Observations on the New Constitution, and on the Federal and State Conventions, Part II: Philosophy

Before diving into an analysis of the content and significance of Mercy Otis Warren’s Observations on the New Constitution, and on the Federal and State Conventions, it might first be appropriate to attempt to ascertain its place on the timeline of early American history. Save for the year, 1788, and the place of its first publication, Boston, the document itself does not explicitly acknowledge at what point in the ratification process it first saw print. As discussed during previous explorations of entries in the Anti-Federalist Papers (of which Observations is certainly a part), when a particular criticism of the proposed federal constitution was first put forward is highly significant to the manner in which it ought to be interpreted. In the middle of the process, when it was unclear whether the Constitution would be adopted or not, an Anti-Federalist could be expected to write with feelings of legitimate confidence; nearer its end, when ratification was essentially accomplished, desperation or frustration might fairly be perceived as the dominant undertones. Though, again, Observations does not provide any overt indication of when it was published, a bit of deduction based on elements of the text itself render a fairly narrow window of possibility.

Observations is divided into nineteen sections, of greatly varying lengths. Near the end of the first, Warren mentioned, with wry resignation, the “late Convention of the Massachusetts.” The Massachusetts ratifying convention concluded on February 6^th, 1788 by approving the proposed constitution, 187 to 168 (hence the cause of Warren’s sardonic disappointment). Later, in the eighteenth section, she mentioned several other state conventions whose results were still pending at the time of her writing. These included specific mentions of the likelihood of Virginia, Maryland, and New York to adopt the proposed federal charter (she figured none of them would), as well as a general admission that the conventions of New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and the Carolinas also represented important battlegrounds. Putting aside the fact that she was incorrect on all counts – interesting, but unimportant for the moment – Warren’s mention of the upcoming Maryland convention provides a fairly clear indication of when Observations was written. The convention that assembled in Maryland to ratify or reject the proposed constitution concluded its deliberations on April, 26^th, 1788 with a vote of 63 to 11 in the affirmative. Because Maryland’s vote immediately followed that of Massachusetts, Observations must have been written at some point between early February and late April of the same year.

Massachusetts was the sixth state to ratify the draft constitution out of the nine required before it went into effect; three more states needed to vote in favor out of the remaining seven. Accordingly, the tone of Warren’s observations could fairly be interpreted as both confident as well as somewhat measured. Her remarks aimed at the men who took part in the ratification of the Constitution in Massachusetts seem at times almost haughty; her disappointment is plain, no doubt magnified by the belief that their efforts would ultimately come to naught. At the same time, particularly in section eighteen, Warren struck a somewhat more cautious tone. Acknowledging the number of conventions yet to render a verdict, she made clear to her audience how important each convention remained to the overarching debate, and warned of the consequences should the issue of ratification split the United States into potentially warring factions.

Forgiving some degree of rhetorical exaggeration, Warren had reason to be concerned. The ratification debate which followed the drafting of the United States Constitution represented an extremely significant crossroads in the young nation’s history. Down the path of acceptance lay the entire subsequent history of the United States as we know it. Down the other path, of rejection, was a history entirely unknown to us, full of different events, and a wholly different nation, that could just as easily have unfolded. Though they lacked the benefit of hindsight, the tone of their writings indicate that those engaged in the debate surrounding the proposed constitution, be they Federalist or Anti-Federalist, were very sensitive to the potential consequences of their efforts, and proceeded with the appropriate sense of responsibility, gravity, vigilance, and passion. Mercy Otis Warren was very much a part of this conversation, and Observations was perhaps her most significant contribution.

Of said document, a fair amount of information can be gleaned that provides a degree of insight into who Mercy Otis Warren was (intellectually, if not personally), how she viewed the world, and where among the Founders she is best located. To that end, perhaps the most striking element of Observations is the knowledge, of history, philosophy, and contemporary politics, Warren time and again displayed over the course of the various arguments she put forward. Recalling that she was largely self-educated, or at least that her education came mainly as the result of her own initiative, the sheer breadth of her understanding is quite impressive, as is her ability to effectively put it to use. Indeed, though she was not extended the privilege of attending any formal learning institutions, her rhetorical style betrays the influence of a classical education. Rather than simply recite what she had read, which evidently included English and Spanish history, French and Italian philosophy, the Old Testament, and the Classics, she demonstrated an understating in Observations of how these diverse elements could best be utilized in order to further her argument in a way that was logical, structured, and effective. This would have been no small feat for anyone, and effectively placed Warren on the same intellectual plane as any of her more well-known male contemporaries.      

In addition to the manner in which Warren deployed the knowledge she had amassed, it’s also worth paying heed to the specific references she chose to deploy in Observations, and considering what they have to say about her perspective, assumptions, and intellectual proclivities. Take, for instance, an allusion made very early in the first section to the main character of the Spanish novel Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. Warren, speaking of the disappointment that might visit upon those who ratified the Constitution only to find the “flower of their crop” taxed to oblivion by newly-established federal authorities, guessed they would likely answer, as did the Man of La Mancha, “The steward of my Lord has seized and sent it to Madrid.” This would seem a rather sardonic observation, lacking in sympathy as it compares the supporters of the proposed constitution to one of literature’s most famous lunatics. Clearly Warren felt little compassion for those who wished to usher in the proposed federal union without considering certain of its consequences, but why did she choose the main character of a 17^th-century Spanish novel as her point of reference?

Published in two parts in 1605 and 1615, Don Quixote is one of the most celebrated works of fiction in the history of Western literature, and its titular hero has become an enduring figure in the popular lexicon. From the name and manner of Don Quixote is derived the English adjective “quixotic,” signifying a sense of romance to the point of impracticality, and from a famous incident described in the novel also comes the idiom “tilting at windmills,” meaning to attempt to battle imaginary foes. Both of these English-language derivations of Don Quixote may have had something to do with what Warren was attempting to communicate. Perhaps she intended to paint supporters of the Constitution as blindly idealistic, or determined to remedy problems that simply didn't exist via the adoption of a federal charter. Still, there is more to Cervantes’ novel than just the main character, and perhaps more to Warren’s invocation of the same than rhetorical expedience.

Don Quixote is a comic novel in the picaresque tradition and among other things has been described as a satire of orthodoxy and nationalism, a deconstruction of established chivalric narratives, and a meditation on the devaluing of nobility in contemporary European culture. It’s a highly complex work, with many discernible thematic layers, and would no doubt have presented a challenged to readers unprepared for Cervantes’ unconventional and inventive use of language and meta-narrative (in the second half of the story, the main characters are aware of the publication of the first half of their adventures). That Mercy Otis Warren had read Don Quixote, and was familiar enough with it to casually quote a passage in support of a written argument, is potentially significant for several reasons. Presumably she enjoyed the book, or else she would not have remembered it. This in itself reveals a possible taste for literature, and not merely for what was popular among English-language audiences of the day. As to the content of the novel, perhaps she found appealing its apparent indictment of idealism, and saw the titular hero as a tragic buffoon; sympathetic, but still hapless. This would again seem to align with her evident lack of sympathy for certain of the proposed constitution’s more energetic supporters. Don Quixote being viewed as a comedy perhaps also indicates that Warren was not without a sense of humor or irony. This appears to be confirmed by the sentence that followed her quotation of the Man of La Mancha, whose simple words she translated as, “The exigencies of government require that the collectors of the revenue should transmit it to the Federal City.” A needlessly exact interpretation, it seems likely Warren intended it to mock the inability of those she described to grasp the meaning of the original quotation.

In addition to Western literature, Mercy Otis Warren also demonstrated a familiarity with various types of European philosophy in her anti-constitutional Observations. Ample evidence of her intellectual fluency can be found in the first section alone, in which she quoted at length from the French writer, diplomat, and historian Gabriel Bonnot de Mably (1709-1785), expressed ideas drawn from social contract theory as articulated by English philosopher John Locke (1632-1704), and made use of certain observations put forward by British legal theorist Sir William Blackstone (1723-1780). She also made reference in section five to the influence of English jurist Sir Matthew Hale (1609-1676), and in section fourteen to the realpolitik political theory of Italian statesman Niccolò Machiavelli (1469-1527). This is an impressive assortment of thinkers to have at hand, and the confidence with which Warren deployed their words amidst her various assertions indicates a strong grasp of what each of them had to say and the manner in which their words could be applied to the situation she was facing in 1788.

At the same time, Warren’s familiarity with the work of each of the men she chose explicitly to cite in Observations suggests something about her own preferences and inclinations. Mably, for instance, proved to be a major influence on the development of both republican and communist political theory. At times in his work he criticized the concept of private property as incompatible with human sympathy, argued in favor of equality before the law, and asserted that virtue was a far more valuable commodity than material wealth. One of the passages of his that Warren quoted speaks quite effectively to this sentiment. “The virtues and vices of a people,” he wrote, “When a revolution happens in their government, are the measure of the liberty or slavery they ought to expect.” She further quoted Mably as having written that, “An heroic love for the publick good, a profound reverence for the laws, a contempt of riches, and a noble haughtiness of soul, are the only foundations of a free government.” She thereafter asked, evidently taking the Frenchman’s words as a guidepost, “Do not these dignified principles still exist among us?”  By bringing Mably’s explicit sentiments to bear on her argument against the ratification of a proposed federal charter, Mercy Otis Warren thereby expressed sympathy with his core premise that wealth and privilege were corrosive of equality, and that virtue was a far more important social value than obedience.

       Her understanding of social contract theory, as expressed in section one of Observations, likewise seems to demonstrate the depth of Warren’s knowledge of Western philosophy, and her ability to synthesize complex ideas in a way that aided her ability to convincingly put forward an argument. At the beginning of the third paragraph of the aforementioned section, she laid out a very succinct summary of the social contract and some of its implications as a means of criticizing the deficiencies of the government that was framed by the proposed constitution. So concise is this summation, and so well-phrased, that it bears a sizeable, if not complete, quotation. “Man is born free,” Warren wrote,

And possessed of certain inalienable rights – that government is instituted for the protection, safety and happiness of the people, and not for the profit, honor, or private interest of any man, family, or class of men – That the origin of all power is in the people, and that they have an incontestable right to check the creatures of their own creation, vested with certain powers to guard the life, liberty, and property of the community [.]

In addition to the evident influence of the phraseology of the Declaration of Independence – in itself a document inspired by existing social contract theory – this passage appears to exhibit a particular affinity with the philosophy of John Locke. The final clause especially, in which Warren described the logic behind the so-called “Right of Revolution” or “Right of Revolt,” has a distinctly Lockean ring to it. 

By abusing their power, Locke argued in his Two Treatises on Government (1689), the legislative authorities, “Forfeit the Power, the People had put into their hands, for quite contrary ends, and it devolves to the People, who have a Right to resume their original Liberty.” Warren made essentially the same case when she stated that, “The origin of all power is in the people, and that they have an incontestable right to check the creatures of their own creation [.]”Locke likewise asserted that what the people had to lose, what they established governments in order to protect, were their, “Lives, Liberties, and Estates [.]” Warren echoed this as well by her claim that governments were, “Vested with certain powers to guard the life, liberty and property of the community.” As these specific parallels, and the manner in which Warren further elaborated on the nature and purpose of representative government within the text of Observations, indicate that her grasp of Locke’s version of social contract theory was quite firm. Like her colleague and correspondent Thomas Jefferson, who also displayed a strong affinity for Locke’s articulation of the origin and nature of political organization, Warren evidently regarded government as means rather than an end; a thing intended to serve the people rather than demand service of them. This would tend to place her in a similar ideological category to Jefferson, his friend and colleague James Madison, and the various other Anti-Federalists and Republicans who likewise opposed the centralization of power in the hands of a strong, coercive federal government.

In addition to the work of John Locke, Warren demonstrated a particular affinity for certain elements of English political thought by also quoting from the writings of Sir William Blackstone in her Anti-Federalist Observations. These excerpted passages appear in sections one and two, and provide further evidence of her abovementioned disdain for coercive government and her steadfast belief in the primacy of certain fundamental legal protections native to the English tradition. The first such quote, whose author she cryptically referred to only as “a justly celebrated writer,” asserted that, “the principle aim of society is to protect individuals in the absolute rights which were vested in them by the immediate laws of nature [.]” Society, referring potentially to any form of social organization up to and including formal government, was primarily responsible for protecting the natural rights of individuals, presumably something on the order of life, liberty, and property. This is a very Lockean ideal, and one which very much squares with what Warren had theretofore expressed concerning government and its basic purpose.

The second quotation form Blackstone that Warren dispensed, in the second section of Observations, seemed to follow logically from the first as a specific example of how the “absolute rights” of the individual were best protected. “The learned Judge Blackstone,” she deigned to address, observed that it, “has been coeval with the first rudiments of civil government, that property, liberty and life, depend on maintaining in its legal force the constitutional trial by jury.” As mentioned on many occasions during the discussions of previous weeks, trial by jury was, and is, widely recognized as one of the most essential political/legal rights attached to the concept of English or British citizenship and its various derivatives. For centuries it has been viewed as one of the foremost means by which a free people may be guaranteed of their personal and communal liberty, and its abrogation has frequently met with agitation, protest, and even armed insurrection. Many of the Founders, when offering written protest against the actions of British ministers in the 1760s and 1770s, put forward the right of trial by jury as a one of the tradition prerogatives possessed by citizens of the colonies (as subjects of the British Crown) which the government of the day was intent on denying or suppressing. Mercy Otis Warren, it seems, was no different, and attempted to buttress her claim for the centrality of trial by jury to the liberty of a free people by quoting words to that effect from one of the foremost legal minds in the Anglo-American world.

Sir William Blackstone was indeed that, and Warren’s knowledge of him and his work ought to be seen as further cementing her place as the intellectual equal of the other members of the Founding Generation. His Commentaries on the Laws of England (published in four volumes between 1766 and 1770) was, at the risk of repeating myself, perhaps the single most influential textbook of common law history and practice in Britain and America for the better part of the 18^th and 19^th centuries. For young lawyers who came of age during the years immediately preceding the American Revolution, Blackstone’s packaging of established case histories was at the centre of their education, and in some cases was the only text they consulted before requesting admission to their respective bar association. Among those who are known to have read and/or possessed a copy of Commentaries are some of the most brilliant legal minds of their time, including President John Adams, Chief Justices John Marshall and John Jay, and Associate Justice James Wilson. For Mercy Otis Warren to be considered a member of this august company, if only by virtue of her common knowledge of the aforementioned Blackstone, is no small thing. If she was comfortable enough with the “learned Judge” to quote him in her own work, and knowledgeable enough to do it well, then she may have conceivably possessed an understanding of his work on par with that of some practicing lawyers and judges then working in America. This is in addition to the fact, again, that Warren was almost entirely self-taught, and so would have had to seek out and interpret Blackstone’s work without formal assistance.

Even in cases when she did not necessarily agree with the principles they set forth, Warren demonstrated a capacity in Observations to seek out and absorb the teachings of a variety of legal or philosophical authorities. At the end of section fourteen, for instance, she stated, as a means of reiterating the importance of protecting the rights of individuals, that, “even the Italian master in politicks, the subtle and renounced Machiavel acknowledges, that no republic ever yet stood on a stable foundation without satisfying its common people.” Though delivered with all the ceremony of a somewhat casual aside, this admission of familiarity with the political thought of Machiavelli is potentially quite revealing. Referring to the author of Il Principe (1532) as “subtle and renounced” seems a fairly clear indication of Warren’s disdain for the man, or at least for the principles he espoused. Considering that Machiavelli is thought of as among the originators of realpolitik thought, whereby ends tend to justify means, it could logically be inferred that Mercy Otis Warren rejected that style of political decision-making and nurtured a somewhat more principled political outlook. This would appear to place her, in the American context, in opposition to notoriously pragmatic figures like Alexander Hamilton.

At the same time, though she evidently found Machiavelli disagreeable as a political theorist, Warren was nonetheless familiar enough with him and the principles he espoused to attribute an idea to his name. Though this does not necessarily mean that she had read Il Principe from cover to cover some time prior to drafting Observations in 1788, it is an undeniable possibility that at some point she read some of his work – enough, at least, to decide that his ideals were not to her liking. If this was indeed the case it further testifies to Warren’s intellectual curiosity, as well as her humility (being willing to admit that Machiavelli was not completely without merit), and her desire to continually acquire knowledge and turn it to a useful purpose.

Observations on the New Constitution, and on the Federal and State Conventions, Part I: Context

            It occurred to me recently that the manner in which I've been going about things in this blog has perhaps been a bit…one-sided. I've spoken a great deal about what I like to imagine is a decent assortment of statesmen, philosophers, economists, and political thinkers. And I've always tried to grasp them for all that they are; good, bad, inspiring, and flawed. I've tried to be non-partisan, if that’s possible, and yet I seem to have fallen into the rather unfortunate habit of privileging one specific perspective over another of equal value. What I mean to say is, all the people whose work I’ve yet discussed have been men.

            If you feel as though you can see what’s coming, and don’t like it, do please take the opportunity to run for the hills, or whatever.

            See, I have a sister. She’s a very talented writer – very articulate and intelligent – and it just so happens she’s also the submissions editor for an online film magazine called cléo (lower-case and italicized, because it’s that kind of book). It’s a publication with a declared feminist slant, if you hadn't guessed, and reflecting about the kinds of topics it covers and the kind that I cover caused me to stop and think for a moment. The American Revolution, and the period of nation-building that followed, is an utterly fascinating era in the history of the world. Centuries-old traditions were torn down, wholly untested institutions were raised in their place, and men everywhere spoke passionately and articulately about liberty, the nature of human existence, rights, and community. But again we see how easy it is, how seemingly natural, to speak of the American founding as an explicitly masculine enterprise. Inspiring though the preamble of Thomas Jefferson’s Declaration is – “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal” – it’s also a clearly gendered statement. More than likely the intent was to use “man” as a synonym for “mankind,” though in truth this isn’t much better.

            It isn’t that we should fault Jefferson for not being more gender-inclusive. Trying to hold a figure from the 18^th century to the standards of 21^st is little more than an exercise in futility and frustration. But recognizing the gender bias that comes with studying the Founders raises an important question; where were the women during the Revolution? What did they think/feel/do about the Stamp Act, the Boston Massacre, the Declaration of Independence, or the United States Constitution? It was their nation as well as their husbands’, brothers’, fathers’ and sons’; every decision men in power made affected them, in some cases to a greater degree than their male counterparts. Where is their voice? Where is their story? There are, fortunately, a number of studies a person can familiarise themselves with that attempt to tackle questions very much like these. “Women in the Revolution” has become an increasingly fleshed-out area of inquiry since at least the 1980s, and bit by bit the other half of the picture that is the American Founding is being filled out, and given color, light, shadow, and dimension. In that spirit I’d like to contribute something of my own to the conversation.      

    

            That being said, the selection of an appropriate subject presents something of a quandary. One of the reasons that women have been left of the orthodox narrative of the Revolution is because their perspective on just about any topic was felt to hold less intrinsic value than a man’s. As a consequence, women’s thought were rarely recorded, or if recorded were rarely preserved. What we do know of women during the Revolutionary Era comes largely from the perspective of men. This is understandable, but it does rather throw my “history in their words” thesis into disarray. Abigail Adams, wife of John Adams and the (giggle) second Second Lady of the United States, would appear to be a rare exception. Her letters to her husband, exchanged over a period of decades amidst some of the most significant events in American history, provide fascinating insight. Not only do they offer a window into the mind of a very intelligent, well-read 18^th-century American woman, but they also chronicle the inner workings of one of the most fruitful, durable, and sincere personal and political partnerships in modern history. A moment’s consideration, however, reveals a slight complication. If Abigail Adams is famous at all, and I think it’s fair to say she is, then it’s really only as a function of her husband’s own celebrity. We can read her letters because John Adams, Founding Father and President of the United States, preserved them; her voice is expressed through and as an accessory to his. This is not meant to downplay her worth as a source of information or insight, but rather to point out that though her perspective is indeed rare and valuable it is one whose very existence (as we know it) is undeniably male-centered.

            Fortunately there is another woman that comes to mind. A contemporary of Adams, Jefferson, and all the rest, her writings during and about the Revolution and the American Founding came at the behest of no man, and went on to influence the course of events on an equal footing with those of her male colleagues. She was a wife and mother, a playwright, an activist, a political commentator, and a historian; all in her own right, and on her own initiative. The abovementioned John Adams himself once wrote of her, “God Almighty has entrusted her with the Powers for the good of the World, which, in the cause of his Providence, he bestows on few of the human race.” I’d like to take the next few weeks to read and discuss a small portion of the work of this woman, she who should most certainly be considered among the American Founders. Her name, which I'm fairly confident you've never heard before, was Mercy Otis Warren.

            Born in 1732 in the Cape Cod community of Barnstable, Massachusetts Bay Colony, Mercy was the third of James Otis, Sr. and Mary Allyne’s thirteen children. The elder Otis was one of the most prominent lawyers in the colony, was elected to the General Court in 1745, and was appointed Attorney General by Governor William Shirley in 1748. Mercy was accordingly raised in a familial environment that was both highly literate and politically engaged. Indeed, the manner in which James, Sr. became an opponent of Governor Thomas Hutchinson in the 1760s, and spoke out in the 1770s against perceived abuses of power by British authorities, would seem to indicate a streak of radicalism that doubtless had an impact on his children, Mercy included. Along with her brothers, Joseph and James, Jr., she studied under the family’s private tutor, Reverend Jonathan Russell. Russell apparently noted the young Mercy’s passion for history and furnished her with numerous volumes on the subject. After James, Jr. later departed Barnstable to attend Harvard he corresponded regularly with his sister, and surviving letters attest to his regard for her intelligence and his belief that she should put it to use. Upon her brother’s return to the family home Mercy aided him in his graduate studies, and was thereby exposed for the first time to work by political philosophers like John Locke and David Hume.   

            In 1754, Mercy Otis married Plymouth, Massachusetts lawyer and merchant James Warren. A friend of Mercy’s bother, Warren developed a reputation in the 1760s for being an outspoken critic of British government policies like the Stamp Act, and the Townshend Acts. He later went on to ally with Samuel and John Adams, served in the Massachusetts Militia at Bunker Hill (June 17^th, 1775), and became Paymaster General of the Continental Army in 1776. Soon after their marriage, Mercy became an instrumental part of her husband’s political life. The couple’s home in Plymouth frequently played host to meetings of local political and revolutionary groups, including Samuel Adams’ Sons of Liberty, and thereafter she set her sights on exercising her literary voice in favor of the protection and advancement of the liberties that British authorities seemed daily to be threatening. James Warren proved to be very encouraging of his wife’s efforts, and she in turn became his lifelong correspondent and chief political confidante. The couple went on to have five sons (James, Winslow, Charles, Henry, and George) between 1757 and 1766.

            Over the course of the Revolutionary War years (1775-1783), and the subsequent nation-building era of the 1780s and 1790s, Mercy maintained lively and heartfelt correspondence with a number of highly significant individuals among the Founding Generation. These included, among others, Abigail Adams and Martha Washington, English historian Catherine Macaulay, Samuel Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Patrick Henry, and George Washington. John Adams was also a regular correspondent, and in the 1760s and 1770s became her close friend and literary mentor. Through her letters, Mercy was able to nurture discussions of women’s issues with some of the most influential Americans of the era, help keep various key parties informed of current events, and foster relationships with many of the prime movers of the American Founding. Beginning in the 1770s she began to put her literary prowess to public use with the publication of several highly satirical plays that turned an acerbic eye on the indecisiveness of Governor Thomas Hutchinson, and the threat posed by the potential abnegation of the rights guaranteed by the Massachusetts colonial charter. These dramas, all published anonymously, were entitled The Adulterer (1772), The Defeat (1773), The Group (1775), The Blockheads (1776), and The Motley Assembly (1779). Following the end of the Revolutionary War, efforts to improve upon the flaws inherent in the Articles of Confederation produced a draft constitution which Mercy and James Warren both found themselves opposed to. During the subsequent ratification process, whereby said constitution was debated and either approved or denied by special conventions in each of the thirteen states, the pair both published Anti-Federalist essays in their local Massachusetts newspaper under the shared pseudonym “Helvitius Priscus.” Mercy herself, again in an attempt to shine on light on some of the flaws she perceived in the proposed national charter, also wrote a pamphlet with the title Observations on the New Constitution, and on the Federal and State Conventions, under the penname “A Columbian Patriot.”

            Even from this brief biographical sketch, several important characteristic of Mercy Otis Warren, her life, and her work can be surmised. The first is that she had lived, as of the late 1780s, just about her entire life in a highly politicized and intellectually challenging environment. The daughter, sister, and wife of statesmen, lawyers, and political activists, Mercy Otis Warren (who we’ll just call Warren from here on out) had seemingly always existed in a social world that greatly valued concepts like natural rights, encouraged political dissent against perceived tyranny, and encouraged the use of natural gifts like reason, oratorical skill, and literary ability. In a different environment, surrounded by different people, it would not have been at all surprising for her to adopt the role of patient hostess and loyal friend that so many women of her generation had been taught was their province. This is in no way intended to downplay Warren’s own sense of purpose or initiative. That she was determined to put her talents to use in a field that held little, if any, respect for female contributors, and which would force her to toil for the better part of her years in anonymity, seems indication enough of her steadfast resolve, and her desire to be of service to the political community she felt herself a part of. That being said, the encouragement offered at an early age by her brother, James Otis, Jr., and in her adult years by her husband, James Warren, should not be discounted. Her uncommonness is in some ways a reflection of their uncommonness; no less for being connected, but still very much that.

            Warren’s choice of creative outlet, as mentioned above, is also worth noting. During the era in which Mercy Otis Warren wrote and published, female participation in the Anglo-American literary world was far from the norm. Granting certain notable exceptions, like British feminist philosopher Mary Wollstonecraft or Gothic novelist Eliza Parsons, many women writing in the late 18^th and early 19^th centuries did so under pseudonyms in an attempt to conceal their gender, at least partly in order to bypass any assumptions or prejudices as to the content or quality of their work. This did not stop women from putting pen to paper, in any number of genres and at times quite successfully. But the relative paucity of prominent female literary figures doubtless had the effect of conditioning most women who engaged with literature to regard the written word as yet another creative enterprise that was the domain of men. Warren was obviously not dissuaded by the lack of visible role models or exemplars, though she did choose to publish most of her work (until the early 1790s) under a series of assumed names. This would seem to indicate that she was particularly strong-willed – willing to defy the sexual status quo of the Anglo-American community – as well as humble – simultaneously unwilling to publicly engage in behavior that might easily have been regarded with a degree of sensationalism. Her decision to publish anonymously was therefore possibly owing to an aversion to becoming an object of attention while contributing meaningfully to the political events unfolding around her.

            The events of Mercy Otis Warren’s life would also seem to indicate on her part an abiding passion for knowledge and intellectual stimulation. Though Johnathan Russell had been tasked by the Otis family with preparing their eldest sons to attend Harvard, Mercy proved herself as capable a student as her brothers, and so impressed her tutor that he encouraged further study and provided her with the appropriate materials. She exhibited the desire for stimulation and self-improvement again upon the return of James, Jr. from Harvard; though no doubt her offer of assistance was genuine, she doubtless also understood that aiding him in his study presented an opportunity for her to expand her own base of knowledge. This sense of initiative is remarkable considering that learning was not something that was required of her gender. There were no women’s colleges in the colonial Massachusetts of her youth, and an advanced knowledge of history, philosophy, or literature would not have been necessary to fulfil the role of wife and mother that was life’s culmination for the great majority of 18^th-century women. Though Mercy Otis Warren was indeed a faithful wife to her husband James, and a mother to his children, she succeeded in becoming so much more thanks to a sense of curiosity and self-assuredness on par with that of her male colleagues. This confidence and keen interest in the world around her manifested itself again during her married life when she became an active participant in the political gatherings that the Warrens hosted in their Plymouth home. Rather than listen, council her husband, and otherwise keep to herself, she reacted to the events of the day by becoming a playwright. Her views on the political situation in Massachusetts in the 1770s became fodder for public consumption and debate because she took steps to make them so. In the 1780s she did so again on the topic of the proposed constitution, on an equal basis with her husband, the various Anti-Federalists, and the likes of James Madison and Alexander Hamilton. At every step along the way she may well have received encouragement from her male family members and friends, but without some innate sense of purpose, without feeling on some level like she needed to be a part of the world of knowledge and debate, Mercy Otis Warren would likely be a name of little consequence. She made it otherwise.

Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania III, Part V: Philosophy, the Classics, and the Manner of Gentlemen

Having thus far explored the various intellectual, moral, and personal influences at play in John Dickinson’s Letter III, and discussed at length the way some of them seem to mesh quite successfully while others appear utterly contradictory, it might seem to be – how shall we say – gilding the lily to continue a further dissection of the above-mentioned document. Yes, it may be just that, brevity being the soul of wit, and so forth. But if my readers have learned anything about me at all, lo these many months, it’s that I don’t feel there can ever be such a thing as too many words set forth on a topic as rich and complex as the American Founding Fathers. So I expect that they’ll forgive me for deciding one last time in this present series to upend my cranium above the page in an attempt to shake lose what thoughts remain about Letter III and its estimable author.

            Because there are, I feel, several more things to learn from a reading of the third of John Dickinson’s Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania. In particular, there are elements of what Dickinson wrote in an attempt to make clear his position on the emerging crisis between the British government and the colonies that provide evidence as to some of his philosophical inclinations which have not already been explored. Several references that Dickinson put forward, for example, hint at an affinity for classical references that would appear to place Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania in the realm of the “high discourse” tradition of English political writing. This quite emphatically sets Dickinson apart from other American political activists of the era who tended toward the radical, such as Thomas Paine or Thomas Jefferson, and says a great deal about how he viewed himself and his efforts within the larger sphere of Anglo-American politics and philosophy. By the same token, remarks made by Dickinson in Letter III about the nature of Lockean social contract theory and its application to the American colonial context provide clear evidence of how he differed from his revolutionary colleagues in terms of philosophical outlook. By studying these instances of Dickinson giving voice to some of his less obvious intellectual preferences, it is possible to further pinpoint where exactly on the ideological spectrum of the American Revolution the “Farmer in Pennsylvania” sat, and in turn develop a broader, richer sense of just how many distinct points of view the Founders held between them.

            As mentioned some weeks ago, the tone of John Dickinson’s Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania place them very much in league with the collection of 144 missives published between 1720 and 1723 in the London Journal known collectively as Cato’s Letters. The work of Englishman John Trenchard and Scotsman Thomas Gordon, both outspoken members of the reformist Country Party in 18^th-century Britain, the Letters were concisely argued attacks against the perceived corruption of the government of George I following a financially disastrous investment scheme. In exchange for a series of bribes members of the government authorized a trade in early 1720 whereby holders of British securities (i.e. the national debt) could trade them to the South Sea Company in exchange for stock at a favorable rate of exchange. Because the company had been granted a trade monopoly for South America it was expected that its stock value would increase precipitously, thereby enticing bond-holders to make the trade. Thereafter the high-interest government securities that had been a constant drain on the Treasury would be redeemed, and both parties involved in the transaction would be beneficiaries of a financial windfall. For a time this seemed to work. In January 1720, South Sea Company stocks traded at £128 per share; by May they had increased to £500, and by June to a peak of £1050. Unfortunately this flurry of activity led to widespread speculation in the shares of other companies, and in an attempt to tamp down on runaway inflation the government passed the Bubble Act in June, 1720. This piece of legislation made all joint-stock companies that did not possess a Royal Charter illegal, and quickly put a stop to the rampant trading the South Sea Company’s success had encouraged. This had the unanticipated knock-on effect of driving down the value of South Sea stock as well, and vast sums of money were lost by some of Britain’s wealthiest and most influential citizens.

            In view of this naked, and catastrophic, display of corruption and patronage, Trenchard and Gordon took it upon themselves to give vent to the public frustrations that resulted. After a dozen or so letters to that effect, the pair thereafter dedicated themselves to holding forth on any number of topics of public import, from incidents of contemporary significance (the threatened loss of recently-acquired Gibraltar) to general topics of universal application (the value of free speech, loyalty, and liberty). Over the many, many entries that followed the pair argued extensively and effectively for transparency in government, freedom of expression, and the inviolable nature of individual liberty, in the process deploying a raft of references to ancient Greek and Roman philosophers as well as to more contemporary figures like English republican theorist Algernon Sidney. Thereafter collected and reprinted, Cato’s Letters became a bestseller in Britain, going through six editions as of 1755. Significant to the present discussion, they also became a particular favorite of the North American audience. The text of the Letters were widely distributed in the Thirteen Colonies and were freely quoted in newspapers, and bound editions found their way into roughly half the private libraries on the continent. In homage, Cato became a common pseudonym for authors of tracts from across the political spectrum, including those who argued for and against the Revolution in the 1770s and the adoption of the Constitution in the 1780s. John Dickinson appeared to wear the influence of Cato’s Letters in his own Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania, both in the latter’s use of classical references and the importance they attached to the ideal of disinterestedness.

Evidence of second tendency, of declaring the importance of political disinterestedness, can be found specifically in the second paragraph of Letter III. Therein, after first declaring in the opening paragraph that the only motives behind publishing his missives was, “a lively resentment of every insult and injury offered to you,” he clarified for his readers just where he stood in relation to the unfolding crisis between the colonies and the British government. “I am no further concerned,” Dickinson wrote, “in anything affecting America, than any one of you; and when liberty leaves it, I can quit it much more conveniently than most of you [.]” This probably sounds a bit strange coming from a man who claims to have the best interests of his countrymen at heart – it certainly did to me on first blush – but statements like this were meant to demonstrate a person’s impartiality, and therefore their credibility. While it has since come to have the same meaning as “uninterested,” the 18^th-century connotation of “disinterested” was something closer to non-partisan. To be disinterested was considered a political virtue in an era that still demonized political parties and at least paid lip service to ideals like public service and self-sacrifice. Cato’s Letters are chock-a-block with references to disinterest as an ideal, and the nefarious influence of “the moneyed interest in England” and, “the destructive interests of societies of stock-jobbers, combined with publick plunderers [.]” Though Dickinson avoided using such unambiguous terminology in Letter III, the general sentiment he attempted to express falls under the same general category.

When he wrote, “I am no further concerned in anything affecting America, than any one of you,” he meant that he was not, for instance, a member of any branch of any colonial government, or a royal official of any kind, or the owner of a business that benefited directly from British patronage or trade policy. His claimed impartially thus stemmed from the fact that he was not bound to speak in favor of maintaining the Anglo-American relationship by any fear of reprisal or financial loss. A royally-appointed tax assessor could not say the same, nor could a merchant with strong ties to London, or a Crown attorney. In 1767 Dickinson was little more than a private citizen, and this fact he wanted to make clear. Lacking formal ties to any organization, decision-making body or sovereign authority, he believed that he possessed the ability to speak for the good of all rather than some narrow and parochial financial or political interest. If he did happen to speak favorably of the Crown, or Parliament, or of generally avoiding rash action, it would thus have been the result of an objective assessment of what was in the best interests of the colonial population rather than what would benefit his position or his designs.

He had much the same sentiment in mind when he added, “when liberty leaves it, I can quit it much more conveniently than most of you.” The significance of this passage is somewhat less obvious than the one that preceded it. Here Dickinson was attempting to point to his personal wealth as a positive factor in his impartiality. Someone who worked in a trade, like a farmer or an artisan, would naturally have felt that the quality of their life was strongly tied to the economic and political situation of the community in which their lived. Colonial trade and taxation, both policy areas that the British Parliament had claimed exclusive jurisdiction over, affected what most Americans were able to purchase in shops, how much money they were able to save, and in turn the general quality of their existence. Consequently, the average, workaday colonist might regard the mounting disagreement between British America and Parliament as bad for business and their life in turn, and thus seek a speedy remedy by whatever means were most convenient. No matter if this led them to support reconciliation or confrontation; whichever quickly reasserted the status quo was preferable. As of 1767 Dickinson was an independently wealthy barrister whose ability to live a comfortable life had little connection to the manner or logic of colonial taxation. Free from such pedestrian considerations, and by his own admission able to depart the colonies “more conveniently than most” if matters took an unpleasant turn, he evidently felt himself capable of speaking to more abstract concerns than the majority of his fellow colonists. Where they might be swayed by thoughts of price and profit, and eventual privation, he could consider loftier ideas, like truth, justice, and the laws of nature.

Patronising though this notion might seem – and make no mistake, it does – it was very much in keeping with the 18^th-century ideals of public service and self-sacrifice that characterized the writings of the Country Party reformers. It was their firm belief that the administration of the British government was best left in the hands of the landed gentry because of the unique qualities that group possessed. As a species independently wealthy (in theory), they were the pawns of no other faction, individual, or interest, and could thus be depended on to make decisions based on an objective assessment of the greater good rather than their own personal financial needs. At the same time, the fact of their wealth made them both capable of engaging in public service and obligated to do so. Because they were blessed with advantages well beyond most people’s dreams, it was felt by members of the Country Party that the gentry were bound by a concomitant impulse of social responsibility to put those advantages to good use. Their wealth in turn allowed them to do this without sacrificing their comfort. John Dickinson, born into one of the wealthiest families in colonial America, seemed to both embody and personally support this conception of the link between wealth and impartiality, privilege and service. This, again, placed him very much in the same camp as purveyors of British “high discourse” political commentary like Trenchard and Gordon, and Country Party founder Lord Bolingbroke, and a good distance from "lowborn" activists like ideologue Thomas Paine and popular satirist Benjamin Franklin.

Another indication of the connection between Dickinson’s Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania and the elevated, sober style of political commentary utilized by early 18^th-century British reformers can be found in their common affection for, and use of, classical references. A cursory examination of the aforementioned Cato’s Letters reveals a particularly strong affinity for the same. Subjects under discussion in that 144-part series include the titular Roman statesman Cato the Younger, Julius Caesar and his assassin Brutus, ancient Persian king and conquer of Egypt Cambyses II, and the nature of corruption in the Roman Republic. Though Dickinson was not as absorbed as Trenchard and Gordon by the lessons embodied in these ancient exemplars, going only so far as to occasionally reference a classical figure or event in support of a broader argument, that he felt comfortable at all dipping his toe into this intellectual sphere is telling. Look, for example, to the ninth paragraph of Letter III. In it, Dickinson recalled the ancient Spartans as a people worthy of emulation by his fellow colonists because they were a, “brave and free people,” who were inspired by a, “happy temperament of soul [.]” He then went on to quote Greco-Roman historian and essayist Plutarch’s description of the Spartans, with the seeming intent of drawing a comparison between the virtues therein described and those Dickinson hoped his fellow colonists would embody.  

In the sixteenth paragraph of Letter III, Dickinson made use of another explicit reference to figures from classical antiquity when he attempted to warn his fellow colonists against falling victim to the, “sway of the Cleons and Clodiuses, the designing and detectable flatterers of the prevailing passion [.]” Cleon, for the record, was an Athenian statesman who held sway during the Peloponnesian War (431-404 BC) and was widely regarded as a warmonger and a demagogue. Publius Clodius Pulcher, meanwhile, was a Roman politician during the late Republic known for his radical populism. Dickinson’s intent was accordingly to project an image of flattery and corruption as a warning to the population of the colonies against what he believed would be the inevitable result of allowing anger and resentment to cloud their collective judgement. Give in to anger and inevitably fall prey to demagogues, essentially. Of course, in order to absorb this message a person would need to know who Cleon and Clodius were; the majority of the population of the Thirteen Colonies in 1767 almost certainly did not.

That Dickinson was familiar with the works of Plutarch, or the history of Athens or Ancient Rome, is not in the least bit surprising. He was, after all, the recipient of a classical education that emphasized the moral and rhetorical value of the great Greek and Roman poets, historians, and playwrights of antiquity. And he was far from the only one of the Founders to have been taught via this style of curriculum. What is noteworthy about the appearance of this kind of classical knowledge in his written political commentary, however, is how clearly it serves to differentiate Dickinson’s work from that of his revolutionary contemporaries. Consider, for instance, Thomas Jefferson and John Adams. Both received a similar education to Dickinson, both were intimately familiar with the classics, and both reportedly filled their private libraries with volumes by men like Cicero, Ovid, Livy, Tacitus, Demosthenes, and Aristotle (among others), almost certainly in the original Greek or Latin. In this sense, of belonging to a particular social and intellectual class of men in 18^th-century Anglo-American world, they were cut from the same cloth as Dickinson himself. Yet an examination of Jefferson’s A Summary View of the Rights of British America (1774) and Adams’ Thoughts on Government (1776) reveal not a single reference to any Ancient Greek or Roman figures or events. Though there could be any number of reason for this, there would seem to be at least one clear and undeniable consequence: portions of Dickinson’s Letter III required a degree of classical knowledge to fully grasp, while no part of either Jefferson’s or Adams’ aforementioned works asked the same of their audience. This important because of what it says about Dickinson’s intended readership; that is, who he wanted to reach, and why.

In many ways possessing a classical education in the 18^th century was like being able to speak a language (besides Greek and Latin, of course) that was known only to a select few. Possessing a strong familiarity with Plutarch’s Parallel Lives or Demosthenes’ public orations signified the attainment of an elevated awareness of moral philosophy, history, and rhetoric, and being able to utilize these sources in order to craft a convincing argument signified one’s membership in a community of shared sentiment and means (education being mainly the province of the wealthy). Trenchard and Gordon, in this mold, knew that the average English person would not have the slightest interest in their meditations on the corruption of the Roman political classes in the late Republican era. It was not their intention to reach as wide an audience as possible, but to communication to those few who could grasp the source material that underpinned their reflections, and perhaps possessed the means to respond in a meaningful way. Though, again, Dickinson’s Letter III contains relatively few references to topics from classical antiquity, their modest inclusion nonetheless speaks volumes as to who the titular Farmer from Pennsylvania was trying to reach. By resorting in the arguments contained within Letter III to classical comparisons or analogies Dickinson actively made it harder, if not impossible, for certain people to read and understand what he was trying to say.

 There are a number of potential reasons why Dickinson nonetheless proceeded in this way.   He was, on the one hand, an 18^th-century gentleman, educated and socialized to behave, think, and communicate in a certain way. He was, furthermore, a noted anglophile who attached particular significance to English traditions, English history, and English political thought. He may have intended, accordingly, to communicate to other gentlemen in the language he knew they all shared, and in a manner very much in keeping with the English political commentators with which he was surely familiar. Jefferson and Adams were gentlemen too, though they managed to avoid relying on some of the more esoteric elements of classical vocabulary when attempting to communicate a political message to their fellow colonists. Perhaps this was because the pair nurtured a self-image that was not quite so elevated above them common man as their education wold indicate – though in Adams’ case this seems unlikely. Or perhaps they chose to distance themselves from a mode of thought and expression that had become distinctly associated in the American mindset with a particular style of English political discourse. If this was the case, if they felt a self-conscious impulse to appear to their readers less British in tone and substance, then it is noteworthy indeed that their colleague Dickinson felt no such need to “dress down” his rhetorical style.

That being said, it is perhaps not all that surprising. As is hopefully clear by now, John Dickinson was, among the pantheon of the Founding Fathers, something of an odd duck. He was a man of conviction, sometimes to the point of stiffness; he as a pacifist whose moral aversion of violence ran very deep; he was a lover of Britain, its people, history, and culture. Though he shared with his revolutionary colleagues a common grounding in the classics and the philosophical ideals of the European Enlightenment, it seemed that the former traits most strongly defined his character, outlook, and actions. If the style of commentary he favored in his Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania is any indication, he regarded himself as a gentleman in the mold of the British Country Party reformers whose works had been so warmly received by the colonial American elite. Accordingly, he favored calm, measured debate to rash action, abhorred corruption and tyranny, sought examples of proper or improper moral behavior in the classical texts of Ancient Greece and Rome, and endeavored always to maintain the traditions of British constitutionalism. Likely these principles were favored by many among the Founding Generation, but few seemed to hold to them as rigidly as John Dickinson of Poplar Hall.

And it’s this rigidity of conviction that makes reading and attempting to understand Dickinson’s work, like Letter III, such an interesting endeavor. Whereas certain among the early revolutionaries, like Massachusetts agitator Samuel Adams or Virginia rabble-rouser Patrick Henry, responded to perceived British injustices with increasing vitriol, John Dickinson ever maintained a mask of calm deliberation. Unwilling to be swept up in the anger that events in the 1760s and 1770s seemed to breed so readily, he attempted always to speak to the objective good, the reasonable, the just. While many in the colonies began to question the legitimacy of the bond between Britain and the Thirteen Colonies, Dickinson advised the need for peaceful petitions, warned against the evils that accompany blind anger, and preached loyalty to the royal regime that had for so long been the attendant of American prosperity. Truly, there seems not a trace of cynicism in Dickinson’s fervent calls for even-handedness and even-tempers, yet there appears a hint of thinly-veiled desperation.   

Because the American Revolution was more than just a philosophical disagreement that could be solved if men of good conscience sat in the same room and exchanged obscure Latin quotations. The ideas at its root were, and are, fundamental to human existence: liberty, justice, authority, and community. Consequently the Revolution could not very long remain a debate about taxes or political representation. Dickinson’s contemporaries seemed to sense this, and responded accordingly. Men like Jefferson and Adams spoke plainly, of politics, and economics, and the inalienable rights of a free people. Their assessments tended towards the pragmatic; they began to speak not of avoiding war but of limiting its destructive effects. And they acknowledged that the relationship between Britain and America had run its course. Yet there was John Dickinson, clinging to a very British ideal of gentlemanly behavior, and an accompanying sense of decorum, loyalty, and morality that was quickly becoming outmoded.

 And this too it what makes him such an intriguing figure. In spite his often fundamental disagreements with other members of the Founding Generation, he shared their essential dedication to public service and self-sacrifice. Few of the Founders compromised more than did Dickinson; few were forced to bend their ideals or silence their convictions to a greater extent in order to see through to the end their nation’s troubled birth. He was not a Loyalist, though it may have been easier for him if he had been. He believed, as did his cohorts, that the rights of man were inherent and irrepressible. He had not been willing to fight for those rights, or at least dreaded the thought of sending others to die for them. But his dedication to the great causes of the Revolution – to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness – forced him to confront a great many things that he was not comfortable with. For that reason alone his is worthy of admiration, study, and contemplation. He was, after all, one the first to speak against the abuses of a distant government and call for unity among those who had the most to lose. And he was also one of the last to admit that the defenders of American liberty were no better than their oppressors.

Anyway, that’s how I see it. Take a look for yourself:

Letter from a Farmer in Pennsylvania III by John Dickenson: http://oll.libertyfund.org/titles/690