. In other words, if you surround yourself with polite, loyal friends who flatter you and avoid offence, your views never get tested; if you engage honestly with your opponents who challenge you in turn, they do.

That this vindication of righteous zeal came from two women, not from the men who dominated partisan theory, is no accident. To forgo righteousness and zeal in the face of deep disagreement is a luxury not available to all – least of all to those positioned at the margins of politics. Likewise, to insist that partisans should dispense with righteousness and zeal in favour of reasonableness, politeness and moderation is itself a privilege. As Astell and Macaulay pointed out, it risks excluding or persecuting those who are most oppressed in politics, and who have most need of, and cause for, righteous zeal.

Astell and Macaulay’s diagnosis is especially urgent today, when we hear calls for more moderate, reasonable, polite debate from all sides of the political spectrum as the cure for polarisation. But the terms of what counts as reasonable political speech are still set by insiders, and voices expressing righteousness, zeal or anger are still viewed as threats to democratic life rather than as contributions to it. Just as in the 18th century, today this also works to silence partisan voices on the margins – those with most need of righteous zeal. It is certainly true that righteous zeal is unlikely to reduce ideological polarisation – where partisans move away from the centre. But the mere fact of such polarisation need not be detrimental to politics. Righteous zeal can combat a more worrying form of polarisation, affective polarisation – the refusal to engage with one’s opponents at all. And it is affective polarisation, not disagreement itself, that actually threatens political debate.

Perhaps in an ideal world, where everyone is equally included, and where everyone’s voices are heard, we wouldn’t need righteous, zealous partisans. But that is not the world we live in. Political life remains marked by deep inequalities of voice and standing. Insisting on politeness, moderation and reasonableness may make political debate more harmonious among those already fully included. Yet it simultaneously silences those on the margins – and bringing in a wider array of voices is precisely what is needed to improve political debate. Writing from the margins, Astell and Macaulay show us that righteous zeal is not a threat to politics, but rather a condition of genuine political inclusion and frank political debate.