Observations on the New Constitution, and on the Federal and State Conventions, Part VII: Anti-Federalism, contd.

The critical commonality among the writings of the Anti-Federalists and Mercy Otis Warren’s Observations is manifested once again in their shared calls for a second constitutional convention to be summoned in order to remedy the defects they perceived in the new federal charter. Twice in section eighteen of Observations, Warren expressed fervent hope for a second convention in the belief that a calm reconsideration of the text of the proposed constitution was preferable to a forced standoff between its supporters and its critics. “Let us still hope for a happy termination of the present ferment,” she wrote, whereby,

Every influential character through the States, make the most prudent exertions for a new general Convention, who may vest adequate powers in Congress, for all national purposes, without annihilating the individual governments, and drawing blood from every pore by taxes, impositions and illegal restrictions.

In addition to once more drawing upon a fear common to the Anti-Federalist critique (the “annihilation” of the state governments), Warren directed attention in this passage to several other flaws she and her cohort detected in the Framers’ proposed federal charter. By declaring a wish to see a second convention “vest adequate powers on Congress” rather than permit them to remake the federal legislature entirely (as the proposed constitution had done), Warren ostensibly identified a desire to preserve the Articles of Confederation and the government they created. This doubtless coincided with her suspicion of the Framers’ unilateral decision to cast off their original mandate to simply modify the Articles, as well as her desire to preserve the independence of the individual states (which, under the Articles, enjoyed a high degree of autonomy). In addition, calling attention to the manner in which the new federal government would inevitably – she believed – visit upon the states and the American people “taxes, impositions and illegal restrictions” demonstrated her disdain for many of the coercive powers the proposed constitution granted to Congress as a means of controlling or channelling the actions of the various states. Whereas the Framers believed that such measures were essential to their overall aim of creating a more stable, activist federal government, Warren seemed otherwise convinced that these powers needed to be done away with by a second constitutional convention.

            Further on in section eighteen of Observations, Warren reiterated her call for a second convention, in this case from within the context of the ongoing process by which the proposed constitution was being ratified by the various states. As discussed previously, Observations was almost certainly written at some point between February 6^th and April 26^th, 1788. The Massachusetts ratifying convention, which approved the Constitution, concluded on the former date, while the Maryland convention, which Warren indicated had yet to take place, ended on the latter. Thus, at the time she put pen to paper, there were seven states – New Hampshire, Rhode Island, New York, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Maryland – that had yet to decided either to reject or approve the new federal charter the Framers had drafted. If these states, she wrote, were to,

Refuse a ratification, or postpone their proceedings till the spirits of the community have time to cool, there is little doubt but the wise measure of another federal convention will be adopted, when the members would have the advantage of viewing, at large, through the medium of truth, the objections that have been made from various quarters [.]  

A second constitutional convention, she thereby reasoned, was both inevitable and desirable: the former because it was the only real solution to a deadlock between the states over ratification; the latter because it would allow the objections put forward by the various Anti-Federalist critics of the new federal charter to be duly taken into account. “Such a measure,” she accordingly concluded, “Might be attended with the most salutary effects, and prevent the dread consequences of civil feuds.”

            Yet another examination of the text of the various Anti-Federalist Papers reveals further similarities between the sentiments expressed therein and those promoted by Mercy Otis Warren in Observations. Anti-Federalist No. 18, for instance, from the pen of the anonymous Old Whig, was in agreement with Warren as to the wisdom of calling for a second constitutional convention. Whereas she believed, however, that such a measure was at least partially made necessary by the threat of conflict between the states, the Old Whig seemed to adopt a more pragmatic tone. Unlike those who considered a second convention to be a waste of time, the summoned delegates being thought unlikely to agree on what changes, if any, to make to the proposed constitution, the author of No. 18 regarded the effort as the most practical outcome. “If a new convention cannot agree upon any amendments in the constitution,” he wrote, “Which is at present proposed, we can still adopt this in its present form[.]” Rather than represent another constitutional convention as a dire necessity, the Old Whig characterized the possibility as, “At least worth trying,” adding that he would be, “Much astonished, if a new convention called together for the purpose of revising the proposed constitution, do not greatly reform it...” This seems a significantly more relaxed evaluation than that put forward by Warren, who did not seem averse to using a degree of fear as a means of motivating her audience. Yet, for all the Old Whig’s “it’s worth a shot” nonchalance, his core conviction, that a reform of the proposed constitution should be attempted and that the result would likely be for the better, was very much of a kind with the views Warren expressed in Observations.

            The Old Whig repeated his calm assessment of the need for a second constitutional convention in Anti-Federalist No. 50, this time with an added emphasis on the necessity of congressional approval. Once the various state conventions had finished their work and compiled lists of objections or potential amendments, he argued that the next logical step was to, “Transmit them to congress, and adjourn, praying that congress will direct another convention to be called from the different states [.]” By including Congress in the (re)drafting process, the Old Whig seemed to concur with Warren’s (and other Anti-Federalists’) assessment of the troubling lack of legitimacy surrounding the Philadelphia Convention. Allowing the duly recognized government of the United States under the Articles of Confederation to take the lead in a theoretical second convention would presumably have helped alleviate any lingering suspicions as to the validity of the drafting process, or so the Old Whig doubtless hoped. Indeed, this proposal would seem to strike an interesting compromise between acknowledging that the manner in which the proposed constitution was created was perhaps not wholly legal, while also admitting that the document itself was not entirely without merit.

            In spite of his apparent agreement with at least a portion of Warren’s argument, however, the Old Whig still proved himself to be more accepting of the proposed constitution than she and her various Anti-Federalist contemporaries. Though he called for a second convention in No. 50, he also admitted, as he had in No. 18, that if no new amendments or alterations could be agree upon it would still have been possible to accept the document as it had been originally proposed. Indeed, he argued that all parties involved in the congressionally-sponsored alteration process he proposed must agree, “To abide by whatever decision shall be made by such future convention on the subject whether it be to amend the proposed constitution or to reject any alterations, and ratify it as it stands.” Some among the Anti-Federalists – perhaps Mercy Otis Warren as well, though she did not say so one way or the other – would surely have found this a disagreeable conclusion. Rather than accept the original draft of the proposed constitution in the event that no alterations could be agreed upon, many of that documents’ critics would have likely preferred the thing be scrapped altogether. In this sense the Old Whig was something of a moderate among the Anti-Federalists; concerned with the flaws he 

perceived in the new federal charter, but above all seeking accommodation rather than confrontation.

            The aforementioned Melancton Smith appeared to be in closer agreement with Warren and the more alarmist Anti-Federalist than with the Old Whig, though he too expressed himself in somewhat understated language. “It cannot be denied,” he wrote of the proposed constitution in Anti-Federalist No. 85,

But that the general opinion is, that it contains material errors, and requires important amendments. This then being the general sentiment, both of the friends and foes of the system, can it be doubted, that another convention would concur in such amendments as would quiet the fears of the opposers, and effect a great degree of union on the subject? — An event most devoutly to be wished.

Though he did not decry the “annihilation” of the state governments as Warren and certain of her colleagues were wont to do, and nor did he explicitly summon the spectre of impending civil war between supporters and critics of the new federal charter, the nature of Smith’s desire for a second convention seemed to take in many of the same concerns. He described, for instance, reactions to the proposed constitution in terms of “friends and foes,” and stated his belief that a second constitutional convention would result in the addition of amendments fit to “quiet the fears of the opposers [.]” However discreetly he chose to phrase them, Smith’s anxieties were expressed in No. 85 in a distinctly adversarial way. That he further asserted that the consensual modification of the new federal charter would “effect a great degree of union on the subject” seems to confirm his evident sense of apprehension at the social cleavages the document had unleashed, or threatened to unleash, in the United States. Though, once again, Melancton Smith saw fit to express himself in a somewhat more moderate manner than Mercy Otis Warren, the concerns that he felt necessitated the calling of a second constitutional convention were essentially aligned with her own.

            Indeed, as this (relatively) brief series of comparisons has hopefully shown, many of the concerns that motivated the various Anti-Federalists to pen an essay or a critique of the proposed constitution were fundamentally the same as those that moved Mercy Otis Warren to publish her own Observations. She may not have expressed herself in the same manner as her male counterparts – though, for that matter, no two of them adopted quite the same rhetorical voice – but the flaws they perceived in the Constitution were the flaws that she perceived, the remedies that they sought were those that she sought, and she was likewise no stranger to the oft-times exaggerated sense of alarm that they frequently displayed. Many of the Anti-Federalists – Philanthropos, Centinel, the Farmer, and the Federal Republican – invoked the sacrifices that had been made during the years of the Revolutionary War, the blood and treasure, as a means of chastising supporters of the proposed constitution. What was the point of incurring such losses in a battle against a foreign tyranny, they argued, if there were those in America who desired to create a domestic tyranny to replace it? Warren was of this sentiment as well. She made use of frequently visceral language to draw attention to the nobility she believed was inherent in the American struggle for liberty, and the tragedy that would have transpired had this same liberty been cast aside out of fear or ignorance.

            Warren was likewise in agreement with those Anti-Federalist commentators – Robert Yates, Samuel Bryan, and Richard Henry Lee – who expressed suspicion at the manner in which the Philadelphia Convention had conducted its business. They wrote of contrivers and conspiracies, demagogues, artful men, and covert instigations. How could the Philadelphia Convention, they demanded, or the proposed constitution it put forward be considered expressions of the popular will if the former had been conducted under a veil of secrecy? Had not the selfsame delegates usurped the power of their states by abandoning their original commission and entering into a scheme to reshape the federal compact? Warren very much shared these concerns. She regarded the secrecy that had ruled the proceedings in Philadelphia in 1787 as, “Contradictory to the first principles which ought to govern mankind [,]” and further claimed that the behavior of the Framers bore, “Evident marks of fraudulent designs [.]” Beyond the substance of the Constitution itself, about which they had much to say besides, the Anti-Federalists took issue with the manner in which the document had been conceived. Mercy Otis Warren was similarly concerned, and expressed her disappointment and suspicion in Observations in terms her male counterparts would have had no difficulty recognizing.

            The concerns Warren shared in Observations about the proposed constitution and the debate that had arisen in its wake further aligned with those put forward by several of the Anti-Federalists on the subject of a theoretical second convention. The Plebian (Melancton Smith) and the Old Whig both expressed a degree of apprehension as to the divisive effects the new federal charter had begun to exert. In spite of the many and various flaws most agreed the document possessed, the ratifications process had yet resulted in a spate of approvals. If, in light of the criticisms put forth by certain essayists and commentators, a significant number of state conventions chose to reject the proposed constitution, what was to be the result? How could the division between supporters and dissenters be reconciled in a way that was fair to all involved? A second constitutional convention was the solution they settled upon, so long as it was mutually agreed on, openly conducted, and entered into in good faith. Mercy Otis Warren was, once more, in substantial agreement. She too perceived in the ongoing ratification debate a presage of potentially disastrous civil conflict, and accordingly hoped for a, “Happy termination to the present ferment” by calling forth a second convention to consider the defects in the new federal charter that had lately been exposed. This, she believed, was a “wise measure” whereby the assembled delegates, “would have the advantage of viewing, at large, through the medium of truth, the objections that have been made from various quarters [.]” Though not all Anti-Federalists commentators and essayists held that calling a second convention in order to modify the proposed constitution was the best course of action – indeed, some would no doubt have preferred to drop the whole business – there were those for whom this seemed the most logical solution, and the most likely to produce a mutually desirable outcome. Mercy Otis Warren was of this opinion herself, and said as much in her Observations.

    Taking all of the similarities detailed above in hand, between the commentaries of the Anti-Federalists and the views expressed by Mercy Otis Warren in her own anti-constitutional essay, it seems fairly clear that Warren was in every way that counted the equal and contemporary of her male counterparts. Though she is not generally counted among the Anti-Federalists, her arguments were as sharp as theirs, as incisive, and as cunningly and effectively delivered. She was not the outsider her gender might indicate to a 21^st century audience, but rather a full, capable, and enthusiastic participant in one of the primordial political debates that fundamentally shaped the United States of America. Her perspective was not that of a disadvantaged or sidelined minority, struggling to be heard. She wrote with authority, ingenuity, and passion about the same issues that concerned the many men who have since taken their place among the annals of the Anti-Federalists. She was every bit the political animal they were; concerned for the rights of her countrymen, suspicious of assumed authority, and eager to do justice to the memory of all those who had given their lives in service of American liberty. Indeed, so indistinguishable is the quality and substance of Warren’s commentary from that of her male colleagues that, until fairly recently, authorship of Observations was almost universally ascribed to future Massachusetts Governor and Vice-President Elbridge Gerry (1744-1814). Observations should, therefore, be thought of as kindred to the Anti-Federalist Papers, ought to be counted be among their number, and under no circumstances is to be singled out because its author was a woman. 

Observations on the New Constitution, and on the Federal and State Conventions, Part VI: Anti-Federalism, contd.

Another theme common to both Warren’s Observations and many of the Anti-Federalist Papers – evidence of their similarity of intention and rhetorical approach – concerned the extralegal nature of the Philadelphia Convention and the secrecy with which it was conducted. For all the criticisms that Mercy Otis Warren and her male counterparts saw fit to level against the proposed constitution itself, its structure, and the vagaries of its language, they seemed equally troubled by the manner in which it came into being. Warren’s comments on this head range from somewhat veiled references to explicit denunciations, and in all articulate a deep sense of suspicion as to how and why a new federal charter was drafted to begin with.

The first such comment can be found in the first section of Observations amidst a brief explanation of the theory and nature of political representation. Having deputed individuals to conduct the business of government, Warren wrote, it remained the people’s prerogative to reject whatever decisions their representatives made, replace them on the occasion of subsequent elections, or call for their discipline or removal via legal means. Outside of this codified framework, therefore, it was, “An unwarrantable stretch of authority or influence, if any methods are taken to preclude this peaceful and reasonable mode of enquiry and decision.” The Philadelphia Convention, which summoned delegates from all thirteen extant states (as of 1787), as assigned by their respective state legislatures, was thus not strictly legal in the sense that there was no framework within either the Articles of Confederation or any of the state constitutions that described how and why such a meeting might be called.

This did not necessarily mean that any meeting convened by the states outside the authority or sanction of the Continental Congress (as it was still known in the 1780s) should have been considered treasonous. What concerned Warren and her compatriots was not the existence of alternate means by which the states could confer on a variety of topics, but rather the way in which the delegates to the Philadelphia Convention, many of whom were also state legislators or delegates to Congress, appeared to have unilaterally and arbitrarily assumed the authority to draft a new federal charter and submit it to the states for ratification. If the convention itself lacked legal sanction, particularly from the people’s representatives in Congress, from where did it derive its claim to legitimacy? And if the meeting itself was not legitimate, what of the constitution it proposed to replace the Articles of Confederation? Was not the fact that said charter was submitted to the states for ratification evidence that its authors were keen to win after the fact what they lacked when they first began their efforts? There were not simple answers to any of these questions, dealing as they did with the vagaries of popular sovereignty and political legitimacy in a country whose independence was less than a decade old. All the same, Mercy Otis Warren and her compatriots were not afraid to ask them.

Warren committed to this same line of inquiry with somewhat greater rhetorical force in section eighteen of Observations. As aforementioned, she and her Anti-Federalist colleagues found fault with the manner in which the Philadelphia Convention was summoned, and its apparent lack of formal legitimacy. The original mandate that the organizers of the convention claimed for their efforts was the revision and potential expansion of the existing Articles of Confederation in order to better meet the demands of the post-war economic and political status quo. Though said Articles had performed their intended task of binding thirteen former colonies together in time of war reasonably well, by the late 1780s there existed widespread consensus that they were largely inadequate to the charge of keeping the various states united in time of peace. The notion of sending delegates to review the document in question and suggest potential modifications was thus not overly controversial, and though Rhode Island declined to answer the resulting summons, all twelve of its sister-states easily complied. When the 55 delegates who ultimately attended broke from their closely-guarded proceedings four months after they first met in May, 1787, it was accordingly with some degree of surprise that Congress and the various states were presented with an entirely new governing framework for the United States of America.

Warren seemed to object most strongly to the aforementioned unilateral nature of the delegates’ decision to expand the focus of their meeting. If “confusion and violence” were the results of adopting the proposed constitution (an eventuality she seemed inclined to consider), it would have been due to,

The proceedings of a set of gentlemen, who disregarding the purposes of their appointment, have assumed powers unauthorized by any commission, have unnecessarily rejected the confederation of the United States, and annihilated the sovereignty and independence of the individual governments.

Putting aside the so-called “annihilation” of anyone’s “sovereignty and independence,” a piece of hyperbole fueled more by fear than reason, the core of Warren’s complaint was hardly inaccurate. The delegates had indeed disregarded the purpose of the appointment by almost immediately casting aside any thought of reforming the Articles of Confederation and instead setting about drafting a new federal charter. In so doing they did assume powers unauthorized by the commissions they had been granted, and, while the necessity can be debated, they did essentially reject the existing confederation of American states. That the various gambles the Framers (as we now know the authors of the United States Constitution) took ultimately paid off, and that the proposed constitution was adopted and is still in force today (with the addition of 27 amendments), perhaps makes it difficult to conceive of their actions in Philadelphia as unsanctioned or illegitimate. Observers and commentators in the 1780s, lacking the benefit of hindsight, had no such trouble. From the perspective of people like Mercy Otis Warren, the constitution that resulted from the Philadelphia Convention was, among other things, the product of an arbitrary and unlawful assumption of authority by men who had been given a very specific task to complete, and who chose instead to pursue an object of their own design.

            Warren’s concern about the manner in which the Framers seemingly abandoned their stated responsibilities and reached the decision to craft a new federal charter was seemingly augmented by the secrecy with which said work was accomplished. Twice in section eighteen she expressed displeasure at how the business of the Philadelphia Convention had been conducted, with a particular emphasis on the lack of transparency the Framers appeared to go out of their way to enforce. By, “shutting up the doors of the federal convention,” she wrote in the second paragraph, “And resolving that no member should correspond with gentlemen in the different states on the subject under discussion,” it appeared obvious to her that the Framers were bent on a course of wilful obscurity that was, “Contradictory to the first principles which ought to govern mankind.” The only aim of such a policy, she maintained, was “The annihilation of the independence and sovereignty of the thirteen distinct states.” This was a heady claim, and though the language Warren chose to express her disapproval was perhaps somewhat excessive, the basis of her argument was quite sound. The Framers, once they decided to pursue the formulation of an entirely new constitution, insisted on a policy of confidentially for all members in attendance. This was, by American standards, somewhat unusual.

The state constitutions that had been written in the 1770s and 1780s following the declaration of American independence had not been formulated in secret. Most had been drafted and approved by sitting members of the existing colonial legislatures. Massachusetts was the last of the original thirteen states to approve a post-independence constitution (in 1780), and also the only one to make use of a specially-called convention. In all cases, however, at least prior to 1787, the work of preparing a frame of government in the United States of America had been accomplished in full view of the general public. The men who were called to participate in the drafting processes knew upon accepting the charge exactly what they were agreeing to, and they freely communicated with sources outside their limited number for inspiration or aid. The Massachusetts Constitution did not suddenly appear in the summer of 1780 without the people of that state having any prior knowledge of it. It was the product of a public process that began with the popular election of delegates and ended with the submission of the finished document for ratification by all male voters 21 years or older. The process by which the new federal charter was formulated in 1787 so clearly rejected the established American precedent of transparency that it was little wonder certain observers recoiled at the apparent resort to secrecy.           

For her part, Warren surmised that the effort taken to suppress any knowledge of the work being done in Philadelphia was evidence enough of sinister intent. “Did not the prohibition strictly enjoined by the general Convention,” she wrote, “That no member should make any communication to his Constituents, or to gentlemen of consideration and abilities in the other States, bear evident marks of fraudulent designs?” If there was nothing to fear in the proposed constitution, if indeed the American people stood to benefit by its adoption, why attempt to guard its preparation from public scrutiny? In truth, it may simply have been that the Framers attended to their deliberations with confidentiality out of a desire to preserve a degree of objectivity during the drafting and ratification processes. If the proposed constitution was to stand the test of time, as no doubt many of its authors hoped it would, it would need to be based on sound, general, rational principles rather than the needs or desires of specific groups or interests. By taking pains to at least partially sequester themselves, the delegates at Philadelphia perhaps hoped to avoid the possibility of their deliberations becoming a magnet of controversy, fervent lobbying by specific regional or economic concerns, or perhaps even popular opposition. By the same token, they perhaps also hoped that by ensuring there was no public knowledge of their proceedings to draw upon, those tasked with evaluating and ratifying the finished document could not be swayed by the substance of the debates that had taken place in Philadelphia – who had said what, which states enjoyed the most sway – and would instead be forced to rely on their own judgement.

These seem the simplest explanations for the resort to secrecy, and are therefore more likely to be true than Warren and her cohort’s insistence on the presence of a foul conspiracy. That being said, the sense of concern she and the other Anti-Federalists expressed at the lack of transparency that attended the drafting of the proposed constitution was hardly invalid or inexplicable. As mentioned in months prior, the Founders had approached the conflict between the Thirteen Colonies and the British government in the 1760s and 1770s from an Enlightenment-informed perspective which tended to perceive all events as human-centred. Conspiracies, rather than random chance or acts of God, were more often identified as the likely cause of disaster or conflict, and vigilance was held as one of the paramount virtues of a healthy society. This sense of vulnerability and watchfulness served as a strongly cohesive force throughout the early history of the United States, helping to bind conflicting parties together in defence of shared priorities, but it could, and did, manifest itself from time to time as narrow-minded paranoia.

The same qualities that many Americans in the 1780s had come to value in their independence – the personal liberty they enjoyed and the transparency of their governments – were also, rightly or wrongly, perceived by many contemporary statesmen and political philosophers as potential weaknesses. A people who were truly free, and who exercised real control over their government, were also highly vulnerable to the forces of populism and demagoguery; as the history of Ancient Rome had shown, it took only one charismatic “man of the people” to turn a free republic into a despotic empire. When, therefore, people like Mercy Otis Warren perceived, in the manner by which the proposed constitution was created a degree of subtle, ill-intentioned manipulation, it was not because they were given to flights of fancy. Warren, and others of like mind among the Anti-Federalists, had been taught the fragility of republics, and the inestimable value of constant, unflagging vigilance. If, from time to time, they appeared to lash out at shadows, doubtless they all would have agreed it was a worthy price to pay for the protection of the social and political values they held most dear.

Another quick perusal of the various Anti-Federalist Papers reveals once again how common certain themes were across the many editorials and commentaries therein. As Mercy Otis Warren remarked frequently and effectively upon the suspicious and secretive nature of the Philadelphia Convention in her Observations, so too did many of her male counterparts in their own publications critical of the proposed constitution. Melancton Smith, writing under the penname “A Plebian” in Anti-Federalist No. 85, seemed the most measured among his contemporaries. Like Warren, he was concerned by the secretive nature of the Constitutional Convention, writing that, “While it was agitated, the debates […] were kept an impenetrable secret, and no opportunity was given for well informed men to offer their sentiments upon the subject.” This seems a fairly plain accounting of what transpired, free of accusation or ad hominem attack. Robert Yates, as Brutus in Anti-Federalist No. 82, offered a similarly considered opinion of the forces he perceived to have been behind the drafting of the new federal charter, though the image he projected was slightly more ominous. “If to those who will be interested in the change [in government],” he wrote,

Be added those who will be under their influence, and such who will submit to almost any change of government which they can be persuaded to believe will ease them of taxes, it is easy to see the party who will favor the abolition of the state governments would be far from being inconsiderable.

Without using the words “conspiracy,” “cabal,” or “plot,” Yates managed to convey upon the authors of the proposed constitution a deliberate and manipulative quality. By attempting to account for the thought-process by which he believed the Framers determined whose support among the general American population they could be sure of, Anti-Federalist No. 82 very subtly portrayed the supporters of the new government as highly calculating, and therefore untrustworthy.  

Other Anti-Federalist commentators were evidently less concerned with maintaining even a veneer of objectivity than either Smith or Yates. The aforementioned Anti-Federalist No. 21, from the pen of Samuel Bryan, described the Framers as, “Interested and designing,” and accused them of taking advantage of, “The present crisis […] under the specious pretence of having discovered a panacea for all the ills of the people [.]” Anti-Federalist No. 26, ascribed to an anonymous Farmer and a Planter, was even less delicate. Therein the authors of the proposed constitution were named, “Contrivers,” who had, “So completely entrapped you, and laid their plans so sure and secretly, that they have only left you to do one of two things-that is either to receive or refuse it.” A Federal Farmer (most likely Virginian and future Senator Richard Henry Lee) seemed of like mind in Anti-Federalist No. 37. He described the route by which the proposed constitution was devised and laid before the people as a process, “When by the evils, on the one hand, and by the secret instigations of artful men, on the other, the minds of men were become sufficiently uneasy, a bold step was taken, which is usually followed by a revolution, or a civil war.” More than mere “contrivers” who were “interested and designing,” No. 37 characterised the Framers as “artful men” who were guilty of “secret instigations” and “evils” in equal measure.

Another anonymous Anti-Federalist commentary, No. 74, offered a similarly severe appraisal. The self-described Philadelphiensis described the attempt to promote a new federal charter as, “A conspiracy against the freedom of America, both deep and dangerous [.]” Indeed, the author continued, the Framers represented, “An infernal junto of demagogues,” by whose machinations, “Our thirteen free commonwealths are to be consolidated into one despotic monarchy.” The language Mercy Otis Warren deployed might not have been quite as inflammatory as that of Philadelphiensis, but the core sentiment was very much in line with the concerns she expressed in the text of Observations. She may not have accused the Framers of attempting to raise a “despotic monarchy” in place of a confederation of American states, but she did evidently believe that they had, “Annihilated the sovereignty and independence of the individual governments,” or, put another way, promoted, “The annihilation of the independence and sovereignty of the thirteen distinct states.” Clearly the Anti-Federalists were concerned that the federal government embodied by the proposed constitution, being both powerful and coercive, would bring about the erosion of the state governments to the point of their dissolution. Philadelphiensis decried the idea in Anti-Federalist No. 74, Robert Yates identified the possibility in Anti-Federalist No. 82, and Mercy Otis Warren denounced it anew in her Observations. Each attached to it their own specific emphasis, expressed their sense of concern within the context of a larger critique, but all were nevertheless speaking from within a common understanding of the forces that stood to strengthen the union of American states and those that threatened to tear it apart.

Observations on the New Constitution, and on the Federal and State Conventions, Part V: Anti-Federalism

In spite of how unusual Mercy Otis Warren was, and is, being a woman who actively participated in the public literary sphere during the era of the American Founding, one of the most striking elements of her work is how similar it appears to that of her contemporaries. Hers is not recognizably a woman`s perspective; there is no talk of women`s rights, women`s suffrage, marriage reform, or any of the issues usually associated with the early stirrings of feminism in the late 18^th and early 19^th centuries. Possibly this was simply the natural consequence of choosing to conceal to gender behind a raft of pseudonyms. Then again, perhaps the issues noted above, or those connected to them, were simply not of interest to Mercy Otis Warren. If her education, political activism, and literary style are any indication, she seemed most interested in the larger trends of Western history and philosophy and how they connected to the American context than how the rights possessed by one gender compared to those of another. It seems rather unlikely that she, an intelligent, articulate, and well-read individual, had nothing at all to say about the rights of women in American during a time when the air seemed always filled with talk of rights. Whatever her opinion might have been, however, Observations gives no indication.

What it does provide evidence for are the strong commonalities between the rhetorical refrains deployed by Warren in her critique of the proposed constitution and those made use of by her various Anti-Federalist colleagues. This is in spite of the fact that, unlike the Federalist Papers written in support of the proposed constitution by Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Jay, the Anti-Federalist Papers were produced by a large and disparate group of statesmen, merchants, and private citizens without any kind of coordinating effort. Some of the resulting essays were intended as direct replies to specific calls to support the new federal charter – rebuttals, after a fashion – while others approached the debate over ratification and the resultant calling of state conventions for that purpose in a more general, philosophical, or ethical sense. In spite of the lack of cooperation between the Anti-Federalist authors, however, much of the rhetoric they deployed is strikingly similar, and can quite easily be grouped into a series of general themes. Observations dips into these themes on numerous occasions, thus solidifying the connection between Warren and the larger Anti-Federalist effort and further establishing her bona fides as every bit the equal of her male counterparts. She used some of the same vocabulary, put forward many of the same ideas, and seemed to argue from the same basic philosophical position as the other Anti-Federalists.

Examples of the aforementioned common themes abound upon a fairly brief examination of the relevant Anti-Federalist documents. The first theme to be examined herein, perhaps best referred to as the “noble sacrifice argument,” held that the (as of 1787-1788) recently concluded Revolutionary War (1775-1783), while victorious, had exacted an enormous cost in American blood and American capital. In all some 50,000 Americans had died, between military and civilian fatalities from all causes, and the conflict cost the fledgling United States, between the individual states and the Continental Congress, $151 million. In light of this far from insignificant sacrifice, it’s understandable that many Americans in the 1780s were very concerned with preserving the rewards their collective suffering had bought. The Anti-Federalists accordingly seemed particularly concerned, if not outright disgusted, by the idea that anyone who had lost a brother, son, father, or friend, or who had suffered the economic consequences of eight years of war would deign to relinquish their hard-won liberty in exchange for promises of security and stability under a strong and coercive new federal government.

Warren’s Observations is rife with rhetorical variations on this theme. In section one, for instance, she described her fellow Americans as, “A people who had made the most costly sacrifices in the cause of liberty,–who have braved the power of Britain, weathered the convulsions of war, and waded thro’ the blood of friends and foes to establish their independence and to support the freedom of the human mind [.]” This is admittedly a rather dramatic assessment, and an oversimplification of why certain segments of the American population took up arms against Great Britain (for reasons economic, political, philosophical, personal, religious, etc.). That being said, the freshness of the war in popular memory doubtless made for a useful rhetorical device, particularly when authors and commentators like Warren made a point of emphasizing its more visceral aspects. Further on in section one she accordingly described her fellow countrymen again as a people, “Whose fields have been so recently crimsoned to repel the potent arm of a foreign Monarch [.]” The image of verdant fields, an almost stereotypical symbol of American wilderness, fertility, and innocence, stained deepest red by the blood of “friends and foes” is an undeniably powerful one, and no doubt appealed to the many Americans who still felt aggrieved by the suffering they had been made to endure but scant years prior. Warren further romanticized this suffering, while still stressing a very vital, bodily sense of loss, when she stated shortly thereafter that, “On these shores freedom has planted her standard, diped [sic] in the purple tide that flowed from the veins of her martyred heroes [.]” Thus were combined, in a symbolic sense, the loss of such quantities of blood as to form a “purple tide,” the prized standard of freedom, and the deeds of America’s “martyred heroes.”

Warren later revisited the “noble sacrifice” theme in two instances in section eighteen of Observations, both times with a somewhat altered emphasis. First, she attempted to answer what she no doubt supposed would be a likely criticism of citing the cost of the Revolutionary War as reason enough to reject any proposals that might circumscribe or threaten the liberty of the average American. “After the severe conflicts this country has suffered,” she wrote, “it is presumed that they are disposed to make every reasonable sacrifice before the altar of peace.” This admission was perhaps intended by Warren as an attempt to make up for or counter the glorification of America’s recent casualties she had previously engaged in. Americans, many of the Founders asserted before and after the Revolutionary War, were not a confrontational people; they did not seek out a confrontation with Britain, and did not hold with those who cherished conflict for its own sake. Warren seemed to agree with this assessment, but offered a further qualification that likely intended to place America’s recent martial experiences in the proper context. It was important, she asserted, to remember that, “The struggles [Americans] have recently made,” where entered into, “for the security of their civil right [.]” It was not for glory, honor, or public praise that so much life was lost, but for the protection of certain fundamental rights.

As of the 1780s, such a casus belli was near unheard of in annals of human history; people fought for territory, they fought to maintain a balance of power or to enforce a marriage contract, but very rarely to preserve something so novel and ephemeral as their supposed civil rights. Though the actual reasons why so many American fought and died were (again) somewhat more complicated, their theoretical dedication to a piece of abstract ideology like natural rights may indeed have rendered their recent loss of life and limb somewhat exceptional. With this in mind, Warren asserted a degree of disbelief that any among the supporters of the proposed constitution truly believed that their countrymen could, “be easily lulled into a fatal security, by the declamatory effusions of gentlemen who […] would persuade them there is no danger to be apprehended, from vesting discretionary powers in the hands of man, which he may, or may not abuse.” The people of the United States had only a handful of years prior engaged in a long and bloody conflict based at least in part upon the notion that men could not be trusted with “discretionary power” without first declaring and firmly securing the rights of the individual. Thus, the experience of the Revolutionary War had made Americans very sensitive of their liberty because, in addition to the effort having exacted a high personal cost, its fundamental purpose (in theory) had been said liberty’s protection.

In the following paragraph of section eighteen, Warren appeared to combine the philosophical and visceral qualities she brought to the “noble sacrifice” theme. Her fellow Americans, she admitted, had indeed developed an acute sense of the value of their liberties, and would doubtless have guarded them well against further foreign intrusions on the order of that which they had so recently repelled. This vigilance, however, did not seem to extend to domestic threats – “native usurpation” – like that which Warren and the other Anti-Federalist perceived in the proposed constitution and its various supporters. For this reason she felt the need to at least attempt to rouse her fellow citizens to the dangers they were likely to expose themselves to by unthinkingly approving a new federal charter without thoroughly considering its various implications.

Warren’s argument is well-stated, and not without merit. Of greater interest, however, is the manner in which she described the rights that her countrymen seemed all too ready to leave unguarded. They were, she wrote, “The liberties which America has claimed, which reason has justified, and which have been so gloriously defended by the swords of the brave [.]” Herein Warren acknowledged both the philosophical importance of the recent conflict with Britain – American claims to liberty had been justified by reason – as well as the glory and heroism inherent in the accompanying sacrifice. This theoretically permitted her to rouse the emotions of her audience at the same time she appealed to their rationality and their moral sensibilities. Warren then dovetailed this dual appeal into an acknowledgement of America’s (somewhat mythologized) past. “The banners of freedom were erected in the wilds of America by our ancestors,” she wrote, and, “They have since been rescued from the invading hand of foreign power, by the valor and blood of their posterity.” This characterization further broadened the emotional and philosophical significance of the Revolutionary War; not only did it represent a tremendous, but also heroic, sacrifice of men and resources that was fully justified by logic and reason, but it also helped fulfill the dreams of the various colonial founders by finally securing their hoped-for liberty at the hands of their own descendants. This combined appeal to the sense of valor, reason, commemoration, and continuity of her fellow Americans represents the culmination of Warren’s variation on the “noble sacrifice” theme, skillfully deployed and powerfully articulated.    

As distinct as her characterization of the significance of recent American losses was, Warren was far from alone among her fellow Anti-Federalists in attempting to tap into 18^th-century Americans’ understanding of the sacrifices they had all so lately made. As aforementioned, there were many common themes the Anti-Federalist essayists shared across their various efforts. Indeed, the “noble sacrifice” that Warren so effectively described in Observations seemed a particular favorite. Though an exhaustive list of relevant passages would seem both unnecessary and burdensome, a few choice examples are perhaps called for.

Anti-Federalist No. 7, by the still-anonymous Philanthropos, scolded supporters of the proposed constitution for so willingly abandoning, “That liberty which has lately cost so much blood and treasure, together with anxious days and sleepless nights.” Anti-Federalist No. 8, by the also-anonymous Federal Republican, followed suit when it asserted that Americans were being asked, by approving the new federal charter, to, “surrender of those rights, for which the blood of your fellow citizens has been shed in vain.” Anti-Federalist No. 13, signed “A Farmer,” mentioned the expense of the Revolution while advocating for the need of a bill of rights. “Secure to yourselves and your posterity the jewel Liberty,” it cautioned, “Which has cost you so much blood and treasure [.]” Pennsylvania essayist Samuel Bryan, writing under the name Centinel, provided an eloquent and visceral commentary in the “noble sacrifice” theme in Anti-Federalist No. 21. Though lengthy, it bears repeating here in full. “After so recent a triumph over British despots,” Bryan wrote,

After such torrents of blood and treasure have been spent, after involving ourselves in the distresses of an arduous war, and incurring such a debt, for the express purpose of asserting the rights of humanity, it is truly astonishing that a set of men among ourselves should have had the effrontery to attempt the destruction of our liberties.

“Blood and treasure,” which incidentally also made an appearance in Thomas Paine’s pro-independence pamphlet Common Sense, was evidently a common phrase among the Anti-Federalists, meant to encapsulate all the personal and material losses the American people endured as a result of the Revolutionary War. It appeared again in Anti-Federalist No. 40, this time from the pen of the self-professed “Farmer and a Planter.” “Their aim,” it read, referring to the supporters of the proposed constitution, “Is now to destroy that liberty which you set up as a reward for the blood and treasure you expended in the pursuit of and establishment of it.” This seems a rather tame characterization, compared to Bryan’s “torrents of blood” and Warren’s crimsoned fields and purple tides. Anti-Federalist No. 60, from the pen of future Maryland governor John F. Mercer, managed to combine the well-worn phrase with the almost gleeful appeal to viscera. “When we turn our eyes back,” he wrote, “To the zones of blood and desolation which we have waded through to separate from Great Britain, we behold with manly indignation that our blood and treasure have been wasted to establish a government in which the interest of the few is preferred to the rights of the many.” In this single phrase there are “zones of blood and desolation” fit to wade through, as well as an accounting of the wasted “blood and treasure” that the nascent United States could ill-afford to part with. 

If this meagre sampling is any indication, Mercy Otis Warren was in good company among her Anti-Federalist colleagues. Like they had in their own written efforts, she attempted in Observations to utilize the memory of blood shed and money spent as a rhetorical device. She appealed to her fellow Americans’ sense of loss, frustration, and anger, as well as their instinct to commemorate the nobler goals of the Revolutionary War and the cherished liberties for which it had (presumably) been fought. Like Philanthropos or the Federal Republican she at times framed her appeal in the context of the American rights and liberties, while in other cases she indulged, like Samuel Bryan or John F. Mercer, in references to the physical toll the recent conflict with Britain exacted. Exploitative though some of the more grisly allusions may now seem, however, the sincerity of Warren and her compatriots ought not to be doubted. The men behind the bulk of the Anti-Federalist Papers had been trained in the use of rhetoric; they understood the various components of debate, how to shape a discussion, how to elicit the desired response from an audience. Doubtless the memory of those lost in the recent war affected them, and this they channelled into their arguments in opposition to the proposed constitution precisely because they knew it would affect their audience as well. Though not the recipient of a formal education herself, Mercy Otis Warren took hold of the same ideas, made use of the same sort of rhetoric, and sought to elicit the same response from her fellow Americans as did her male Anti-Federalist counterparts.

Observations on the New Constitution, and on the Federal and State Conventions, Part IV: History, contd.

Warren returned to citing historical examples again in the last paragraph of section eighteen of Observations. Therein, Warren attempted once more to place the events then unfolding in the United States within the context of broader Western historical events. “Though the virtues of a Cato could not save Rome,” she wrote, “Nor the abilities of a Padilla defend the citizens of Castile from falling under the yoke of Charles; yet a Tell once suddenly rose from a little obscure city, and boldly rescued the liberties of his country. Every age has its Bruti and its Decci, as well as its Caesars and its Sejani.” As discussed in past entries, Cato the Younger (95 BC – 46 BC) was a statesman of the Roman Republic famous for his personal integrity, his immunity to bribes, his disdain for corruption, and his lengthy conflict with Julius Caesar. Among devotees of the philosophical Enlightenment, and republicanism in particular, Cato represented virtue in the midst of moral decline, and stood as a symbol of personal resistance to the erosion of logical decision-making, honor, and moral rectitude in the public sphere. Cato’s popularity among the Anglo-American elite of the 18^th century is evidenced by, among other things, the use of his name by commentators like John Trenchard and Thomas Gordon (authors of Cato’s Letters), and Anti-Federalist Governor of New York George Clinton (author of seven letters under pseudonym Cato), the popularity of English playwright Joseph Addison’s 1712 drama Cato, a Tragedy (frequently quoted by George Washington, who arranged a special performance for his men at Velley Forge in 1777), and the sheer number of times his name and role in Roman history was referenced by American political commentators from John Dickinson to John Adams to  Benjamin Franklin. Like as not, Cato was 18^th-century America’s favourite classical figure, for what he symbolized, what he said, and what he stood in opposition to. 

Yet there is an undeniably fatalistic quality to the life of Cato the Younger, and just so in his adulation and imitation. “The virtues of a Cato could not save Rome,” Warren wrote in seeming acknowledgement. For all his tenacity, his unbending devotion to the principles of republicanism, and his willingness to confront the most powerful political figure of his era, Cato’s story is, as Addison noted, a tragedy. Ultimately the Caesar was triumphant, Cato fell valiantly on his sword, and the Roman Republic was transformed into an unabashedly autocratic empire. To worship Cato, as many in the 18^th-century Anglo-American world seemed to, would thus appear to involve, consciously or not, embracing the futility of virtue in a world where corruption’s strength has no limit and (as Addison described) “the post of honor is a private station.” Though there is perhaps a certain romantic appeal to the notion of a doomed hero – a person too good for the world in which they live, struggling tirelessly against forces they cannot hope to defeat – the Enlightenment that so enthusiastically embraced Cato was not a romantic movement. On the contrary, the reformers of the Enlightenment sought to remake Western civilization, to purge it of its particularly corrosive qualities, by championing the utility of logic and reason over emotion and fantasy. Within this framework the doomed Cato again appears a rather odd fit.

That is, unless one considers his role as being both cautionary and inspirational. For Trenchard and Gordon, or George Clinton, or Mercy Otis Warren, Cato was perhaps a symbol of what might come to pass if virtue was once more ground beneath the heel of ambition. Had Cato triumphed in his opposition to Caesar, Roman history might have unfolded in a very different fashion. Accordingly, permitting the principles attached by 18^th-century commentators and reformers to the memory of Cato to be extinguished could fairly be characterized as allowing the cycle of history to repeat itself, thereby giving implicit sanction to all the things Cato stood against: corruption, avarice, ambition, and the dangers of unchecked power. To champion Cato may thus have been an attempt to validate the principles he embodied, to break from the cycle of history and prove that the great enemy of Caesar had been right all along. In this sense the invocation of Cato’s name and memory could be construed as a sort of rallying cry: “this time things will be different,” or “this time we’ll get it right.”

The examples that Warren deployed in Observations after invoking the name of Cato seemed to play out this hopeful or redemptive outlook. The “Padilla” she wrote of was one Juan López de Padilla (1490-1521), leader of the aforementioned Revolt of the Comuneros. Though the junta that formed amid the rebellion against King Charles was initially successful in its attempt to create a parallel government for Castile, thanks in part to the support it received from members of the nobility, it faltered due to its attempt to abolish feudal privilege and introduce elements of democracy into the political life of the realm. As the head of said junta, Padilla might fairly be conceived as an equivalent to Cato; he stood against the unchecked authority of Charles, led an armed insurrection that sought to regenerate Castilian society, and payed for his efforts with his life. Between Cato and Padilla stood over 1,500 years of European history, but still they seemed to exist within the same doomed cycle of virtue and vice. Whether in Ancient Rome or Imperial Spain, Warren seemed to say, humanity was ever locked in a battle between the extremes of its own nature. Republicanism was the political expression of one of these extremes, but one which had historically failed to withstand the temptations (power, preferment, personal gain, etc...) that were its enemy’s stock in trade.

Yet, Warren cautioned, there was reason enough to hope that the cycle could be broken. “A Tell once suddenly rose from a little obscure city,” she wrote, “And boldly rescued the liberties of his country.” This is almost certainly a reference to William Tell (he of the overture), a legendary figure in the history of Switzerland who, though he may not have actually existed, has exerted an enduring influence on the evolution of Swiss nationalism. The tales of his life are largely mythic; suffice to say he was persecuted by the Holy Roman Empire’s appointed overlord of the city of Altdorf, slew the man with a shot from his crossbow, and helped lead the rebellion of the Swiss cantons that resulted in their independence from Imperial rule. For these deeds Tell was perceived in Switzerland as early as the 17^th century and in greater Europe in the 18^th century as a symbol of resistance to tyranny, and the possibility that virtue could triumph over arbitrary authority. Doubtless Warren seized upon this aspect of the Tell legend as evidence that the historical cycle she had theretofore described in which virtue was ever corroded by vice was not incapable of being broken.

Or perhaps “broken” is the wrong word.  “Every age has its Bruti and its Decci,” Warren wrote, “As well as its Caesars and its Sejani.” This rhetorical construction – the opposing of figures from Classical antiquity representing the best and worst of their respective eras - would seem to indicate a belief, not necessarily in the ability of human reason to break free of the patterns of history, but to at least seek a balance whereby a sense of moral or philosophical equilibrium might be achieved. “Bruti” was almost certainly meant to indicate Marcus Junius Brutus (85 BC – 42 BC), Roman Senator, friend of Julius Caesar, and his eventual assassin. Meanwhile “Decci” possibly referred to a Roman official named Publius Decius who served as Tribune of the Plebs (a sort of guardian of the popular will who could veto the orders of republican Rome’s highest authorities) in 120 BC and brought charges against Consul (chief executive of the Roman Republic) Lucius Opimius for his role in ordering the execution or imprisonment of thousands of Roman citizens without proper trial. Both of these Roman statesmen have often been construed in recorded history as men of honor and conscience who attempted to arrest the descent of their society into venality and decadence. It seems entirely appropriate, then, for Warren to have selected them as exemplars of virtue that emerged from within an increasingly corrupt system. This is particularly so because both men lived during Rome’s republican era; the forces they sought to confront were of similar origins and character to those that were daily affecting republican America, and the manner in which both sought to reinforce the ideal of the public good could doubtless have been viewed by Americans like Warren as precedential.

To these honorable republicans Warren opposed perhaps the most famous Roman of all, Gaius Julius Caesar (100 BC – 44 BC), and the so-called “Sejani,” one Lucius Aelius Sejanus (20 BC – 31 AD). Little need be said about why Caesar found himself the source of Warren’s ire; if any one person was responsible for the collapse of the Roman Republic and the rise of the Roman Empire it was he. Accordingly, though he has been the subject of veneration and emulation following shortly upon his death and in the centuries since, he had not been looked upon favorably by supporters of republicanism. Sejanus, on the other hand, is a slightly more obscure figure. Confidante of Emperor Tiberius (14-37), Sejanus was a soldier by training who became prefect of the imperial bodyguard upon his friend’s ascent to the throne. Via a process of manipulation, consolidation, and more than one carefully calculated murder, he rose to a position of power second only to the Emperor himself. When Tiberius withdrew to his permanent retreat at the Italian island of Capri in 26, Sejanus was left in control of the imperial administration, making him the de-facto ruler of the Roman Empire. Tiberius was eventually alerted to the degree to which Sejanus had usurped his authority, and in 31 had him arrested and executed without trial. As with Caesar, the life of Sejanus testifies to the incredibly destructive influence of unchecked ambition within a political culture that fails to prize accountability and integrity. Though he was but one man, the flimsiness of imperial Roman institutions allowed him to rise to a position of almost supreme power because he was the most ruthless and the most cunning, and because he had the Emperor’s ear. This, Warren would no doubt have lamented, is a wholly unacceptable status quo for a political entity in which so much power was vested. Caesar too was one man, and though he should not be held singly responsible for the fatal corruption of republican Rome, his role in its final disintegration was essential and undeniable.

  That all four of the men Warren mentioned in section eighteen of Observations, Brutus, Decius, Caesar, and Sejanus, were Ancient Romans who were born, lived, and died within the span of about 200 years was perhaps intended to speak to the sense of balance or equilibrium described above. Whereas in section six she seemed intent on highlighting how important it was that the American Revolution had broken with the Western historical trend of acquiescence to the existing of standing armies (and all the negative consequences therein), the examples she denoted in section eighteen appear to speak to a somewhat more modest proposition. As there was a Caesar, who expertly subverted the institutions of the Roman Republic, so there was a Brutus to strike him down. And as there were men like Decius, who sought to reassert the rule of law in an era of increasing lawlessness, so too there were men like Sejanus, who bowed, and scraped, and plotted, and killed, until the greatest sovereign power then in existence lay at their feet. Such different sensibilities these men possessed, such opposing views of power, responsibility, ambition, and virtue. And yet they were all Romans; all products of the same culture, the same general era.

The message that Warren was attempting to impart is accordingly rather simple: every civilization can in every era produce in equal measure men of great wisdom and men of great ego. America was no different in this respect, though it was her hope that the country, “May yet produce characters who have genius and capacity sufficient to form the manners and correct the morals of the people, and virtue enough to lead their country to freedom.” The manner in which she endeavored to convey this message, however, was somewhat more complex. History, as she attempted to elucidate, was indeed studded with examples of powerful, influential figures rising from the same time and place that nevertheless stood for often violently opposed sets of values. For Cato, Brutus, and Decius there was Caesar and Sejanus; the era of Padilla and the Comuneros was also the age of Charles, first King of Spain, and Holy Roman Emperor. Post-Revolutionary America, Warren feared, may too have been host to grasping, ambitious men who cloaked their base desires for power behind a mask of selflessness and public virtue. The results of the constitutional convention in Philadelphia seemed to her evidence enough of the avidity with which certain classes in America yearned to secure their position in the midst of an unstable post-war settlement. Yet if history was any indication, she deduced, there was reason to hope.

Why Warren felt the need to take such an expansive view of what is arguably a fairly simple axiom perhaps has something to do with how she viewed the world, and in turn how she hoped her fellow American would as well. As with her discussion in Observations of the history of standing armies, her illustration of the commonality of virtue and vice throughout history appears intended to tie events in 1780s America to the broader narrative of Western civilization. The United States, many of the Founders sought to assert, was not an insignificant frontier backwater, but rather the continuation and culmination of all that had come before. In some cases this sense of continuity meant rejecting or modifying earlier precedents, while in others it meant finding strength and solidarity in them. In either case, however, the past could not be ignored; indeed, it was prologue to all that came after. By describing some of the historical precedents, trends, and cycles she felt America was poised to discard or embrace, Warren was perhaps in her own particular way contributing to this same idea. Why discuss ancient Rome, Imperial Spain, or the legend of William Tell if they had nothing to do with America?

In fact, Warren seemed eager to communicate, they had everything to do with events then unfolding in the United States of America because that country and its people represented the final realization of Western history and culture. Doubtless this sounds grandiose in the extreme, but it was a belief very common to members of the Founding Generation. America, they reasoned, was to be a society perfected; the distillation of all that was good and virtuous about Western culture and government, filtered through the liberal radicalism of the Enlightenment. Attempting to explain such a complex and weighty concept to the great mass of Americans was no small task, but not without its due reward. If Americans could be made to understand how important the fate of their nascent nation was, how unparallelled the opportunity they had been presented to fulfil the promises and reject the mistakes of centuries past, perhaps they would cease to take their hard-fought liberty for granted – as some seemed determined to do – and stand fast to secure their country against, “The rude breath of military combinations, and the politicians of yesterday.” Few were as well-equipped or well-disposed to this effort than Mercy Otis Warren, and she attacked it with singular enthusiasm and aptitude.

  Further examples of Warren’s affection for argument via historical example, and in particular her knowledge or the Classics, came be found in sections one and eighteen of Observations. In the former, she opined that the proposed constitution described a style of republic that was heavily influenced by aristocratic principles, and that the resultant federal office-seekers had would have no greater desire than to, “Sail down the new pactolean channel.” The meaning of this passage may not be immediately apparent – it certainly wasn’t to me – but in fact the word “pactolean” is meant to refer to the River Pactolus, near the Aegean coast of Turkey. It was in the waters of Pactolus that King Midas was said to have cleansed himself of his golden touch, no doubt because the river contained high quantities of electrum (a natural alloy of gold and silver). This natural treasure eventually became the foundation upon which the ancient kingdom of Lydia built its economy, and so the adjective “pactolean” is meant to denote something or someone that possesses a high degree of material wealth. What Warren thus attempted to argue in Observations was that supporters of the proposed constitution regarded its successful ratification as key to their own personal enrichment.

For Warren to have used the term “pactolean” she would presumably have had to know something about the history of ancient Turkey or Hellenistic mythology. It was not a word in common usage, and so it seems a safe assumption that those who did deploy it were conscious of where it came from and what exactly it was supposed to refer to. Interestingly, a brief investigation reveals that the passage quoted above was originally taken by Warren from the text of another of the Anti-Federalist Papers. The paper in question, the sixth to be published under the name Cincinnatus (a pseudonym of Virginian Arthur Lee), first saw public circulation in December, 1787, approximately two months before Warren’s Observations was released to the public. In it, the author responded to the praise heaped upon the proposed constitution by one of its authors, Scottish-born James Wilson (1742-1798), by claiming that the most likely person to support the new federal charter was a failed entrepreneur whose wealth had been ruined and who would enthusiastically seize upon the opportunity to help erect a system of government seemingly designed to reward rampant speculation. This theoretical opportunist, Cincinnatus wrote, would no doubt have been, “Animated by an anticipation of that happy hour, when he might sail down this new pactolean channel […] to sing a requiem to our expired liberties, and chant hallelujahs to his approach-to wealth and consequence.”

Simply because a reference to the River Pactolus in its cultural/historical context found in her Observations was in fact part of a quotation from an earlier work does not mean that Warren was simply parroting back something she liked the sound of. To use the term correctly she would have had to understand what it referred to, and so would have required some degree of knowledge concerning Greco-Turkish history and mythology. Likely she seized upon the quoted phrase while reading Cincinnatus VI because she was familiar with its meaning and enjoyed the particular turn of phrase. This would of course indicate that, in addition to the rich personal understanding of history and philosophy that Mercy Otis Warren possessed, she was also familiar enough with the works of her fellow Anti-Federalists to cite them when she felt the situation called for it. Considering her aforementioned thirst for knowledge, and the sense of political engagement she displayed during the 1770s as a satirical, pro-revolutionary playwright, the notion that Warren read some of the other commentaries that had been published on the topic of the proposed constitution is not terribly surprising. That being said, the fact that she quoted Cincinnatus VI in her own critique of the Constitution is potentially indicative that Mercy Otis Warren thought herself an equal participant in the Anti-Federalist effort. Having kept abreast of the work being produced by like-minded individuals, she quoted one whose opinion she shared as one would a colleague.

The classical reference that Warren deployed in section eighteen of Observations also helps demonstrate a degree of affinity between her work and that of other American political commentators, if not quite as directly. Warren argued near the middle of said section, amid a description of the ways in which the American people were ill-suited to monarchy, described the former as having been, “Inspired with the generous feeling of patriotism and liberty, and […] like the ancient Spartans have been hardened by temperance amid manly exertions, and equally despising the fatigues of the field, and the fear of enemies.” In addition to demonstrating a degree of knowledge, and apparent veneration, of the residents of Ancient Sparta, this passage also shows ties Warren to other prominent Americans who felt the same comparison was appropriate. In the third of John Dickinson’s Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania, for instance, the great moderate of the Revolution likewise referred to the Spartans as a model of temperance and bravery who were worthy of emulation by Americans. They were a, “brave and free people,” he wrote, 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, who he claimed exhibited in battle, “at once a terrible and delightful fight, and [proceeded] with a deliberate valor, full of hope and good assurance, as if some divinity had sensibly assisted them.”

Consider the words that Mercy Otis Warren and John Dickinson each felt were appropriately ascribed to the Spartans and to their fellow Americans. Dickinson characterized the Spartans, and in turn described his ideal vision of the American temperament, as happy, brave, and free, and doubtless agreed with the quoted Plutarch that they were also valorous, and full of hope. Twenty years later, Warren compared the same two peoples, noting specifically Americans` patriotism and liberty (synonymous perhaps with the freedom that Dickinson ascribed to the Spartans), and the Ancient Spartans` lack of fear (bravery, one might say). Evidently these two American commentators and philosophers both felt there was a connection or affinity between the citizens of 18^th-century America and Classical Sparta, and employed much of the same vocabulary to describe said relationship. It`s certainly possible that Warren had read Dickinson Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania, and had been influenced by the comparison he drew between the two cultures. Considering the knowledge she elsewhere demonstrated in Observations, this seems far from unlikely.

Then again, even if she had not been familiar with Dickinson`s work specifically, allusions to the history, culture, and literature of Ancient Rome and Greece were quite common among the literary output of the 18<sup>th</sup>-century American elite. That Dickinson and Warren both compared their fellow Americans to the valorous inhabitants of Sparta may simply be an indication of their shared frame of reference. If both had studied the Classics, both would have known of the Spartan`s reputation. Whatever caused Dickinson in 1767 to imagine that his fellow colonists were capable of donning a Spartan aspect could just as easily have spurred Warren in 1788 to claim that the American people were best compared to those ancient warriors in their common bravery, and freedom of spirit. Where the two differ in their characterization might possibly be explained by the separate contexts in which they each wrote. Dickinson didn't explicitly argue that his fellow American colonists were like the Ancient Spartans, only that he hoped they would be in light of recent political tensions. The fact that he was writing during the years immediately preceding the Revolutionary War likely explains his imploring tone; the strength of American determination had not yet been tested, and Dickinson only hoped his countrymen would be equal to the exertions demanded of them. Warren conversely asserted that Americans had, like the ancient Spartans […] been hardened by temperance amid manly exertions, and equally [despised] the fatigues of the field, and the fear of enemies.” Because she was writing twenty years after Dickinson, with the Revolutionary War safely behind her and the popular memory still flush with scenes of military glory, doubtless she felt that the comparison need no longer be simply a hopeful one. To her eyes, as no doubt to many others`, Americans had become like the Spartans through their shared experience of suffering and ultimate triumph.

Warren`s shared point of reference with Dickinson – Americans = Spartans – combined with their differing emphasis – hopeful versus declarative – is perhaps an indication of the intellectual continuity that the two formed a part of. Dickinson, despite how his reputation has languished in the intervening centuries, was one of the most prominent voices in favor of colonial resistance to British political centralization before and during the American Revolution. His Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania were incredibly influential, and his presence during the drafting of both the Articles of Confederation and the United States Constitution doubtless exercised a much-needed moderating influence on the respective end products. Mercy Otis Warren, largely self-educated and exceptionally knowledgeable, was likewise an active participant in the events of the Revolutionary era. Though not as prominent a prominent a figure as many of her contemporaries, she was undeniably a part of the greater conversation. Like Dickinson – or indeed Adams, Jefferson, Washington, or Madison – Warren spoke of America in terms of the history and philosophy she was familiar with, and which she felt best applied. Her male counterparts spoke of Cato and Caesar, Brutus, Plutarch, rivers of wealth, the downfall of republics, and the virtues of the Ancient Spartans. And so did she.   

Observations on the New Constitution, and on the Federal and State Conventions, Part III: History

Philosophy aside, Mercy Otis Warren’s Observations also provides evidence of its author’s abundant knowledge of European history. Considering the passion she displayed for that very topic as a child under the tutelage of Rev. Jonathan Russel, and in light of the trajectory her later career took, this should not come as much of a surprise. Warren’s 1805 publication, under her own name, of one of the first histories of the American Revolution, the pithily-titled History of the Rise, Progress, and Termination of the American Revolution, remains perhaps her most enduring legacy in the popular mindset. That being said, the manner in which Warren utilized various historical events, figures, or paradigms in the earlier Observations demonstrates a comprehension on her part of historical commonalities, trends, and patterns that remains impressive even in a modern context. Not merely seeking precedent to help buttress her own arguments, she seemed at least partially intent on sharing with her reading audience a perspective on the events on the era in which they lived that went beyond their everyday material circumstances and connected them and their struggles to broader, century-spanning trends.

Section six of Observations contains the first such attempt by Warren to explicate the larger historical pattern into which the events transpiring in the United States in the 1780s best fit. This she entered into in the midst of a discussion concerning the proposed constitution’s endorsement of a standing army. Long the horror of American Whigs, Warren likewise expressed her unequivocal dislike – “freedom revolts at the idea,” she wrote – and thereafter held forth on the train of abuses in which peacetime militaries had been historically involved. “Standing armies have been the nursery of vice and the bane of liberty,” she wrote, “From the Roman legions to the establishment of the artful Ximenes, and from the ruin of the Cortes of Spain, to the planting of the British cohorts in the capitals of America.” The Roman Legions to which she referred were undoubtedly those of the Empire rather than the Republic; the soldiers of the former eventually grew so powerful that they became the only constituency Roman authorities paid any heed to. Indeed, on several occasions the Roman military overthrew the reigning Emperor and either crowned one of their own number (as with Maximus Thrax in 235) or sold the office to the highest bidder (as with Didius Julianus in 193). The “artful Ximenes” was meanwhile likely a reference to Spanish Cardinal Francisco Jiménez de Cisneros (1436-1517), regent of Castile during the minority of future King of Spain Charles V (1500-1558). During his time as regent Jiménez ruled the Kingdom of Castile in a highly autocratic manner, and in preparation for the ascension of Charles to the throne ensured that the nobility was brought to heel, secured the seat of royal power in Madrid, and saw to the formation of a well-drilled standing army.

These preparations doubtless aided Charles when he was forced to confront a revolt led by the Castilian elites in 1520. The so-called “Revolt of the Comuneros” resulted from, among other things, the political instability that had plagued Castile since the death of Queen Isabella I (1451-1504), and the general “foreign-ness” of the young King Charles (who was born and raised in what is now Belgium, and did not even speak Castilian Spanish at the time he inherited the throne). The rebels, led by disenchanted members of the nobility and the clergy, eventually organized themselves into a self-styled “General Assembly of the Kingdom” and claimed Charles’ mentally-ill mother Joanna as their Queen. This semi-legitimate representative body was likely the “Cortes of Spain” Warren referred to in Observations. The insurrection was ultimately crushed and its leaders executed in 1521, thanks in no small part to the superior numbers of Charles’ army. This fact Warren was likely intent on highlighting in her criticism of the concept of a standing army; had not Jiménez taken pains to organize a peacetime military on behalf of the young King Charles, the Revolt of the Comuneros, and Spanish history in turn, might have followed a very different course.

From examples of the sins wrought by standing armies at various points in European history, Warren transitioned in section six of Observations to, “the planting of the British cohorts in the capitals of America.” This was no doubt intended to refer to the stationing of large numbers of British regular army personnel in the Americans colonies in the aftermath of the Seven Years War (1756-1763). In all some 10,000 troops remained in North America after hostilities came to an end in the early 1760s, for reasons that were both practical and politically expedient. Among the soldiers that had been sent to defend Britain’s North American possessions were something on the order of 1,500 officers, many of whom came from influential families that were well-connected to members of Parliament and government ministers. Putting these 1,500 men out of work at a stroke would thus have wrought unfortunate consequences for the administration responsible, and so it was deemed the more prudent course to keep them on station in America. Practically speaking, the presence of such a large force was thought to help ensure the security of colonial possessions acquired during the recent conflict (the sprawling hinterland of Quebec, for example), as well as ensure the safety of settler populations in frontier regions that abutted on territory still inhabited by Native tribes. The outbreak of Pontiac’s Rebellion in 1763, during which a confederation of tribes from the Great Lakes region who were dissatisfied with British policies in the newly acquired western territory initiated an insurrection that lasted for three years, seemed to validate official reasoning in very short order.

From the perspective of American colonists who did not live on the frontier, however, the presence of such large numbers of British troops in their homeland during a time of peace represented a threat to their personal and political liberties. As Warren pointed out in Observations, standing armies had been the source of much mischief over the course of European history from at least the era of Ancient Rome. In the absence of an enemy to fight, many concerned colonial citizens wondered, what was there to stop British soldiers from causing trouble, absconding with private property, or becoming a force in colonial politics? Could liberty be said to exist in Massachusetts, say, or Georgia, if the governors of these colonies could call upon a ready supply of soldiers as a means of enforcing unpopular, or even legally questionable, policies? This was a problem that Warren, and many of those among her reading audience, had confronted during her own lifetime. The presence of British troops in America in the 1760s had place a sizable financial burden on the British Parliament (£225,000 per year in the 1760s, equivalent to £29,000,000 in the 2010s), who in turn tried to pass the cost along to the colonies by levying taxes on, among other things, sugar, tea, glass, and paper. When British soldiers were order into Boston in 1768 in response to the protests that emerged in response to these taxes, it put in motion the sequence of events leading to the Boston Massacre in October, 1770. In addition to clashing with Enlightenment and republican philosophical theory, to which many among the American elite were sympathetic, the presence of a standing army in North America in the 1760s and 1770s directly and negatively impacted the lives of countless colonial citizens. Of this Warren sought to remind her audience, for it doubtless seemed to her that the nascent United States was preparing to take a step backwards.

    The aspect of the proposed constitution that gave Warren cause for concern was likely to be found in the latter half of Section Eight. Therein, authority was allocated to Congress, “To provide for organizing, arming, and disciplining, the Militia, and for governing such Part of them as may be employed in the Service of the United States [,]” as well as, “To provide for calling forth the Militia to execute the Laws of the Union, suppress Insurrections and repel Invasions [.]” While this might seem a rather innocuous stipulation to a 21^st-century audience accustomed to the idea of the United States as a global military power, the implication of a provision like this was no doubt ample cause for concern for members of the Founding Generation. Though the Continental Army had been, during its existence in the late 1770s and early 1780s, an instrument of Congress not necessarily beholden to the governments of any of the states, it had been born of the necessity of war and essentially ceased to exist once peace was declared in 1783. What remained was a much-reduced force, 700 men organized into a single regiment, relegated to the defence of outposts on the young nation’s far western frontier. Though opposed by certain philosophical purists who believed any standing army at all was unacceptable, the formation of the First (and at the time only) American Regiment was deemed acceptable by a majority of delegates in Congress in 1784.

The clauses enshrined in Section Eight of the proposed constitution intended to define Congressional authority over the militia, however, could easily have been construed to fly in the face of this post-Revolutionary consensus surrounding the existence of a standing military. The Articles of Confederation, which the new national charter was intended to replace, granted no such authority to Congress, instead mandating in Article Six that the respective states maintain adequate militias themselves. To instead give Congress responsibility for organizing, arming, disciplining, and governing the militia was potentially tantamount to granting them control over an army of their own design, to be put to use at their own behest. As if to confirm this worry, the Constitution also stated explicitly that said militia could be commanded by Congress, “to execute the Laws of the Union,” and to, “suppress Insurrections [.]” Had not these been the same purposes to which the British attempted to put their own military in the 1760s and 1770s? If the United States of America was to be a representative republic, whereby the rights of the people were held to be of paramount importance, why the need for a mechanism of military coercion codified within the nation’s governing charter?

As Warren attempted to explain by an artful arrangement of historical examples, the dangers represented by a standing army were very real, and very well-established. Ancient Rome and Imperial Spain had fallen prey to political corruption and social repression because they had tolerated the existence of military establishments during times of peace, and British America had nearly met the same fate. Fortunately the citizens of the various American colonies had proven themselves unwilling to countenance the existence of an armed soldiery within their midst whose loyalty was to a far-distant monarch. The Revolution swept away this threat entirely, and though there remained an American military presence on the western verges of the young republic into the 1780s, it was, as aforementioned, much reduced compared to the strength of the Continental Army at its height. Warren and her Anti-Federalist cohorts no doubt considered this a great victory, and so the apparent desire of the Framers of the proposed constitution to place coercive military authority in the hands of Congress likely appeared as an unwelcome reverse. The Revolution had been waged to break the cycle of history, as Warren described it in Observations; why turn back? Why invite the risks that inevitably accompanied the existence of a standing army? Like many of the Anti-Federalist commentators, Warren’s criticisms of the United States Constitution evinced a notable sense of pride in the accomplishments of the Revolution, and a sense of abject disappointment that any among her countrymen were evidently so willing to cast those accomplishments aside. And as befitted her intellectual sensibilities, she expressed this disappointment through the lens of history and the lessons it had to impart.