By Thomas Wendel
Thursday, July 04, 2019
Note: The following article appeared in the
July 23, 1976, issue of National Review.
***
O! Ye unborn Inhabitants of America! Should this Page
escape its destin’d Conflagration at the Year’s End, and these Alphabetical
Letters remain legible — when your Eyes behold the Sun after he has rolled the
Seasons round for two or three Centuries more, you will know that in Anno
Domini 1758, we dream’d of your times.
So the Boston philomath Nathaniel Ames wrote in his
almanac almost two decades before Congress declared the 13 colonies
independence from Britain. It had been a century and a half since Captain
Newport established at Jamestown the first permanent English foothold; almost
as long since Ames’s New England forebears established their “city upon a hill”
along Massachusetts Bay. Now, in the mid-eighteenth century, England’s American
colonists began to share a sense of special destiny that would later be woven
into the fabric of a new American nationalism.
Without this awakening consciousness of the uniqueness of
the American experience, the colonists could never have transcended their
traditional loyalty to the “English nation.” Their commitment crossed colonial
boundaries to embrace the American continent. It is this cultural phenomenon —
the emergence after 1750 of a new American self-consciousness — that underlay
the American Revolution begun in 1763 and consummated in 1789.
We are commemorating on July 4 of this year the
Bicentennial of one event in that tremendous transformation. Independence,
however, did not then and there create the American nation. Independence alone,
without the existence of a continental political structure, could not have
fulfilled the vision Ames articulated 18 years before. It was one thing for a
South Carolinian, for example, to feel a sense of common destiny with a citizen
of New York. It was quite another for the Carolinian and the New Yorker to come
together under a single national government. Separation from Great Britain was
one step in the morphology of the Revolution. But the “real revolution,” to use
John Adams’ term, consisted in the creation of the United States of America out
of 13 highly individualistic English colonies.
The juridical origins of our federal democratic republic
go back to the 1760s, when the 13 separate colonial representative assemblies
were each making insistent demands for legislative autonomy. Such demands by 13
“little parliaments” in the American woods conflicted with the British
Parliament’s declaration of imperial legislative supremacy. We see a groping
towards federalism in the colonists’ tentative thought that Parliament might legislate
on external affairs (trade, for example), while the assemblies would legislate
autonomously on internal affairs (taxation, for example).
That formula — clearly enunciated in 1767 by John
Dickinson — failed. It represented a half-way house that satisfied neither
Parliament nor, ultimately, the colonists themselves. The former clung to its
declaration of legislative supremacy “in all cases whatsoever”: the latter, 13
distinct political societies with a growing sense of a common American
identity, had gone too far along the road to self-government. The colonies and
England came to blows when the assemblies at last denied that Parliament had
any right to legislate for them at all.
For seven years, in fact, from the meeting of the First
Continental Congress in 1774 to the ratification of the Articles of
Confederation in 1781, the colonies-become-states operated as independent
commonwealths cooperating with each other in pursuit of a common cause. They
were a sort of United Nations without benefit of charter.
Following Lexington, several members of the Continental
Congress pointed to the lack of a written legal agreement for joint action by
the states. Even before the Great Declaration, Benjamin Franklin had startled
the members of Congress with his suggestion for articles of confederation. A
resolution for such an instrument was eventually coupled with the resolution
for independence. In consequence, articles of confederation, fittingly written
by the same John Dickinson who had suggested federalism within the Empire, were
brought forward within the week
following the act of separation.
It took almost a year and a half, however, for Congress
to agree on a draft to be transmitted to the states. Understandably, Congress
was busy with other matters at that time, including keeping out of reach of the
ever-threatening Redcoats. (Indeed, when Congress was not fleeing from the
British army, it was avoiding another invasion: the hundreds of European volunteers
pursuing commissions and glory in the American service.) Not only did Congress
have ultimate responsibility for the military conduct of the war, including
raising and paying armies, it had also to obtain foreign aid, attempt to uphold
the public credit, and — above all — maintain American independence in the face
of the most discouraging odds. Historians have unfairly maligned this Congress,
which did, after all, see the states through to victory in a very doubtful
contest.
Congress finally submitted the Articles of Confederation
to the states on November 15, 1777. Ratification was to be by unanimous
consent, a consent not forthcoming for another four years.
The chief stumbling block to agreement was the enormous
western landholdings of some of the states. Virginia claimed the grandest
domains of all, a domain based on the sea-to-sea charter originally granted her
by a king whose successors she now disdained.
The so-called landless states, led by Maryland, refused
to ratify the articles until the others ceded their western claims to the
general government. New York and Connecticut (excepting the three-million-acre
Western Reserve) soon complied. The English southern campaign that began with
the occupation of Charleston in 1780 helped convince Virginia to cooperate. (In
January 1781, the month of Virginia’s acquiescence, traitor Benedict Arnold led
a Redcoat raid on Richmond, the new capitol.) Virginia’s cession, which
included a federal guarantee of the previous land claims of her citizens, led
to Maryland’s ratification of the
Articles of Confederation on March 1, 1781. At last, only eight months before
Yorktown, the United States had a constitution.
There were, fittingly, 13 Articles of Confederation. The
fifth of these authorized what Congress had been doing all along: each state
would be represented by no fewer than two nor more than seven delegates, their
salaries to be paid by the states; voting in Congress would be by state, not by
head. The ninth, which is the longest article, laid out Congress’ powers, which
were few: to declare war, to adjudicate interstate disputes, to coin money;
each power required the agreement of nine states. Amendments to the Articles
required unanimous consent. In a burst of optimism, Article Eleven offered a
place in the American Confederacy to Canada, an offer which the ungrateful
Canadians declined. (Article Eleven was more modest than Franklin’s earlier,
rejected federal plan, which included the British West Indies and Ireland as
well as Canada.)
But even with the long-postponed ratification of our
first constitution, the particularistic Spirit of ‘76 remained in the
ascendant. The Articles of Confederation were ratified by the states, not by
the people. “The said states,” according to Article Three, “hereby severally
enter into a firm league of friendship with each other.” The Revolution had yet
to be consummated. A governmental structure capable of giving political
expression to American national feeling had yet to be created.
Every student of history remembers being taught
somewhere, sometime, of the “weaknesses of the Articles of Confederation.” And
from a nationalist point of view, they were weak. The Congress under the
Articles could neither tax nor regulate trade. The states, as well as the Congress,
could coin money (an important attribute of sovereignty). The general
government’s slight authority was over states, not individuals. There was no
executive branch, no federal judiciary. The states remained supreme.
A depression in the mid-1870s exacerbated the financial
chaos: agrarianized state legislatures issued legal tender bills of credit and
legislated postponement of private debts. Rhode Island (conservatives labeled
her “Rogue Island”) presented a picture of eager debtors waving inflated Rhode
Island dollars as they closed o’er the landscape frantic creditors who hurled
themselves across state lines or into Narragansett Bay to avoid receiving
payment in worthless currency. With no central regulatory authority, states
vied with one another in a kind of commercial warfare; New Jersey, for example,
placed a prohibitive tax on the Sandy Hook lighthouse in retaliation for New
York’s tariff, which discriminated against both New Jersey’s and Connecticut’s
commerce. True, by 1787, most states had come to reciprocity agreements with
one another. But who could say when and where commercial warfare would break
out anew among the potentially proliferating states of the confederation?
***
In foreign affairs, the Congress unsuccessfully attempted
to cope with Spain’s monopolization of the lower Mississippi. Negotiations only
succeeded in stirring up regional animosities when northern representatives
seemed ready to sacrifice the Mississippi for commercial relations with the
Spanish West Indies. Here lies the origin of the two-thirds rule for
ratification of treaties, intended to prevent one region from sacrificing the
interests of another.
The United States were in conflict with Britain over her
retention of military forts on American soil along the Great Lakes, and over
compensation to loyalists, pre-war debts, the West Indian trade, and commercial
relations in general. Proud John Adams’s ministry to the Court of St. James
provided constant humiliation. Where, wondered the haughty Britons, were the
other 12 ministers? Queen of the seas, Britain seemed to countenance the
pirating activities of the North African corsairs. These preyed upon American
merchantmen who either payed tribute or showed forged British passes. (Wise Ben
Franklin quipped that if the corsairs did not exist, Britain would invent
them.)
An emphasis upon the domestic and foreign difficulties of
the nation under the Articles should not blind us to the solid achievements of
the period. Slavery, for example, was abolished north of the Mason-Dixon line.
The precedent-shattering Northwest Ordinance set a liberal pattern for westward
expansion. Church and state were separated in Virginia. Industry and commerce
discovered new opportunities outside the British Empire, included an
astonishing trade with the Far East beginning in 1784. (One staple of this
trade was the New England root ginseng, which optimistic Chinese believed would
restore virility to the aged.) Such commercial initiative led to Captain Robert
Gray’s establishment of the American claim to the watershed of the Columbia
River.
***
It was in the 1780s, too, that Hector St. John de
CreveCouer set down on paper the essential configuration of a new American
ideology. In Letters from an American Farmer, first published in 1782,
the transplanted Frenchman described a system of values that would long remain
characteristic of American nationalism. “What, then,” asked Crevecour, “is the
American, this new man?”
He is neither European nor the
descendant of a European; hence that strange mixture of blood, which you will
find in no other country…. He is an American, who, leaving behind him all his
ancient prejudices and manners, receives new ones from the new modes of life he
has embraced, the new government he obeys, and the new rank he holds…. Here individual
of all nations are melted into a new race of men, whose labors and posterity
will one day cause great changes in the world…. The American ought therefore to
love this country much better than that wherein either he or his forefathers
were born. Here the rewards of his industry follow with equal steps the
progress of his labor; his labor is founded on the basis of nature,
self-interest; can it want a stronger allurement?…. The American is a new man
who acts upon new principles; he must therefore entertain new ideas and form
new opinions. From involuntary idleness, servile dependence, penury, and
useless labor, he has passed to toils of a very different nature, rewarded by
ample subsistence. This is an American.
Here in striking
combination are the themes of the melting pot, the mission or America, work
justly rewarded, patriotism, equality, and individualism. Crevecouer was not
blind to his adopted country’s faults. He particularly condemned slavery and
whites’ treatment of Native Americans. But his Letters, like Nathaniela
Ames’s apostrophe to generations unborn, is eloquent testimony to the emergence
of an American ethos.
Despite solid achievements, and notwithstanding
Crevecouer’s hymn of praise, the Confederacy’s problems both at home and abroad
were real enough. The movement for the creation of a truly national government
began, in fact, before the ink was dry on the 13 Articles. Sparked mainly by
public creditors and abetted by discontented army officers, the movement was
weakened by the coming of peace and the local jealousies of the states. Rogue
Island alone, for example, prevented the passage of a constitutional amendment
by which the Congress could have enacted uniform a uniform impost
throughout the nation. Lack of funds,
therefore, remained a crucial congressional weakness.
Mt. Vernon was the appropriate setting for a renewed
effort at strengthening the central government. In the presence of the living
symbol of the nation, commissioners from Maryland and Virginia met to consider
interstate commercial problems. Among these was the disposition of Chesapeake
Bay’s oysters; so it was that the Constitution would rise, like Venus, from a
sea shell.
An amicable settlement of various problems (including the
disposition of the oysters) encouraged the commissioners to make more ambitious
efforts to strengthen the central government. During September 1786, delegates
from five states met at Annapolis. Convinced that a radical revision of the
Articles of Confederation was essential, these delegates, Madison and Hamilton
in the vanguard, issued a call to the Congress for a convention of the states.
Its purpose would be “to devise such further provisions as shall appear to them
necessary to render the Constitution of the federal government adequate to the
exigencies of the union.”
Persuasive as this call may have been, captain Daniel
Shays in western Massachusetts unwittingly presented reluctant congressmen with
an even more compelling motive for shoring up the government. The postwar
depression wreaked economic havoc among New England’s yeoman farmers. The
rebellion that Shays led in the winter of 1786-87 focused first upon the
courts, which Shays and his men forced to disband. Dispossession had become
endemic in the debt-ridden western counties. Closing the forts frustrated
foreclosure proceedings; moreover, for Shay’s enraged agrarians, the courts
were a tangible symbol of the eastern moneyed interest and of a government
unresponsive to their needs.
Shay’s attack upon property rights was frightening enough,
but when he and his men went after the federal arsenal at Springfield, it
seemed that the social order was on the verge of collapse. Massachusetts, after
all, possessed the first state constitution to be ratified by the people. Shays
appeared to be testing the survival of republican government based on consent.
Great was the establishment’s relief when General Lincoln easily dispersed the
rebels. Relief became dismay, however, when the frightened Massachusetts
legislature enacted some of the rebels’ demands into law.
“I feel, my dear General Knox,” wrote Washington to his
old companion in arms, “infinitely more than I can express to you, for the
disorders which have arisen in these States. Good God! Who, besides a Tory,
could have foreseen, or a Briton predicted them?” Sharing Washington’s
sentiments, a Shays-traumatized Congress, on February 21, 1787, asked the
states to send delegates to a convention to revise the Articles of
Confederation.
This is no place for the historiographical battle over
the motives of the 55 men who met in Philadelphia during the simmering summer
of 1787. More than half a century ago, Charles Beard called them conspirators
against a prevailing order that had failed adequately to represent their
property interests: the Philadelphia Convention was our Revolution’s Thermidor.
It seems clear today, however, particularly in the light
of exhaustive research into the ideology of the Founders, that the
Philadelphians meant not to subvert the Revolution, but to secure it. They
believed, of course, in the sanctity of property; in the eighteenth century,
property rights were thought to provide the essential foundation of human
rights. The Founders did not see, as some see today, any incompatibility
between the rights of property and the rights of man. The Constitution, Beard
to the contrary, is a political, not an economic document. The Founders’ art
consisted in the creation of a national institutional framework consonant with
the Revolutionary commitment to local self-government. They turned a “league of
friendship” into a “more perfect union,” to be ratified not by the states, but
by the people.
The late Catherine Drinker Bowen denominated the
Founders’ success in forming a truly national government the “Miracle at
Philadelphia.” A century earlier, the historian von Holst had found it
necessary to utilize a similarly heavenly metaphor in describing the work of
the Constitutional Convention. The Founders, he commented, had ventured to
outdo the mystery of the Trinity by endeavoring to make 13 one, while leaving
the one 13. John Marshall, in 1821, put the matter in a decidedly more sober,
not to say earthly manner. “America,” he said, “has chosen to be, in many
respects, and to many purposes, a nation.”
The Constitution at last created a national government
that gave adequate effect to the Americans’ increasing self-consciousness as a
united people. It left to interpretation the precise juridical balance between
state and nation, a problem which would remain at the base of American politics
through the Civil War, and which, in fact, is with us still. Yet, the
Constitution itself remains above the battle. South and North warred over its
meaning, but the universal veneration of the national charter survived even
that holocaust.
The Declaration of Independence and the Constitution
define the American nation. As we enter the third century of independence,
however, it is well to recall that we are in the fourth century of American
history. It is to the colonial period we must look for the roots of republicanism
and federalism. While the colonies were becoming mature societies — and their
representative assemblies, fully developed organs of self-government — England
recognized them only as overseas corporations dependent on her sovereign
authority. Denied self-government within the Empire, the colonies, many of them
reluctantly, declared their independence — a declaration they made good within
eight years of war. The final act of the drama consisted in their coalescing
into a nation.
It seems appropriate to give George Washington the last
word. As he assumed the executive office for which the new Constitution
provided, he remarked upon the “providential agency” that seemed to accompany every step by which the United
States “have advanced to the character of an independent nation,” including
“the important revolution just accomplished in the system of their united
government.” In this First Inaugural Address by the First President of the
United States, Washington quietly announced the completion of the American Revolution
and the beginning of the national period of American history.
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