Friday, January 8, 2016

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 18th 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 18th-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 18th-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 18th-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 17th century and in greater Europe in the 18th 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 18th-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 18th-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.   

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