Centinel I, Part VII: The Welfare of their Country

            In addition to examining the degree to which certain of his countrymen had legitimate cause to feel as though their government had failed them and that some manner of reform was required, it perhaps also bears considering the extent to which Bryan’s stated suspicion of the architects of the proposed constitution had any basis in fact. Having begun the passage in which he attributed domineering and duplicitous motivations to the authors of the plan in question – the fifth paragraph of Centinel I – with the phrase “the wealthy and ambitious,” it seems a fair assumption that he believed the group of men responsible for drafting the United States Constitution were either of a common class within contemporary American society or shared a common objective – which is to say, people of means who had an incentive to increase those means. Notwithstanding their origins among twelve different states, their varied professions, and their documented political divisions, Bryan was evidently convinced that the framework which they had collectively wrought served all of their needs, addressed all of their concerns, and would permit each of them to more successfully “lord it over their fellow creatures” upon its ratification by the states. Turning to the list of delegates known to have attended the Philadelphia Convention – not all of whom ultimately signed the proposed constitution – this would seem an unkind, if not wholly unfair, assessment. Granting that it would have been impossible for Bryan to determine in 1787 what it was precisely that motivated each of the aforementioned delegates to the Constitutional Convention, their collective biography does tend towards a broad similarity of upbringing and experience.

As discussed previously, many of the fifty-five men sent by their respective states to Philadelphia were wealthy, or educated, or both, and nearly all of them had served in the government of the colony in which they lived. A far from insignificant number were also either members of very prosperous planter families (in the South) or operated successful trading firms (in the North), and almost three-fifths of them had served in the Continental Army. The combination of these two attributes in particular – i.e. economic dependence on access to foreign markets and experience with and respect for truly national institutions – would definitely seem to have favored the creation of a centralized federal government. There were, of course, a number of outliers among this group, several of which enjoyed significant political success in spite of their limited material circumstances. Connecticut’s Roger Sherman (1721-1793), for example, was a self-educated shoemaker-cum-lawyer whose political achievements – i.e. service in the Connecticut General Assembly and the Continental Congress, co-authorship of the Declaration of Independence, election as Mayor of New Haven, etc. – belied his very meagre personal wealth. There was also William Few (1748-1828), who was born into a relatively poor farming family that supported the populist Regulators in North Carolina against the contemporary colonial government. The defeat of the Regulator movement in 1771 led to the seizure of the Few estate and their migration into Richmond Country, Georgia, where William began a law practice and joined the local militia.

Admirable though these men certainly were for their evident ability to transform modest conditions into substantial personal success, however, they were most definitely unusual among their colleagues at the Philadelphia Convention. Inherited wealth and/or financial success were far more common among that particular cohort of men, both of which tended to favor the kind of robust foreign trade that the Articles of Confederation were demonstrably incapable of fostering. In consequence, while it would again simply have been false for Samuel Bryan to claim he knew it for a fact that the Framers of the Constitution were motivated only by a common desire to increase their respective power and prosperity, it accordingly bears admitting that they did certainly look the part. By and large, they were wealthy, a number were demonstrably very ambitious – the comparatively un-wealthy Alexander Hamilton (1757-1804) being perhaps the most ambitious of all – and their personal fortunes would almost certainly have been improved by the creation of a more centralized national government. The general thrust of Bryan’s warning, then, that the motivations of the proposed constitution’s supporters warranted close scrutiny, was seemingly well-founded.

Besides the apparent justification Bryan possessed for questioning the motives of the general body of the Framers, he also notably attempted to cast doubt upon the contributions rendered by what were arguably that cohort’s two least-impeachable members. Lamenting, once again, the evident success he observed on the part of the supporters of the proposed constitution in their efforts to allay the concerns of the majority of their countrymen, Bryan somewhat bitterly observed in the aforementioned fifth paragraph of Centinel I that,

These characters flatter themselves that they have lulled all distrust and jealously of their new plan, by gaining the concurrence of the two men in whom America has the highest confidence, and now triumphantly exult in the completion of their long meditated schemes of power and aggrandisement.

While the names of these evidently renowned individuals were not mentioned by Bryan, the passage which followed arguably served to deliver a fairly strong indication of their identities. “I would be very far from insinuating,” the author of Centinel I continued,

That the two illustrious personages alluded to, have not the welfare of their country at heart, but that the unsuspecting goodness and zeal of the one, has been imposed on, in a subject of which he must necessarily be inexperienced, from his other arduous engagements; and that the weakness and indecision attendant on old age, has been practiced on the other.

In light of these descriptions, and respecting the fact that only two of the aforementioned fifty-five delegates assembled in Philadelphia in late 1786 could be said to have possessed anywhere close to the respect and affection Bryan here ascribes, the individuals in question could have been none other than George Washington (1732-1799) and Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790).

            Connecting these hallowed names to the accusation which Bryan was evidently keen to advance, the modern reader is almost certainly given pause. The intervening centuries have done so much to burnish the reputations of Washington and Franklin for honesty, integrity, and patriotism that describing their participation in any initiative as the product of manipulation would now seem very nearly sacrilegious. These men were giants, we have been informed, even among the Founders, and were each of them blessed with qualities of wisdom, prudence, and foresight which appear in the retelling to be almost superhuman. How could they have been taken in by a conspiracy of farmers and shop-keeps? How could Bryan, whose lifetime coincided with these men’s greatest achievements, have believed this was possible? By way of answering these questions, it would seem sensible to examine the state of Washington’s and Franklin’s respective reputations as of 1787, the applicability of Bryan’s specific accusations, and the likely rationale behind his abiding distrust of men who even he acknowledged had nothing but “the welfare of their country at heart.”

            Strange as it may sound to those who think of him exclusively as a figure that rose to prominence during and because of the American Revolution, George Washington’s fame among his countrymen actually preceded his assumption of command of the Continental Army by some twenty years. As a Lieutenant Colonel in the Virginia militia, the twenty-two year old scion of Virginia’s planter aristocracy first tasted national recognition when he was sent to intercept French efforts to spoil the construction of British fortifications at what is now the site of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in the spring of 1754. While initially successful in driving off the French forces he encountered near the forks of the Ohio River, the death of a French-Canadian officer under disputed circumstances in the aftermath of a small engagement on May 28^th was subsequently used against Washington after his capture following the Battle of Fort Necessity on July 3^rd. Made unknowingly to accept responsibility for the “assassination” of the unarmed subject of a foreign power with whom Britain was not formally at war, the young militia officer’s actions were seized by French authorities as unforgivable provocation. The resulting diplomatic row between Great Britain and France fairly quickly blossomed into the North American campaign of the Seven Years War (1754-1763).

            While this would seem a rather ignominious beginning to a military and political career otherwise blessed with unparalleled success, the exposure Washington gained from his involvement in the “Jumonville Affair” – so named for the slain French-Canadian officer – proved more lasting than the mild censure he suffered in the meantime. Having resigned his commission upon his return to Virginia, he subsequently managed to arrange a position for himself as aid-de-camp to recently-arrived British General Edward Braddock (1695-1755) and departed with a force of Britain’s regular army intent on recapturing the aforementioned fortifications in Western Pennsylvania (Fort Duquesne). Though the subsequent expedition ended in a French victory, and witnessed the mortal wounding of Braddock at the Battle of Monongahela (July 9^th, 1755) and the hasty retreat of Britain’s remaining forces, Washington once more emerged largely unscathed – both physically and in terms of reputation. His successful efforts at organizing the remains of Braddock’s shattered army, and the coolness and resolve he showed in the process, even gained for him the popular moniker of “Hero of Monongahela.” Thereafter given command by acting governor Robert Dinwiddie (1692-1770) of a regiment of his own, Washington went on to participate in a number of engagements between 1755 and 1759 – including the successful recapture of Fort Duquesne in November, 1758 – at the conclusion of which he again resigned his commission and retired to his plantation in Fairfax County, Virginia. Having amassed a body of knowledge and experience in the military arts, demonstrated his effectiveness as a commander, and formed connections with a number of influential figures among the local and regional political elite, the supposed instigator of the Seven Years War could confidently be said to have entered the 1760s as one of the best known and most well-respected American officers then living in the Thirteen Colonies.

            Bearing all of this in mind, Washington’s later appointment to the office of Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army in 1775 appears more like the continuation of an existing trend than the beginning of a new one. Having amassed an impressive – if not spotless – record of military service, and demonstrably possessed of charisma and determination, the former Hero of Monongahela was also an avowed supporter of the Patriot cause and enjoyed tremendous popularity, particularly among his fellow southerners. There appeared, in short, no better candidate for the unenviable task at hand of transforming a ragged – if brave – assortment of colonial irregulars into a disciplined and effective fighting force. Once confirmed in that post, Washington quickly demonstrated the wisdom of his supporters in Congress by giving expression to what would become one of his most famous and lauded personal traits. “With the utmost sincerity,” he reportedly avowed, “I do not think myself equal to the Command I [am] honored with.” This sense of humility, combined with his military prowess – again, more on the order of organization and perseverance than tactical genius – thereafter formed the foundation of Washington’s sterling reputation in late 18^th century America.

As early as 1778, having recovered from defeats in New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania in 1776 and 1777, retrained his forces over the winter at Valley Forge, and fought the British to a draw at the Battle of Monmouth, Washington was being referred to publically as “the Father of His Country.” A similar sense of awe and gratitude was also evidently felt among certain of his fellow Founders. No less than the aforementioned Benjamin Franklin declared in his will, in relation to a walking stick he intended to bequeath to Washington, “If it were a Sceptre, he has merited it, and would become it.” Fellow Virginian Thomas Jefferson, though characteristically less inclined to couch his praise in terms which so clearly smacked of monarchy, was nonetheless similarly generous. Responding, no doubt, to Washington’s then-recent resignation from the office of Commander-in-Chief in December, 1783 – at a time when he was unarguably the most powerful and the most beloved man in America – Jefferson remarked in a letter to the now-retired general that, “The moderation and virtue of a single character probably prevented this Revolution from being closed, as most others have been, by a subversion of that liberty it was intended to establish.” Even George III (1738-1820), who seems as unlikely a source of praise for Washington as one could possibly imagine, was at length given to admire the moral quality of his opposite number. Having been told by American painter Benjamin West in 1781 that Washington would likely retire once American independence was formally secured, the king was reported by West to have remarked that such an act would truly have made Washington, “The greatest man in the world.”

While it is debatable how much water such praise would have carried among the monarch’s soon-to-be-former subjects, the incident itself is nonetheless emblematic of the impression Washington tended to make on people over the course of his life. His military record was far from spotless, both in terms of strategy and decision-making. Certain of his fellow colonists blamed him for the outcome of the Jumonville Affair in the 1750s and for the early defeats suffered during the New York and Pennsylvania campaigns of the Revolutionary War in the 1770s. There was even talk among a faction of Continental Army officers, after a series of reverses and retreats, of having Washington removed from command and replaced with the ostensibly more qualified Horatio Gates (1727-1806). What saved him then, as it had during his youthful excursions in the 1750s, was some combination of natural charisma and the sense of respect and integrity he inspired in those around him. People liked Washington, felt a sense of loyalty towards him, and were quick to defend his less successful decisions. This tendency in others was in turn aided by his well-honed ability to salvage even the most disastrous military defeats by exercising composure and determination while organizing what remained of his forces. Yet there was more to his fame than mere respect for military achievement. By additionally exercising a degree of humility and prudence not normally attributed to the kind of personality which customarily seeks after military glory, Washington proved to his countrymen that he was more than an ambitious officer lusting for the savor of victory. “The greatest man in the world,” may well have been a sobriquet too far, but “Father of his Nation” is at the very least an accurate reflection of the feelings he tended to arouse during the latter portion of his public career.

Though they were contemporaries, friends, and men of common political cause, there is much that separates the kinds of fame that George Washington and Benjamin Franklin respectively cultivated and enjoyed during their lifetimes. Whereas Washington was cautious and restrained, ever holding his pride in check in spite of the influence it held over his emotions and desires, Franklin was a man of innate self-possession who seemed to understand that in the public sphere presentation was sometimes as important as substance. His method of attaining popularity was accordingly defined by the appearance he presented to his colleagues and countrymen, the presence he enjoyed in their lives, and the sheer quantity of knowledge and expertise he freely – and often colorfully – was given to demonstrate. This method of success was first demonstrated during his early career as a printer and author, the most successful of his works being the popular and influential Poor Richard’s Almanack. Published yearly between 1732 and 1758, Poor Richard’s were best known for the many witty aphorisms with which Franklin filled their pages, alternating in tone between cynicism and sincerity. Seeking to gently counsel rather than spiritually uplift, the eponymous Richard Saunders enjoined his readers to exercise thrift, courtesy and good judgment while also waggishly predicting the deaths of the publishers of rival almanacs in the form of astrological forecasts. While these efforts were perhaps of trifling philosophical significance compared to some of the pre-Revolutionary publications of his fellow Founders, Poor Richard’s nevertheless became a fixture in households across the American colonies precisely because it was so easy to digest. In addition to practical information about the seasons and the cycles of the moon and the stars, Franklin sought to provide his readers with the kind of homespun wisdom which they might very easily find a use for in their daily lives. In so doing, the future President of Pennsylvania and American Ambassador to France made himself into something of a household name as early as the 1740s in the guise of a wise and witty man who had a saying prepared for every occasion.

The next phase of Franklin’s public career built upon this foundation of practical insight by greatly widening the scope of knowledge with which he was conversant. Pursuant to his abiding sense of curiosity and a seemingly intuitive grasp of scientific methodology, he accordingly began in the 1730s and 1740s to conduct a long-running and wide-ranging series of investigations and experiments into a number of fields yet still in their infancy. Within the province of demography, for example, he recorded data on population growth in the American colonies in the 1730s and 1740s, cited the dependence of growth on food supplies – an idea which later influenced the works of Thomas Malthus (1766-1834) – predicted the eventual surpassing of the British population by that of the colonies, and published his results in the early 1750s. On the subject of ocean currents, he investigated and documented the existence of the Gulf Stream and gave it the name it still bears today, in the field of thermodynamics he developed the theory of evaporative cooling, and in an extended study of oceanography he proposed a number of innovations, from watertight compartments to shipboard lightning rods. Perhaps most famously, he also conducted a variety of experiments over the course of the 1740s and 1750s with the phenomenon of electricity. The most famous of these – with kite and key – he published an account of in the Pennsylvania Gazette on October 19^th, 1752. Obscure though certain of these concepts may now seem – and may well have seemed at the time – their collective value is not difficult to appreciate. That one man should have possessed knowledge in, and made significant contributions to, so many fields was bound to be cause for admiration, a fact very likely aided by Franklin’s ability and tendency to publish his findings in the newspapers of which he was the printer. While no doubt his intention was to share his discoveries – and the benefits thereof – with as many people as possible, perhaps the most direct consequence of these many and varied scientific publications was the further enhancement of Franklin’s image as America’s single greatest purveyor of knowledge.

The last phase of Franklin’s public life was that of public servant. And though he arrived at this vocation somewhat late in life – first standing for popular election at the age of forty-two – it was arguably the means by which he became most beloved by his countrymen. Printing, of course, had made him a household name, and the pursuit of science had turned him into something of a modern sage. But his many exertions on behalf of his neighbors, constituents, and finally his fellow Americans made him something more than a wit or a wizard of currents, electrical or meteorological. He became, instead, the symbol and spokesperson of the American people to the wider world. And while this journey to the summit of popular esteem began humbly enough, it was ever marked by Franklin’s clear and tireless dedication to improving the lives of his fellow countrymen. Chosen as a councilman for the City of Philadelphia in 1748, he thereafter served as Justice of the Peace in 1749 and delegate for that selfsame city to the Pennsylvania General Assembly as of 1751. During his service in the latter office, he was also appointed Deputy Postmaster-General of British North America, co-founded the Pennsylvania Hospital, organized the first homeowner’s insurance company in America, co-founded the College of Philadelphia, attended the Albany Congress in the midst of the Seven Years War and proposed the first plan of union for the Thirteen Colonies, and organized the Pennsylvania militia for service in that same armed conflict. His public profile expanded further when he departed for Britain in 1757 in order to petition the Crown for relief from the increasingly self-serving influence of the Penn family upon Pennsylvania politics. Though this initial effort did not ultimately meet with success, Franklin’s presence in Britain through the 1760s placed him in an ideal position to argue for the interests of the colonies as the Anglo-American crisis slowly but surely unfolded. 

To that end, Franklin wrote popular essays on behalf of the colonial cause – one of which, Rules by Which a Great Empire May Be Reduced to a Small One (1773), I discussed here in a previous series – became de-facto ambassador for Georgia, New Jersey, and Massachusetts in addition to Pennsylvania, and testified before the House of Commons on several occasions in an attempt to clarify the nature of his countrymen’s dissatisfaction. This latter effort in particular, along with Franklin’s public excoriation by the Privy Council in February,1774 – a series of unflattering letters written by the Governor and Lieutenant-Governor of Massachusetts were printed in the Boston Gazette in 1773, for which Franklin was blamed – had essentially a twofold effect on his career as representative of the American people abroad. First, it arguably further cemented his status among the colonial public as their chief defender and representative before the British Crown and Parliament. Not only had he spoken eloquently and sincerely on their behalf – most famously in a session of the House of Commons in 1766 – but he had suffered for their actions by being publically upbraided by the Solicitor-General, Alexander Wedderburn (1733-1805). His humiliation, such as it was, effectively mirrored the treatment which many American believed they were then receiving from Britain. This treatment also served to solidify Franklin’s political self-identification as an ardent Patriot and a supporter of continued American resistance. Having been shown, in a very direct and visceral way, that accommodation between the colonies and Parliament would not be possible without the former deigning to abase themselves before the spirit of British pride, he accordingly abandoned all hope of political reconciliation and committed himself fully to steering the best course possible for the increasingly beleaguered American colonies.

The decade that followed in the life of Benjamin Franklin – comprising most of the last years of his life – arguably solidified and made manifest the consequences of these developments. Having dedicated himself to the collective cause of the American people notwithstanding their continued allegiance to the British Crown, he attended the Second Continental Congress as a delegate for Pennsylvania, participated in the drafting of the Declaration of Independence as a member of the Committee of Five, and became the first Postmaster General of the United States of America. Shortly thereafter, in December, 1776, Franklin was once more dispatched to Europe for the purpose of forwarding American interests. In this case, rather than Great Britain, it was to France that he was sent, during his residence in which he successfully negotiated a much-needed treaty of alliance – the Treaty of Amity and Commerce (1778) – secured an additional agreement between the United States and Sweden – another Treaty of Amity and Commerce (1783) – and helped to negotiate a final peace between the nascent American republic and the Kingdom of Great Britain – the Treaty of Paris (1783). Returning home to Pennsylvania in 1785, Franklin was greeted with the adulation and affection of his countrymen, having embodied and served his fellow Americans on foreign shores for a combined total of almost twenty years. In the time that remained to him – but five years in total – he became a strong advocate for the abolition of slavery – rising to leadership of the Pennsylvania Abolition Society – was elected to three terms as the President of Pennsylvania (1785-1788), and served as one of that state’s delegates to the Philadelphia Convention. Though his presence at the latter gathering was largely ceremonial – as the chief executive of Pennsylvania he served as formal host of the assembled delegates – his signature on the completed draft of the United States Constitution was nonetheless exceedingly significant. As one of the most beloved and respected men in what was still an extremely young nation, and as a co-author of the Declaration of Independence and the Treaty of Paris, few people could claim to have more effectively served their country or to better comprehend its best interests.

Granting that these biographies – those of Washington and Franklin, both – represent between what is almost certainly a needlessly longwinded approach to establishing the contemporary reputations of two of the American Founding’s most beloved figures, the point has hopefully been made all the same – amidst the dates, and battles, and experiments, and publications – that the targets of Samuel Bryan’s suspicion in the cited passage of Centinel I were indeed exceedingly popular at the time he was writing. Washington, though possessed of a somewhat spotty record as a battlefield commander, was nevertheless blessed with a combination of perseverance, gravitas, and humility, all of which traits fitted exactly the 18^th century Anglo-American ideal definition of “gentleman.” Outwardly self-sacrificing and disinterested, the Hero of Monongahela made up for his failings as a strategist by showing the kind of grit, masculine reserve, and moral character that his fellow countrymen had been culturally conditioned to respect and revere. That he was also American-born – as opposed to arguably more qualified American commanders of British extraction like the aforementioned Horatio Gates or Charles Lee (1732-1782) – sparsely educated – like most of them were – and pious doubtless increased the likelihood that his countrymen would embrace his as their champion, protector, and symbolic father figure.

Though Benjamin Franklin fitted almost none of these definitions – he was not a gentleman, he was not pious, and could hardly have been described as reserved – he too possessed a combination of traits which his countrymen were ultimately inclined to regard with respect and affection. Alternately wise, witty, ingenious, and civic-minded, he constructed a reputation for himself over a course of decades as a man of immense talent and knowledge whose greatest ambition nevertheless appeared to be serving his fellow man in whatever capacity he was able. While certainly a more flamboyant personality than Washington, Franklin still managed to appeal to his countrymen on what seemed to be a similarly aspirational level. Whereas the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army represented a kind of behavioral ideal based on discipline and self-restraint which people might widely admire while struggling to meet, Franklin was the kind of wily, ambitious, enterprising, and self-made entrepreneur which many Americans in the late 18^th century already believed themselves to be. Certainly his scientific knowledge was far in excess of what most of his countrymen could boast, and the sheer number of business, projects, foundations, and societies which he created or was a part of, listed together, was surely enough to make the average person grow faint. But these things were a tribute, not to masterful discipline, humility, and grit, but to the kind of curiosity and hard work that was available to those not born in the saddle or adapted to intense personal restraint. Benjamin Franklin, in short, was what the average American of the late 18^th century saw when they envisioned the embodiment of their own best qualities. He was not perfect, or course, or particularly polished. But neither, for that matter, were they.

Bearing all of this in mind, Samuel Bryan’s aforementioned caution does indeed appear to be somewhat exceptional. Of Washington, recall, he asserted that the man’s, “Unsuspecting goodness and zeal […] has been imposed on, in a subject which he must be necessarily inexperienced, from his other arduous engagements [.]” And of Franklin, meanwhile, he avowed that, “The weakness and indecision attendant on old age, has been practiced [.]” In light of the breadth and depth of affection which these two figures then enjoyed – each having been increasingly famous and beloved since the middle of the 18^th century – these are very serious claims indeed. Bryan would had to have known the degree to which he was pushing against the overwhelming tide of popular opinion by suggesting that either man was inadequate or deficient in the claims they were making. That he made the suggestion anyway – that he was willing to do something so obviously inexpedient – would accordingly appear to indicate the depth of his sincerity. Washington, he claimed, should not be trusted as an authority upon matter of political philosophy or constitutional law because he was not experienced or schooled in either of these areas. He was a good man, of course, and passionate in his support for the interests of his country, but his energy had historically been spent in capacities better fitted to his expertise. And while Franklin, Bryan added, most definitely had nothing less than the welfare of his country at heart, he was also very old – having turned eighty-one in January of 1787 – increasingly infirm, and more susceptible to manipulation than his admirers would likely have ever dared admit. Notwithstanding the meritorious service both of these men had rendered on behalf of their country, and the many contributions they had made to the well-being of their fellow man, it was therefore almost certainly the better part of prudence to disregard their support for the proposed constitution as bearing no real significance upon the quality of the project or the wisdom of its ratification.

In point of fact, George Washington really didn’t have a great deal of experience over the course of his life with either public policy or constitutional law. He was twenty-two when his military career began in the 1750s, was elected to the Virginia House of Burgesses in 1758 as essentially a reward for his service in the ongoing Seven Years War, and served for a total of seven years in that body as the representative for Frederick County. Granting that his actions during this period in his life certainly accorded with his reputation as an ardent supporter of American liberties in the face of increasingly British disregard for the same – he publically favored embargoes on British goods in the 1760s, attended an extralegal meeting of the House of Burgesses known as the Virginia Convention in 1774, and sat as a delegate in the First and Second Continental Congresses through 1776 – his political career up to that point was almost completely eclipsed in its impact on his character and views by his subsequent leadership of the Continental Army. And while this latter period in his life most definitely had a powerful effect on his personal conception of political authority – having to wrangle with uncooperative state governments for supplies, for example, notably inclined him towards favoring a more powerful national government – it did not necessarily make him more adept or better prepared to translate his views into policy. Notwithstanding the experience with parliamentary and legislative procedure he had surely gained during his service in colonial government, Washington was far from qualified to speak with confidence and effect upon the advantages and deficiencies of this or that model of republican government. All that he really could say with any authority – and, in fairness, all that he really did say – was that his wartime experience had shown him the need for stronger national leadership, and that he subsequently approved of the efforts of his colleagues towards achieving that end.

As to Benjamin Franklin’s mental acuity in the late 1780s, matters are a fair bit less clear cut. Compared to his colleague Washington, Franklin was arguably overqualified to participate in the drafting of a national governing charter. In addition to serving in the First and Second Continental Congresses alongside the future Commander-in-Chief, and having a similar span of years in colonial government under his belt, he was better versed in political philosophy, had more foreign diplomatic experience than just about any other living American, and had served as a principle author of his home state’s own inaugural constitution. Only the likes of James Madison (1751-1836) and James Wilson (1742-1798) – both lifelong academics who made extensive studies of historical constitutions – would seem to have possessed superior qualifications for exactly the task chosen by the delegates to the Philadelphia Convention. Perhaps bearing this in mind, Bryan chose instead to draw attention to the man’s age and potential infirmity. Franklin was, after all, in his eighties as of 1787, and had been suffering for a number of years from various health problems mostly related to his habitual obesity. Gout was chief among these, likely accompanied by other ailments of the kidney, and his eventual death of pleurisy in 1790 would seem to indicate that he was afflicted for some portion of his final years by some kind of respiratory illness as well.

Bearing all of this in mind, it would seem likely that Franklin was indeed afflicted with some form of “weakness” as Bryan described, though this was more likely in terms of physical pain and fatigue than any kind of pronounced mental feebleness. Indeed, the “indecision” to which Bryan attributed Franklin’s support for the proposed constitution would seem almost wholly speculative on his part. Granting that it was at least possible for Franklin to have been suffering some form of mental decline at the time he participated in the Philadelphia Convention, there exists no evidence to support such a claim in surviving records of either the events of the Convention or his remaining service as President of Pennsylvania. Consider, to that effect, the following extract from one of the few speeches Franklin delivered during his participation in the Convention debates. The assembled delegates having completed the finished draft of what would shortly become the United States Constitution, Franklin expressed his (qualified) satisfaction with the result by observing that,

When you assemble a number of men, to have the advantage of their joint wisdom, you inevitably assemble with those men all their prejudices, their passions, their errors of opinion, their local interests, and their selfish views. From such an assembly can a perfect production be expected? It therefore astonishes me, sir, to find this system approaching so near to perfection as it does […] Thus I consent, sir, to this Constitution, because I expect no better, and because I am not sure that it is not the best. The opinions I have had of its errors I sacrifice to the public good.

Far from the confused expression of a weak and indecisive mind, this would rather seem a very clear-headed assessment of a very complex subject. Franklin did not ramble endlessly over the course of the aforementioned debates, speak out of turn, or engage in meaningless digressions having nothing to do with the subject at hand. Nor did he express the unqualified support which one might fairly expect of someone whose enfeebled will is being controlled by another. Presented with a novel framework of federal power the likes of which was bound to be contentious among his fellow countrymen, he responded frankly, expressing both misgivings and hopes, and ultimately declared that his own opinion of its quality was less important under the circumstances than the potential good it might do in the event of its ratification. Notwithstanding the health issues under which he was known to be suffering – and granting those which he may potentially have been afflicted with – this sounds exactly like something the wise and self-sacrificing public servant Benjamin Franklin’s countrymen had come to know since the 1750s would have said.

            Granting, as detailed above, that George Washington was indeed comparatively unqualified to help draft or weigh in on the fitness of a proposed national constitution, and recognizing, at the same time, that there existed in the 1780s no evidence to suggest that Benjamin Franklin had in any way been rendered mentally deficient as a consequence of his age, one is yet still made to ask why Samuel Bryan thought it wise to call into doubt the participation of such universally beloved figures in the recently concluded Philadelphia Convention. Even if the former Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army truly did lack the experience and expertise to make a substantially informed judgment as to the quality of the proposed constitution, it remains something of a mystery precisely what advantage Bryan sought to derive from pointing this fact out to his countrymen. Washington never claimed to be an expert on constitutional law, and never attributed his participation in the Convention to such a claim of expertise. Just so, while by the standards of the late 18^th century Benjamin Franklin was indeed a very old man, and while it was far from unreasonable to expect such advanced age to be accompanied by some degree of mental as well as physical infirmity, it’s not entirely clear what favor Bryan believed he was doing his case by projecting such frailty upon the otherwise sharp and clear-headed Franklin. Public opinion, in both cases, would almost certainly have reacted with hostility to the suggestion that either man was less than qualified or less than able to complete the task they had volunteered to take on. What, then, did Bryan think he was doing? Why should he have made such a disadvantageous – and in the case of Franklin, such a flimsy – suggestion?

            The likeliest reason for Bryan’s attempt to disregard the support of George Washington and Benjamin Franklin for the proposed constitution would seem to have everything to do with his previously-established distrust of those who enjoyed the unqualified affection and admiration of others. He was, as aforementioned, perfectly content that the people should solicit the aid of well-informed and substantially experienced individuals whenever the complexity of the subject at hand required it. Bearing this in mind, it would seem to follow that Bryan would not have taken issue with his fellow countrymen consulting Washington on matters of military organization or asking Franklin in his capacity as co-author of the Constitution of Pennsylvania what considerations ought principally to be taken into account when drafting a frame of government. Where he rather appeared to take exception was in such cases as when experts ceased to provide expertise and began to exert influence. Washington and Franklin both were exceptionally knowledgeable in certain areas, to the advantage of their countrymen, whom they showed every indication of wishing to serve and assist. But their personal opinions were of no greater objective value than those of even the humblest of their fellow Americans. They were but men, after all, and flawed, given to prejudice, short-sightedness, and occasional miscalculation. The fame and affection they enjoyed might often obscure this essential fact – might cause people to esteem these great men’s opinions over even their own – but the fact itself remained.

This, in essence, is what Bryan most likely sought to convey to his countrymen in the cited text of Centinel I. George Washington and Benjamin Franklin were both of them ardent patriots, wise counselors, and selfless servants of their fellow man. And doubtless their presence during the events of the Philadelphia Convention had a beneficial effect on the proceedings and its final product. But within the context of the national conversation to follow, the final outcome of which was bound to affect every single living American, their opinions could not be permitted to sway anyone to thoughtless acquiescence. For the proposed constitution to have had any claim to validity upon its ratification, every person affected by that ratification must have been made to decide for themselves whether or not the document in question represented a desirable modification to the national government of the United States of America. If, in order to achieve this end, Bryan was forced to call into doubt the participation of two of his most beloved countrymen in the drafting of the same – by suggesting they were either unqualified or incapable – he evidently felt it worth the potential downside. Doubtless this manner of approach caused some portion of his audience to almost immediately discount all else he had to say, so fervent where they in their respect and admiration for the figures of Washington and Franklin. But then this would seem to entirely prove the point Bryan was trying to make. If the United States was to truly become a republic of laws in which the sovereignty of the people served as the final authority upon all matters of public import, a great deal of care needed to be taken to ensure that reason always ruled the day rather than the appeal of personality or fame. To that end, the individual citizen needed to be made sensible that the power they possessed had no superior, that the choices they were periodically asked to make had the functional force of law, and that the passing glimmer of popularity had no place in their decision-making lest the nation be given up entirely to the most charismatic tyrants the world had to offer. While at times this might mean discounting the sincerely-offered opinions of those whose fame was the product of honest labors, the security to be gained as a result was almost certainly worth the sacrifice. Such was Samuel Bryan’s evident opinion in 1787, the substance of which arguably remains as valid here and now as it was when originally offered.