The Kentucky Resolutions of 1798, Part II: Jefferson and the Constitution

Of the various aspects of the Kentucky Resolutions that make them such an interesting object of study, chief among them is the way the author’s relationship with the Constitution shaped what, among the values and principles it enshrined, he felt were particularly worth preserving. This in turn moulded how he viewed the Alien and Sedition Acts, and from what angle of attack he chose to critique them.

Though he is rightly considered among the most influential of the American Founding Generation, Jefferson was not present in Philadelphia for the drafting of the Constitution, and neither did he take part in any aspect of its ratification. Serving in those years as the United States Minister to France, he thus tended to approach the document with a slightly more jaundiced eye than many of his contemporaries. This sense of distance in many ways coloured how he viewed its essential character and purpose. Likewise the actions he undertook as President in the years 1801-1809 casts some of his words in the Resolutions in a rather interesting light, though that’s a subject for a later post.

 In essence, the Kentucky Resolutions serve to outline and illustrate an embryonic form of the strict-constructionist interpretation of the United States Constitution. In brief, this is a method of interpreting the Constitution that attempts to stay as true to the original text as possible, with a minimum of assumption or expansion. Strict-interpretation was one of the key positions regularly expressed by the fledgling Republican faction, and became a cornerstone of the subsequent Democratic Party. And the Resolutions were one of the most well-known expressions of perhaps the first successful organized protest movement in post-Revolutionary American history. They provide insight into the war of words that was waged in 1790s America between the Federalists and Republicans by revealing the intellectual front-lines of their conflict over power and influence in government and among the people. At the same time, they also provide specific insight into Thomas Jefferson’s political priorities as they existed at the end of the 18^th century, and his particular view of the necessary character of American government. At times his arguments are selfless, even noble, and at times they are manipulative and cynical. Regardless, they are always Jefferson, and can be relied upon to represent his earnest belief when and where he inscribed them.

As to what he inscribed, the Resolutions are relatively straightforward in their form and style. Divided into nine clauses, each beginning with the word “Resolved,” they include a preamble that attempts to explain the purpose of the overall exercise, a series of grievances, and a conclusion that calls for further action from prospective readers. As a declaration formally adopted by the Kentucky state legislature they are adorned with the names of certain officers of the assembly as well as the date of their passage through the two respective houses. Their author’s name, meanwhile, is conspicuously absent. Perhaps because of this desire for anonymity, the Resolutions are rather unlike many of Jefferson’s other written works in how business-like they seem to be. Largely avoiding the philosophical expansiveness that in many ways characterizes Jefferson’s style, they instead possess a rather meticulous, almost prosecutorial quality. The majority of the nine clauses contain compact arguments, clearly-presented evidence, and the strong, albeit repetitive, conclusion that the Alien and Sedition Acts are, “altogether void, and of no force.”

This, in itself, is a noteworthy phrase. Frequently identified with what later came to be known as nullification, it was meant by Jefferson to signify the unconstitutional nature of the offending Federalist-backed laws. Because the Alien and Sedition Acts explicitly violated certain clauses of the Constitution they were inherently unlawful, or so he attempted to communicate. About this idea there are several things worth noting. One is that the now-accepted method of determining a law’s constitutionality, judicial review, had yet to clearly emerge by 1798. Indeed, it was not until 1803 when the case Marbury v. Madison came before the Court that Chief Justice John Marshall put the still-novel and much-discussed procedure into use. Before that time certain state courts had taken it as their duty to determine the constitutionality of state laws, and debates had taken place at the Philadelphia Convention of 1787 which seemed to indicate that many of the Framers envisioned a similar power as belonging to the federal judiciary. That being said, the matter was not yet settled in 1798, and though many would ultimately come to oppose Jefferson’s interpretation of constitutional review his suggestion was not completely beyond consideration.     

Perhaps one of the reasons that Jefferson’s formulation of constitutional review was widely rejected is the rather expansive way he seemed to characterize it. Rather than leave the task to a single body, such as the Supreme Court that later assumed the responsibility, he believed that it was the duty of all the members of the “federal compact” (the individual states) to engage in the process. This meant, presumably, that any one of the states could declare at any time that a given law was in violation of the Constitution. Simple enough, but what then? Could a single state invalidate a law, or would it take a majority of the states? And if so would it take a simple majority (50% +1) or a 2/3 majority? With no single authority holding the final say, how would the process of determining a law’s constitutionality function? The potential for abuse and uncertainty abounds, and this too possibly reveals something of Jefferson’s intent. 

As expressed in Jefferson’s Resolutions, nullification is a very vague idea. It is not discussed at length or elaborated upon. The procedure for rendering a law “void and of no force” is not explained in the slightest, and indeed the declaration itself seems to have been intended as the final word on the matter. I would submit that this was because Jefferson did not have any kind of formal procedure in mind, but rather intended that his provocative conclusion would simply gain the attention of his readers. That the phrase “altogether void and of no force” appears no less than six times throughout the relatively brief text of the Resolutions would seem to indicate Jefferson’s desire to impress upon his readers the gravity of the issue before them. As he conceived it, the laws under consideration were not just ill-considered, ill-conceived, or in need of modification, but were completely and fundamentally invalid. In addition to being a canny politician Jefferson was also skilled in rhetoric, and in the science of capturing his readers’ attention. This was he almost certainly trying to do in his repetition of the same assertive phrase, for there seems to be little actual substance behind it.

The Kentucky Resolutions of 1798, Part I: Context

Thus far I've written at length about various efforts undertaken by the American Founding Fathers to describe, promote, expand, and solidify their nation. And in the process I've discussed the circumstances surrounding the outbreak of the Revolution, government under the Articles of Confederation, the ratification of the Constitution, and concepts like freedom of conscience, taxation, national debt, classical republicanism, and American empire. For the most part, I’d say the documents I've chosen to highlight have been of a generally constructive nature. That is, they detail the processes by which members of the founding generation tried to expand on the ideas that they held dear, and as a group possess a certain propulsive, forward momentum in the narratives they try to construct. They are essentially positive documents that portray the American founding as an optimistic, progressive experience. That being said, I've tried to illuminate some of the conflicts that were going on between different factions of the Founders, where appropriate. But, in all, they haven’t been at the centre of any of the documents or events that I've yet presented.

For this reason I’d like now to turn to the Kentucky Resolutions of 1798, written by Thomas Jefferson and presented to and ratified by the Kentucky state legislature in November of that year. Though I spent some amount of time during my discussion of George Washington’s Farewell Address to describe some of the political conflicts that defined the 1790s in the United States, Jefferson’s Resolutions are a direct product of those conflicts. Drafted in secret and released to the public with their author unacknowledged, they were an outgrowth of several major strands of the era’s political struggles; support for Britain against France, Federalism against Republicanism, and neutrality against interventionism. And, specifically, they were a direct response to the passage of the Alien and Sedition Acts by the Adams administration in November, 1797. In the main, these pieces of legislation increased the number of years of residence for naturalization from 5 to 14, made it legal for the federal government to imprison or deport any aliens considered unfriendly or dangerous to the safety of the United States, as well as prosecute individuals or groups who had published works critical of the character and conduct of the government itself.

The Resolutions were intended to position the states in opposition to what was perceived by critics of the Adams administration as unconstitutional breaches of the personal liberties of American citizens, landed immigrants and foreign guests. While James Madison, author of the companion Virginia Resolutions, called for the states to simply “interpose” themselves between the federal government and the general population to ensure that the offending laws were not carried into force, the ever-radical Jefferson claimed that it was the right of the various state governments to declare legislation found to be unconstitutional null and void. In some circles, both for and against the Acts, this threat of nullification gave way to talk of secession and the break-up of the Union. Indeed, in some parts of the country military preparations were made for either armed resistance to federal authority or its forceful imposition. While peace ultimately prevailed, in spite of the arrest and deportation of scores of foreign-born residents and anti-government printers and editorialists, the concept of nullification that Jefferson introduced in 1798 became a cornerstone of American populism and resistance to federal power. These so-called “principles of ‘98” reared their head again in 1832, when government of South Carolina attempted to declare a federal tariff it found harmful to its economy to be unconstitutional, and in the 1850s and 1860s, when disagreements between the Northern and Southern states over the status and expansion of slavery became entangled in discussions of state’s rights, natural rights, the limits of federal power, and, ultimately, secessionism.

As always, however, some preliminary explanation is required.

To begin I think it’s important to understand, if only as a means of adequately grasping the magnitude of the gesture, that when Jefferson drafted the Resolutions he was the sitting Vice-President of the United States of America. His career between 1776, when he lent his pen to the drafting of the Declaration of Independence, and 1798 was a rather tumultuous one, leading from Philadelphia to Richmond to Paris; from revolutionary to diplomat to public official. In 1779, after serving a term in the Virginia state legislature, he was elected Governor by his fellow delegates. In 1781 he was forced to flee an impending invasion of his Monticello estate, along with several state legislators, by a British force intent on capturing him. Because his tenure as Governor had not been technically completed, he was later accused of abandoning his responsibilities and underwent an investigation by the General Assembly. After a period of mourning and recovery following his wife Martha’s death in 1782, Jefferson was elected to serve once more as one of Virginia’s delegates to the Continental Congress. During his brief tenure he devoted a great deal of his energy to sorting out the conflicting claims of the various states to territories west of the Appalachians, and establishing a clear, unambiguous procedure for the admission of new states to the Union. In July, 1784 he left the United States after accepting an appointment as Minister to France, where he would remain for the better part of the next five years.

Though his term in France was generally uneventful, Jefferson did become acquainted with many of the future leaders of the French Revolution and even allowed them to make use of his residence as a meeting place. He was also able to greatly expand his personal library, debate with some of the capital’s brightest philosophical minds, acquire a taste for French cuisine, art, and fashion, and hammer out numerous trade agreements with the ailing royal government. While his return to the United States in September, 1789 preceded the outbreak of the revolution by several months, he became one of the movement’s most ardent American supporters. This strong cultural and ideological affinity brought him into vehement conflict with many of his colleagues during his years of service as the first Secretary of State (1790-1793). He accepted the appointment only after much contemplation, and cajoling by President Washington, and during his time in the first federal cabinet became embroiled in a series of disputes with Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton. Many of their quarrels revolved around Jefferson’s support for the French Republic, his promotion of free trade, and his suspicion of the power of the federal government and its potential for abuse. During this same period, in an attempt to counter the influence of Hamilton and his “Federalist” faction, Jefferson and his long-time friend and ally James Madison began to organize a rival, anti-administration faction that could help spread what they felt were the true principles of American republicanism via newspapers, editorials, and local political societies. His role as one of the leaders of this “Republican” organization earned him the lasting enmity of many early Federalists, and the offended indignation of Washington himself. In 1793, after failing to secure important concessions from the British Minister to the U.S. concerning violations of the 1783 Treaty of Paris, the frustrated Jefferson resigned his post and retired to his Virginia estate.

Jefferson spent several years in the political, and literal, wilderness of Monticello, occupying his time in study, writing, and administering his sizeable plantation. When he re-entered public life in 1796, it was as the Republican’s standard bearer in that year’s presidential election. Though he failed to win enough votes to secure the highest office for his faction, in something of an embarrassment for the Federalists he garnered enough support to be named Vice-President (under the rules then in place, candidates ran as individuals rather than on tickets, with the first place finisher taking the presidency and the second place the vice-presidency). At this early stage in American history the responsibilities of the office of Vice-President were exceedingly limited, and so Jefferson occupied himself mainly with attempting to reform the rules of conduct in the Senate (which he formally presided over) and continuing to refine and expand the Republican political organization. It was during this period in Jefferson’s professional life that the domestic conflict between American supporters of Britain and France entered a more active, and potentially dangerous, phase.

In spite of their military and trade alliance in the 1770s and 1780s, relations between France and the United States entered a period of steady decline following the outbreak of the French Revolution in 1789. Initially enthused by the overthrow of the French monarchy and the declaration of a republic, the Washington Administration and the American people alike grew increasingly concerned over reports of shocking violence in the streets of Paris, and the new government’s somewhat erratic military and diplomatic efforts. For many in the United States the appearance and actions of French envoy Edmond-Charles Genêt, who arrived in America in 1793, began to recruit people to fight against France’s enemies, asked the Washington administration to abandon its neutrality, and refused to bow to the president’s demands that he cease, solidified their suspicion that their former ally could no longer be trusted. When, in 1794, the United States and Great Britain successfully negotiated a peaceful resolution to a series of disputes that had lingered since the early 1780s and paved the way for an expanded commercial relationship, the government of the French Republic no doubt came to a similar conclusion. When the United States government then refused to continue repaying its debt to France on the grounds that the money was owed to the now-deposed monarchy, French privateers began seizing American vessels trading with Britain and refused to receive a new American ambassador when he arrived in Paris in late 1796. When President John Adams, who had been sworn in in early 1797, reported to Congress the following year of the bribes the French government demanded of the United States in order to even begin contemplating negotiation, it seemed to many that war was inevitable.

The cost of this conflict to American shipping was substantial, partially because after 1785 the United States had no navy to speak of. As reported by the Department of State in the summer of 1797, over 300 American vessels had been seized by the French over the course of the previous year. This in turn caused insurance rates in the U.S. shipping industry to increase by something on the order to 500%. This led to Congress authorizing the President to acquire and arm up to 12 vessels for the purpose of protecting America’s commercial interests. Numerous vessels were subsequently purchased and outfitted, and several more underwent speedy construction. In the meantime, in order to both curb Republican criticism of government actions taken against France and counter the supposed subversive influence of French nationals in the United States, the Federalist-controlled Congress passed four pieces of legislation in June and July of 1798: “An Act to Establish a Uniform Rule of Naturalization,” “An Act Concerning Aliens,” and “An Act Respecting Alien Enemies” (collectively known as the Alien Act), as well as “An Act for the Punishment of Certain Crimes Against the United States” (commonly known as the Sedition Act). Because both houses of the national legislature were controlled by the Federalists, the acts were passed with relative ease in spite of strenuous opposition from Republican members.

It was within this political climate that Vice-President Thomas Jefferson and former Virginia congressman James Madison each formulated a series of resolutions intent on representing the objections of their Republican faction to the tenor of Adams administration policy regarding the conflict with the French. Madison’s writings were adopted by the Virginia General Assembly in December, 1798, while Jefferson’s were ratified by the Kentucky state legislature the previous month. Both did so anonymously, believing perhaps as Alexander Hamilton had in 1787 that their arguments deserved to be considered objectively, and outside the influence of their respective reputations.

Federalist No. 1, Part III: Empires and Exaggerations

For all the perhaps unintended advice that peppers Hamilton’s Federalist No. 1, it contains as well some arguments that are not so well-founded in logic, and certain allusions to the nationalist ambitions of its author that are less well-considered. In an attempt to impress upon his readers the gravity of the debate surrounding the Constitution, and make them aware of what he considered were the stakes of success and failure, Hamilton argued that without a more stable, more centralized government the United States would surely drift apart into a collection of warring confederacies. Indeed, he claimed that there were men in America at that time, implied to be in service of the various state governments, who would have desire nothing more and were working to actively defeat the ratification of the Constitution. While he repeatedly referenced this scenario over the course of the essays that followed Federalist No. 1, and in truth there was a rash of separatist anxiety among the population of the United States in the late 1780s, its invocation was more than likely another attempt by Hamilton to manipulate the terms of the ratification debate in order to portray his position in a more favourable light.

As well, Federalist No. 1 contains two offhand references to the United States as an empire. Hamilton’s use of the term is casual, but telling, and in many ways presages some of his defense-centered ruminations in Federalist No. 24 & 25, and the general thrust of his careers as an ardent nationalist with military pretensions. Attempting to understand how he perceived of the United States, particularly in contrast to how his often-rival and ideological opposite number Thomas Jefferson described America as an “Empire of Liberty,” reveals a great deal about the possibilities that members of the Founding Generation imagined for their country, and the methods by which they would have seen them achieved. 

Along with the state officials that Hamilton accused in the third paragraph of Federalist No. 1 of wanting to protect their influence by defeating the Constitution, he also described a second group who would, “Either hope to aggrandize themselves by the confusions of their country, or will flatter themselves with fairer prospects of elevation from the subdivision of the empire into several partial confederacies.” He repeated this sentiment in the ninth paragraph, where he stated that, “We already hear it whispered in the private circles of those who oppose the new Constitution, that the Thirteen States are of too great extent for any general system, and that we must of necessity, resort to separate confederacies of distinct portions of the whole.” Above and beyond the threat of secession, that would plague the United States in the mid-19^th century and bring about perhaps its most catastrophic national crisis, this wholesale dissolution would mean the end of the Union entirely, and by the presumed consent of its member states. Though Hamilton was surely exaggerating the extent of the threat in order to impress on his readers how urgent the need was for ratification, there was admittedly talk in America of dissolution in the late 1780s.

To what extent these were either serious discussions or anxious rumours it is difficult to say. That being said, and without necessarily validating Hamilton’s claim, there are a few points worth considering. On the one hand, it ought to be remembered that the states had thrown in their lots together in 1775 because their representatives in Philadelphia felt that, should Britain successfully violate the rights of one colony (in this case Massachusetts) there would be nothing standing against further violations aimed at any or all of the other colonies. This led to the creation of the Continental Army, the first truly America institution, and the realization that some degree of coordination was necessary for the war effort to be carried out successfully. Thus the Union that came into existence under the Articles of Confederation was a matter of expediency, a practical response to the problem of having to manage the resources, demands, and manpower of thirteen different governments during a sustained, European-style conflict. Once the war was over, the treaty signed and the peace secured, it would not have seemed unusual for some Americans to begin to question the purpose of the Congress, the Army, and the handful of other federal institutions that remained. After all, in 1785, how closely tied would a North Carolina farmer have felt to a New York merchant? What were their common interests? What would have been the point of continuing their political association?

To that I would add that many Americans, like Hamilton’s compatriot James Madison, where familiar with the works of French Enlightenment philosopher Montesquieu. Specifically, they had read and came to agree with his assertion that stable republics could only exist if they were spread over a relatively small geographic area. The core of this argument, that people that fail to share common interests, concerns or habits, and who are unable to easily communicate across large distances, would have trouble forming a government that was transparent, equitable and representative, would no doubt have seemed quite logical. Each of the colonies possessed their own political traditions, had different ethnic and religious compositions, and even engaged in different industries and trades. Though they all shared a common British heritage, in so far as government and culture were concerned, upwards of a century of separate existence had mutated and changed their societies into distinctly Virginian, Pennsylvanian, or Carolinian forms.

Furthermore, Georgia, the southernmost colony, was approximately 1500 miles away from the northern reaches of Massachusetts. By comparison, that’s about the same distance from Georgia to northern Colombia. Today, it would take about twenty-five hours to drive that distance. I've no doubt that in the late 1780s, such an expanse would have seemed all but insurmountable to some, when told that both points on the map were to be represented by the same government. How could such an administration respond to sudden emergencies if all communications had to travel by road over these kinds of distances, over mountain passes and on surfaces that were not always very level well-maintained? How could national elections be conducted? Where could the nation’s capital be placed that wouldn't disadvantage one state or another by isolating them from the centre of power?

Worthwhile questions, all, and no doubt very much on the mind of the opponents of the Constitution. Nevertheless, the certainty of Hamilton’s tone ought to be questioned, for he seemed determined to paint the threat of separation in very black and white terms. In the ninth paragraph, he started to conclude his argument by stating that, “Nothing can be more evident, to those who are able to take an enlarged view of the subject, than the alternative of an adoption of the new Constitution or a dismemberment of the Union.” Though there were some in America who spoke of dissolution with legitimate concern, there were as many if not more that were entirely unconcerned with the state of the federal government, preferred a continuation of the status quo, or cared only about the safeguarding of their respective state governments. As to what percentage each group might have composed of the overall population, I suppose it’s impossible to say. Rest assured, however, that Hamilton was exaggerating, and that his characterization of the choice between ratification and rejection of the Constitution was ultimately intended to frighten people into seeing the wisdom of his words.

In addition to hyperbole, Hamilton also inserted into Federalist No.1 a certain amount of his own wishful thinking about the future place the United States might occupy in the world. Specifically, in the first and third paragraphs he referred to the United States as an empire. He did so casually, almost offhandedly, but the subtly of these references belie their importance. As I mentioned previously Hamilton was something of a pragmatist, and tended to view politics in terms of what was possible rather than what was ideal. While I think it fair to say that he was a man of principle, he was not someone for whom an adherence to a rigid ideology or code of conduct was of the greatest importance. That being said, he was not a man who sought power for power’s sake. He was a planner; meticulous, at times manipulative, but always with a definite aim in mind. If he believed that America was an empire, or deserved to be, it was more than likely because he thought that the best way for his adopted nation to deal with the problems it faced in the late 1780s was by adopting some of the forms and functions of the European empires that had proven themselves so historically successful. No doubt this was why he advocated for the continuation and strengthening of the Union. Together, the thirteen states possessed the size, resources and manpower to rival any number of the 18^th-century’s Great Powers, and in particular Spain and Britain.

These were the nations that the United States shared the North American continent with in the late 18^th century, and the powers that Hamilton singled out in Federalist No. 24 & 25 as among the greatest threats his country faced. These two later essays, published in December, 1787, sought to address the powers that the Constitution granted the Executive and the Congress for the purposes of securing the common defence of the United States. Though the Revolutionary War was over, Hamilton reasoned that America was a rising power in the world and would need to be able to defend itself against the harassment of nations who felt threatened by its republican ideals, and the energy and ingenuity of its people. To that end, he wrote in No. 24 that,  

“In proportion to our increase in strength, it is probable, nay, it may be said certain, that Britain and Spain would augment their military establishments in our neighbourhood. If we should not be willing to be exposed, in a naked and defenceless condition, to their insults and encroachments, we should find it expedient to increase our frontier garrisons, in some ratio to the force by which our Western settlements might be annoyed.”

He elaborated on this idea in No. 25, and further stated that,

“The territories of Britain, Spain, and of the Indian nations in our neighbourhood, do not border on particular States, but encircle the Union from Maine to Georgia. The danger, though in different degrees, is therefore common. And the means of guarding against it ought, in like manner, to be the objects of common councils and of a common treasury.”

When taken together, Federalist No. 1, 24 & 25 perhaps paint a clearer picture of Hamilton’s vision of an American empire than any one of them alone. Whether concerned for the integrity of the fragile Union, or ambitious that it might one day rival the world’s Great Powers, Hamilton seemed to conceive of the American Empire in distinctly orthodox terms. When discussing the need for stronger defences, he spoke of “military establishments,” and “frontier garrisons.” And to this he added the need for “common councils,” and perhaps most tellingly, “a common treasury.” This was the vocabulary of European empire, and in particular of the British Empire.

Britain had, after all, achieved a great deal of success in its diplomatic and military dealings in the 17^th and 18^th centuries thanks in no small part to its robust military establishments (its Army and Navy) and its strong national bank. Arguably a child of empire, who had been born in one frontier outpost and relocated to another, Hamilton was abundantly familiar with Great Power politics. Furthermore, as a member of Washington’s general staff he had become intimately acquainted with military administration, and as a member of Congress with national finance. By bringing these strands together, he sought to create a nation in the imperial model, but of a distinctly American character. It would be a republican empire, most assuredly, but far from a radical one.

Indeed, the call for a radical American Empire was taken up by Hamilton’s frequent rival, Thomas Jefferson. I’d like to end this discussion with a brief outline of his “Empire of Liberty,” for the sake of comparison.

In a 1780 letter Jefferson wrote to George Rogers Clark, a soldier and frontiersman, he said, “We shall form to the American union a barrier against the dangerous extension of the British Province of Canada and add to the Empire of liberty an extensive and fertile Country thereby converting dangerous Enemies into valuable friends.” Like Hamilton, he viewed the British presence in North America as a threat to America’s security, but his use of the term empire carried a different inflection than that of his New York rival. Rather than the mechanisms of state that Hamilton desired America to possess, such as armies, a treasury system, frontier outposts, and perhaps even colonies at some later date, Jefferson seemed to use the term empire to refer to an extensive geographic area occupied by a people sharing common goals, common sentiments, and a common ideology. It was to be an empire of ideas, of the Enlightenment, that could help roll back the scourge of “barbarism” and promote natural rights, free trade, and reason. Contrary to Hamilton’s conception the Empire of Liberty was not necessarily to be expressed as a traditional state. Indeed, rather than advocate the unity that Hamilton hoped would provide the resources and manpower necessary to protect and expand the United States, Jefferson once expressed a rather casual indifference as to whether America remained whole or not.

In an 1804 letter to English theologian and philosopher Joseph Priestly, Jefferson wrote that the Empire of Liberty was not necessarily territorially unified, and, “Whether we remain in one confederacy, or form Atlantic and Mississippi confederacies, I believe not very important to the happiness of either part.” Few things, I'm sure, would have seemed more abhorrent to Hamilton. Whether Jefferson truly believed it or not is difficult to say, as at other times in his career he seemed quite concerned with the integrity of the United States. Nevertheless he wrote the words, and for a moment, at least, must have felt them worthy enough to communicate. That Jefferson also did more to push back European encroachment and expand the territory of the United States than Hamilton was ever capable further complicates the relationship between their ostensibly opposing visions of American empire. Hamilton, the expansionist, did not add one acre to the territory of the Union he so ardently advocated. And Jefferson, the philosopher, personally signed into law the single greatest expansion of territory to the United States that it has ever seen with the Louisiana Purchase of 1803. It’s something of a paradox, and one not uncommon to the early American experience.

As I've written previously, the early history of the United States is one of great uncertainty and great possibility. Opposing visions of the nation’s purpose and future created violent clashes among their respective supporters, coalesced around an issue or event, and then diverged again and resumed their adversarial relationship. The tone of government swung violently from one direction to another; from a European-style hierarchical state, to a limited, laissez faire, agricultural republic, all at the hands of the feuding founders. As one of the most central among those early and influential voices, Alexander Hamilton is eminently deserving of attention and recognition. For all his flaws he was a patriot, and his vision of America, as at least partially expressed in Federalist No. 1, is as valid as that of any of his contemporaries.

But don’t take my word for it: http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Federalist_Papers/No._1

And for good measure, Federalist No. 24: http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Federalist/24

And 25: http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Federalist/25   

Federalist No. 1, Part II: Criticisms and Cautions

Because Federalist No. 1 was really only intended to introduce the series of essays that followed, it lacks much of the detailed discussion of the text of the Constitution, or the philosophical or historical reflections that characterize many of the more well-known Federalist Papers. It’s relatively brief, at only nine paragraphs, and keeps its references to individuals, groups, or scenarios rather vague. There are, for instance, no allusions to philosophers, no mentions of Greece or Rome, and no specific critiques of the people or bodies that had prospered by the weakness of the Articles of Confederation, and which would no doubt have found the proposed Constitution particularly threatening. But in spite of this overall simplicity of approach, or perhaps because of it, Federalist No. 1 stands out as both an insightful critique of the weaknesses of American government and political culture in the 1770s and 1780s, and a remarkably even-handed caution against political extremism or populism, all delivered with Hamilton’s characteristic matter-of-fact conviction.

It important to remember that Hamilton served in a number of political and military offices over the course of his adult life that combined to give him a distinct perspective on the way the American government under the Articles of Confederation functioned. During his time as an army logistics officer in the 1770s he became acquainted with how narrow-minded some state government could be when donations of money or resources were asked of them, and how difficult it was to convince them of the existence of a larger national interest that superseded their local demands. He witnessed the same conflict from the other side as a member of Congress in the 1780s, during which he was continually confronted with the inability of the federal government to enforce its decisions or fund its initiatives, however well-intention or devised. Finally, his time as a delegate to the New York Legislature showed him first-hand how easily state politics had become dominated by populists and demagogues who sought mainly to enrich themselves by catering to the most basic impulses of the population, offering to redistribute land, cancel debts, and print dangerous quantities of easily devalued paper money. While it thus stands to reason that Hamilton was speaking from a place of experience in Federalist No. 1, it’s also fair to say that his perspective on the need for a stronger central government was far from unbiased.  

His partiality makes itself known first in the third paragraph of Federalist No. 1, wherein he admitted that though the proposed constitution had been carefully and thoughtfully crafted there were likely several classes of men in the states that would oppose its adoption. They would, he said, “resist all changes which may hazard a diminution of the power, emolument and consequence of the offices they hold under the State-establishments.” Though Hamilton was no friend of the state governments, and during the Philadelphia Convention he even pushed forward proposals for their virtual abolition, he knew they were too well-loved by their residents to permit significantly tampering with their authority. The new constitution, however, proposed to fundamentally alter the balance of power between the states and the federal government. Under the Articles of Confederation, the states had really been “in the driver’s seat.” They conducted most of their own commerce, possessed their own military forces, and owed taxes to Congress only in theory. While the Constitution didn't propose to take away most of the powers that the states already possessed, it created a federal government that was much stronger than under the Articles, and much more capable of collecting its taxes and enforcing its laws. By portraying the opponents to this alteration as petty, power-hungry and jealous, Hamilton no doubt hoped to shake off the distrust of strong central government that had long persisted in America and depict the proposed federal administration as the solution to runaway state power, rather than a problem in itself.

Hamilton reiterated on this theme in the fifth paragraph of Federalist No. 1, wherein he described some of what he predicted would be the objections to an increase in federal authority. Chief among them, he envisioned that, “an enlightened zeal for the energy and efficacy of government will be stigmatized, as the offspring of a temper fond of despotic power, and hostile to the principles of liberty.” Considering the historically tense relationship that had existed between the Crown and the various American colonies, punctuated by at-times violent attempts to either defy or enforce authority (particularly in the 17^th century), this seems like a reasonable assumption on Hamilton’s part. Indeed, considering how fundamental to American political culture the debate over federal vs. state authority has become, his comment here seems quite prescient. In another observation that seems to blend precedent and foresight, Hamilton cautioned that, “A dangerous ambition more often lurks behind the specious mask of zeal for the rights of the people, than under the forbidding appearance of zeal for the firmness and efficacy of Government.” Once more, without calling on specific examples, he cast aspersions on what he perceived as the parochial mindset of the petty state official who would claim to defend the liberty of the people while distrusting any attempt to limit his authority. No doubt alluding to the history of Ancient Rome, wherein men who claimed to represent the common people transformed a republic into an empire, Hamilton made the further claim that, “Of those men who have overturned the liberties of republics the greatest number have begun their career, by paying an obsequious court to the people; commencing Demagogues, and ending Tyrants.” That Napoleon Bonaparte, one-time defender of the people and later Emperor accomplished this same transformation in France not twenty years after Federalist No. 1 was published no doubt struck many as validation of Hamilton’s words, though he did not live to see it.

What’s so interesting about these claims, which on the surface seem all too typical of a political debate in which each side seeks to demonize the motives of the other, is the way in which their author sought to couple them with a very measured criticism of the idea of motivation in politics and the way it can often cloud discussions of policy. While taken ample space to critique the opponents of the Constitution for their greed and provincialism, Hamilton actually began Federalist No. 1 by invoking reason as the rightful principle that ought to guide the process of the document’s adoption. In the second paragraph, he first commented that it would be proper, considering the weight of the topics under discussion, if the adoption of the Constitution was, “Directed by a judicious estimate of our true interests, unperplexed and unbiased by considerations not connected with the public good.” But he then admits that, “This is a thing more ardently to be wished, than seriously to be expected,” because the proposed constitution touched on the interests of far too many people and institutions to be the subject of purely sober and reasoned debate. In many ways such an admission of weakness in the face of logic was characteristic of both Hamilton and many of his compatriots among the Founders and the Framers. One of the reasons the Constitution was adopted, and structured the way it was, was because men like Hamilton, Madison, Franklin and Adams had developed a keen sense of the imperfect nature of man, and the need to create institutional guards against that imperfection running amok.

What Hamilton did next, though, was ask his reading audience to attempt to rise above their petty impulses and see the debate surrounding the Constitution without relation to their own biases, or those of the major participants in the discussion itself. This was something most of his contemporaries likely would have acknowledged was next to impossible, and something that Hamilton approached in his characteristically meticulous, confident, and forthright manner. To begin, he admitted that wrong heads were not always motivated by wrong hearts. A person, he claimed, may come to find themselves on the “wrong” side of an argument through simple misunderstanding or by having been led astray, and that, “This circumstance, if duly attended to, would furnish a lesson of moderation to those, who are ever so much persuaded of their being in the right, in any controversy.” He followed this with an acknowledgement of a perhaps even more pernicious problem, that even those that come down of the “right” side of a question were as likely motivated by personal ambition or avarice as their opponents. These ruminations on the nature of motivation as a component of political debate accomplished two things, one intended and the other likely not.

First, provided the readers of Federalist No. 1 felt themselves willing and able to rise to the challenge, they paved the way for Hamilton to contextualize the arguments surrounding the Constitution in terms of simple right and wrong. If motivations could never be counted on to always correspond to methods, there was no point in taking account of them. Regardless of who argued for or against, there was a right answer and a wrong answer. Provided people based their judgements in logic and not partiality, the right would always triumph. For Hamilton, a master of rhetoric who was certainly not above manipulating events behind closed doors in service of what he perceived to be the greater good, this was an ideal way to frame a political debate. This was surely why he chose to publish the Federalist Papers under the pseudonym Publius. In addition to it being a well-worn convention of 18^th-century political authorship to publish under assumed names, it allowed Hamilton and his partners Madison and Jay to avoid having their reputations overshadow their arguments. Regardless of who was involved in the discussion or why, the best reasoned argument would emerge victorious. Being a noted purveyor of well-reasoned arguments, and a man with a great many political resources at his disposal, this no doubt suited Hamilton very well indeed.

Second, and probably without meaning to, Hamilton elevated the debate he was trying to frame. It is, after all, characteristic of the human condition that no one can every really know what anyone else is thinking. Words and actions are only a shadow of who a person really is and what they intend; a representation of their true self, or the self they are willing to show to the world. Though Hamilton acknowledged this fundamental truth as a means of setting more favourable terms for himself and his arguments, it holds weight far beyond what he likely envisioned. Ironically, in spite of his rather selfish motives, his assertion carries the ring of truth. It is the “right” answer, though Hamilton was no doubt little interested in addressing the abstract, philosophical, or existential questions that such a claim seems to address. This is, among other things, what makes Federalist No. 1 worthwhile. In the same breath that its author attempted to discount the biases surrounding the debate he was engaged in, he criticizes his opponents for their narrow-mindedness and ambition. In the same paragraph that he tried to argue, for his own purposes, that what a person said was more important than who they were or what they intended, he exposed a philosophical truth that speaks to the heart of human existence. It is a strangely contradictory series of arguments, and yet coming from the pen of Hamilton seems perfectly in keeping with his political persona and preferred methods.

Federalist No. 1 contains two further assertions that seem moderate and perceptive, though they were no doubt deployed in order to advance their author’s ambitions. The first is a criticism of political parties, made all the more significant by Hamilton’s historical reputation as an arch-partisan. At the end of the fourth paragraph of Federalist No. 1, he wrote that, “Nothing could be more ill-judged than that intolerant spirit, which has, at all times, characterized political parties. For, in politics as in religion, it is equally absurd to aim at making proselytes by fire and sword. Heresies in either can rarely be cured by persecution.” Though political parties as we understand them did not exist in the United States in the 1780s they would come to be soon enough, hastened in no small part by the efforts of Hamilton himself. While he no doubt hoped that this statement would help to portray him and his cause as non-partisan, and thereby allow him to label his critics as members of a destructive party or faction, it remains sound, measured advice in any age in which partisan gridlock abounds. Once more an attempt at rhetorical manipulation carries a seed of wisdom. Also of interest is Hamilton’s use of a religious metaphor. By comparing the methods employed by political parties to religious persecution, he was implicitly relying on his audience to be at least somewhat in favour of freedom of conscience. This either speaks to Hamilton’s religious views, which were relatively moderate and coloured by the Enlightenment, or those of his intended audience in New York and the other battleground states. Likely it speaks to both.   

The second assertion begins the following paragraph, and is essentially an argument in favour of reason over emotion in politics. In response to the proposed constitution, Hamilton predicts that, “A torrent of angry and malignant passions will be let loose. To judge from the conduct of the opposite parties, we shall be led to conclude, that they will mutually hope to evince the justness of their opinions, and to increase the number of their converts by the loudness of their declamations, and the bitterness of their invectives.”

Considering how closely entwined Hamilton’s fortunes were to become with the so-called Federalist Party’s, and how bitter the invective that he himself was known to hurl at his opponents, this might seem like a rather hollow declaration. Over the course of the 1790s, he did a great deal as a member of the Washington administration to defame his political rivals, and after his resignation in 1795 worked behind the scenes to solidify his faction’s hold on the executive power. Indeed, it was his loud declamation of then-President John Adams in 1800 that arguably ended his career as a political operative. For a man of moderation and patience it was an act of unforgiveable indiscretion to so forcefully criticize a sitting president, and the leader of his own party at that. But, for all that, it’s good advice. Political invective can be poisonous to good policy, in 1787 or in any time thereafter, and though his motivations were far from pure it’s a point worth making.