Founding Myths (22 page)

To keep the embryonic nation together, congressional delegates at that time tried to fashion a compromise. Southerners offered to count one-half (50 percent) of the enslaved population, but Northerners insisted on two-thirds (67 percent). After considerable haggling, Congress split the difference: three-fifths (60 percent).
²²
In 1787, once again at an impasse, delegates to the Federal Convention simply dusted off the three-fifths fraction, even though the argument had turned into its mirror opposite. When counting slaves added an extra burden to the South's financial obligations, the North said count them, while the South said not to. But when slaves turned from a liability to an asset for purposes of representation, the South said count them, while the North said not to.
Both
sides reversed their positions. Logic? Morality? Not exactly. Delegates did whatever had to be done to move the show along. They wanted a new Constitution for the entire nation, and haggle as they might, they would do most anything to get it.

The notorious three-fifths compromise, not celebrated like the “Great Compromise,” failed to settle the matter of slavery at the Convention. On August 6, after more than two months of debates, a five-man Committee of Detail fleshed out a rough draft of what would become the Constitution. In that draft, to reassure the Southern states, the committee stipulated that Congress would not be allowed to tax or prohibit “the migration or importation of such persons as the several States shall think proper to admit.”

Two weeks later, when that provision came up for debate, Maryland's Luther Martin, a slave owner himself, moved immediately to strike it out. Since each imported slave would add to a state's representation, states would be rewarded politically for engaging in the slave trade. “It was inconsistent with the principles of the revolution and dishonorable to the American character to have such a feature in the Constitution,” he argued.
²³

Virginia's George Mason, also a large slave owner (his plantation was very close to Washington's Mount Vernon), supported Martin's motion for both practical and moral reasons. Slavery impeded “the immigration of Whites, who really enrich & strengthen a Country,” while it also produced “the most pernicious effect on manners.” In words that are now often quoted, Mason boldly pronounced: “Every master of slaves is born a petty tyrant. They bring the judgment of heaven on a Country. As nations can not be rewarded or punished in the next world they must be in this.”

Did these slaveholders seriously oppose the very institution that supported them? Not entirely. Neither Martin nor Mason had any problem counting enslaved people, or at least some fraction thereof, to boost the representation of their respective states. But the issue this time was the
importation
of slaves—and both Maryland and Virginia already had as many as they needed.

The profitability of rice plantations in South Carolina, on the other hand, depended on more slave labor than was currently available, so delegates from that state wanted to keep importation open. Charles Cotesworth Pinckney, a South Carolina patrician, called out Mason for his high-toned stance, alleging baser motives: “As to Virginia she will gain by stopping the importations. Her slaves will rise in value, & she has more than she wants.” This surplus of slaves would allow Virginians to establish “a monopoly in their favor,” setting “their own terms for such as they might sell.” Mason's moralizing merely protected Virginia's local industry—breeding slaves for the market—which foreign imports would impair.

Other delegates from South Carolina and neighboring Georgia chimed in to defend the “right” to own slaves.

Charles Pinckney (Charles Cotesworth Pinckney's cousin) argued from history: “If slavery be wrong, it is justified by the example of all the world.” He “cited the case of Greece, Rome & other antient States; the sanction given by France, England, Holland & other modern States. In all ages one half of mankind have been slaves.”

Georgia's Abraham Baldwin (a transplanted son of Connecticut)
offered an argument that defenders of slavery would repeat many times before the Civil War: slavery was “a local matter,” not a “national object,” and Georgia would refuse to accept any attempt “to abridge one of her favorite prerogatives.” Charles Pinckney offered a similar threat: “South Carolina can never receive the plan [the Constitution] if it prohibits the slave trade.” There must be no “meddling with the importation of negroes.”

South Carolina's John Rutledge was particularly blunt: “Religion & humanity had nothing to do with this question—interest alone is the governing principle with nations.” It was perhaps the brashest, and most honest, statement of the summer.
²⁴

And “interest alone” settled the manner. Delegates from the Deep South cut a deal with those from New England: in return for allowing slave importation for another twenty years and a fugitive slave law, pro-importation Southerners would cede to Northern commercial interests and drop their demand that all navigation laws require a supermajority. (The North, which depended on maritime commerce, did not want the five Southern states, a minority, to block procommerce laws.) Each side got something it wanted, although Virginia and Maryland, which opposed slave importation
and
wanted a supermajority for navigation laws, lost out.
²⁵
In the thick of the debate over slave importation, Rufus King of Massachusetts commented, “the subject should be considered in a political light only,” and that is exactly the way delegates to the Federal Convention dispatched the embarrassing matter of slavery. Philosophical talk of liberty and human rights gave way in the end to backdoor deal making.
²⁶
When Gouverneur Morris of Pennsylvania, who favored abolition, said he “would sooner submit himself to a tax for paying for all the negroes in the U. States, than saddle posterity with such a Constitution,” the other delegates simply ignored him.
²⁷

“THE BEST THAT COULD BE OBTAINED AT THIS TIME”

Born of politics, the Constitution is not quite the precision instrument we would like to imagine: each component functioning integrally with the others, and all consistent with some overarching philosophy. The electoral college and the vice presidency, for instance, were last-minute additions that fatigued delegates did not bother to examine carefully. The “original intent” of these and other measures was often to secure sufficient votes to comprise a majority.

This troubled George Washington, who knew all too well that the final document had been shaped by “local interests” and “selfish views”—but he endorsed it nonetheless, viewing it as a means to a greater end. One week after the Convention adjourned, he wrote to three former governors of Virginia, appealing for their support: “I wish the Constitution which is offered had been made more perfect, but I sincerely believe it is the best that could be obtained at this time; and, as a Constitutional door is opened for amendment hereafter, the adoption of it under the present circumstances of the Union is in my opinion desirable.”
²⁸
Not perfect but workable—that was the tone, and it was also the strongest argument for ratification. A national government was needed, and here were the outlines for one. The Constitution could be fine-tuned later.

Many Americans today find it difficult to treat the so-called Constitutional Convention as a rough-and-tumble affair driven as much by interest as by reason. Such honesty, they fear, would undermine the participants' credibility and the almost scriptural sanctity of the resulting document. We need not to be so timid. By altering our perspective only slightly, we might even view the contentious proceedings as a fitting start to the interest-driven constitutional democracy that soon emerged and flourished with time. Downplaying the political nature of our government's creation creates too much distance between our world and that of the framers. If we see the framers as above the fray, we cannot see them as models for how we
might resolve our differences today. They become less relevant, not more so.

Historically, if we fail to explore the political dynamics that shaped the proceedings, we are left with myth and fabrication. On the word of Franklin, Washington, and others, we know that interest played its part, and thanks to James Madison, who carefully chronicled the event, we see it in practice. Whereas the gentlemen who gathered in the Pennsylvania State House in 1787, learned statesmen that they were, fully understood the historic nature of their enterprise and did their best to ground the overall structure of their plan on solid republican theory, their philosophical arguments were thoroughly entwined with push-and-pull maneuverings, as such arguments always are in real historical circumstances. There is no reason this should surprise us.

 

“They were America's first and, in many respects, its only natural aristocracy.”

The Declaration of Independence, 4 July 1776.

Painting by John Trumbull, 1787–1820.

8

AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY

W
e all know their names—George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, Alexander Hamilton, John and Samuel Adams, Patrick Henry, James Madison. People who learned the story as children and never studied it later—which includes most Americans, as we shall see later on—will likely add John Hancock, whose name has come to represent any sort of a signature, and Paul Revere, the midnight rider of the Revolution. These were America's wise men, the great leaders who gave our nation its bearings.

Regardless of whom we cast in this role, the principal actors in the story of our nation's birth would enjoy an elevated status. They were our
creators
, so they must have been particularly honorable and judicious; that is a structural requirement of the narrative. This does not lessen the merits of the actual men we call founders or the importance of their achievements. They did what they did and that is notable, but to form a national narrative, we naturally highlight and celebrate those whom we think set the United States on its course.

THE CHOSEN FEW

Although the cast of leading characters seems set in stone, it has actually changed over time. In the newly independent nation, during and after the Revolutionary War, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Alexander Hamilton (and to a lesser extent James Madison) did not make the grade. They quickly became divisive political figures, respected by some but detested by those who opposed the policies they embraced. These men we now revere were too controversial to become icons for a fledgling nation in search of a collective identity.

In those early days, two national figures stood head and shoulders above the rest: The General (George Washington) and The Doctor (Benjamin Franklin). These of course topped the list, but other heroes emerged as well.

Throughout New England, “Old Put” was a popular favorite. Almost forgotten today, Israel Putnam was already a folkloric star for his exploits in the French and Indian War, but one incident closed the deal. Supposedly, he was plowing his field in Connecticut when he heard that the British had marched on Lexington; immediately he dropped his plow, mounted his horse, and sped away to answer the alarm, not even returning to his house. Then, shortly after, he made the British pay at Bunker Hill. Such is the stuff of legend, and it earned Old Put a unique place in the hearts of his countrymen.

Two other New Englanders also became famous generals and household names: Henry Knox (now of Fort Knox fame) and the “Fighting Quaker” from Rhode Island, Nathanael Greene. So did New York's Richard Montgomery, the dazzling Irishman who rose quickly in the ranks and led the charge against Quebec, where he lost his life and gained his fame. Boston's Joseph Warren, killed in action in the Battle of Bunker [Breed's] Hill, was likewise mourned. In a militarized society that had just fought a long and troubling war for its very survival, becoming a martyr was the surest way to enter the history books.

Other military heroes, valiant warriors known for courageous
deeds, were lionized. Henry “Lighthorse Harry” Lee, commander of the fabled “Lee's Legion,” was more celebrated than his second cousin once removed Richard Henry Lee, who made the motion for independence in Congress. Francis Marion, the “Swamp Fox,” and Thomas Sumter, the “Gamecock,” achieved great renown for bogging down the British army in the South. Even the great orator Patrick Henry rose to fame in part because he was such a firm friend of war.

In the early decades of the nineteenth century, Americans began to celebrate a more cohesive group. With the enshrining of the Declaration of Independence (see
chapters 6
and
15
), the fifty-six men who had signed that document emerged as the nation's alleged founders. Collectively they were known as the “signers,” and Americans hungered to know more about these illustrious fellows. In the 1820s John Sanderson, with the help of Robert Waln, published a nine-volume series called
Biography of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence
, and in 1827 Charles Goodrich came out with the bestselling
Lives of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence
. Others followed in a similar vein, and America had found its men. The signers ruled as the Founding Fathers through much of the nineteenth century. Every detail of their lives was uncovered, and a few additional details invented.