Warren returned to citing
historical examples again in the last paragraph of section eighteen of Observations. Therein, Warren attempted
once more to place the events then unfolding in the United States within the
context of broader Western historical events. “Though the virtues of a Cato
could not save Rome,” she wrote, “Nor the abilities of a Padilla defend the
citizens of Castile from falling under the yoke of Charles; yet a Tell once
suddenly rose from a little obscure city, and boldly rescued the liberties of
his country. Every age has its Bruti and its Decci, as well as its Caesars and
its Sejani.” As discussed in past entries, Cato the Younger (95 BC – 46 BC) was
a statesman of the Roman Republic famous for his personal integrity, his
immunity to bribes, his disdain for corruption, and his lengthy conflict with
Julius Caesar. Among devotees of the philosophical Enlightenment, and
republicanism in particular, Cato represented virtue in the midst of moral
decline, and stood as a symbol of personal resistance to the erosion of logical
decision-making, honor, and moral rectitude in the public sphere. Cato’s
popularity among the Anglo-American elite of the 18th century is
evidenced by, among other things, the use of his name by commentators like John
Trenchard and Thomas Gordon (authors of Cato’s
Letters), and Anti-Federalist Governor of New York George Clinton (author
of seven letters under pseudonym Cato), the popularity of English playwright
Joseph Addison’s 1712 drama Cato, a
Tragedy (frequently quoted by George Washington, who arranged a special
performance for his men at Velley Forge in 1777), and the sheer number of times
his name and role in Roman history was referenced by American political
commentators from John Dickinson to John Adams to Benjamin Franklin. Like as not, Cato was 18th-century
America’s favourite classical figure, for what he symbolized, what he said, and
what he stood in opposition to.
Yet there is an undeniably
fatalistic quality to the life of Cato the Younger, and just so in his
adulation and imitation. “The virtues of a Cato could not save Rome,” Warren
wrote in seeming acknowledgement. For all his tenacity, his unbending devotion
to the principles of republicanism, and his willingness to confront the most
powerful political figure of his era, Cato’s story is, as Addison noted, a
tragedy. Ultimately the Caesar was triumphant, Cato fell valiantly on his
sword, and the Roman Republic was transformed into an unabashedly autocratic
empire. To worship Cato, as many in the 18th-century Anglo-American
world seemed to, would thus appear to involve, consciously or not, embracing
the futility of virtue in a world where corruption’s strength has no limit and
(as Addison described) “the post of honor is a private station.” Though there
is perhaps a certain romantic appeal to the notion of a doomed hero – a person
too good for the world in which they live, struggling tirelessly against forces
they cannot hope to defeat – the Enlightenment that so enthusiastically
embraced Cato was not a romantic movement. On the contrary, the reformers of the
Enlightenment sought to remake Western civilization, to purge it of its
particularly corrosive qualities, by championing the utility of logic and
reason over emotion and fantasy. Within this framework the doomed Cato again
appears a rather odd fit.
That is, unless one considers his
role as being both cautionary and inspirational. For Trenchard and Gordon, or
George Clinton, or Mercy Otis Warren, Cato was perhaps a symbol of what might
come to pass if virtue was once more ground beneath the heel of ambition. Had
Cato triumphed in his opposition to Caesar, Roman history might have unfolded
in a very different fashion. Accordingly, permitting the principles attached by
18th-century commentators and reformers to the memory of Cato to be
extinguished could fairly be characterized as allowing the cycle of history to
repeat itself, thereby giving implicit sanction to all the things Cato stood
against: corruption, avarice, ambition, and the dangers of unchecked power. To
champion Cato may thus have been an attempt to validate the principles he
embodied, to break from the cycle of history and prove that the great enemy of
Caesar had been right all along. In this sense the invocation of Cato’s name
and memory could be construed as a sort of rallying cry: “this time things will
be different,” or “this time we’ll get it right.”
The examples that Warren deployed
in Observations after invoking the
name of Cato seemed to play out this hopeful or redemptive outlook. The
“Padilla” she wrote of was one Juan López de Padilla (1490-1521), leader of the
aforementioned Revolt of the Comuneros. Though the junta that formed amid the
rebellion against King Charles was initially successful in its attempt to
create a parallel government for Castile, thanks in part to the support it received
from members of the nobility, it faltered due to its attempt to abolish feudal
privilege and introduce elements of democracy into the political life of the
realm. As the head of said junta, Padilla might fairly be conceived as an
equivalent to Cato; he stood against the unchecked authority of Charles, led an
armed insurrection that sought to regenerate Castilian society, and payed for
his efforts with his life. Between Cato and Padilla stood over 1,500 years of
European history, but still they seemed to exist within the same doomed cycle
of virtue and vice. Whether in Ancient Rome or Imperial Spain, Warren seemed to
say, humanity was ever locked in a battle between the extremes of its own
nature. Republicanism was the political expression of one of these extremes,
but one which had historically failed to withstand the temptations (power,
preferment, personal gain, etc...) that were its enemy’s stock in trade.
Yet, Warren cautioned, there was
reason enough to hope that the cycle could be broken. “A Tell once suddenly
rose from a little obscure city,” she wrote, “And boldly rescued the liberties
of his country.” This is almost certainly a reference to William Tell (he of
the overture), a legendary figure in the history of Switzerland who, though he
may not have actually existed, has exerted an enduring influence on the
evolution of Swiss nationalism. The tales of his life are largely mythic;
suffice to say he was persecuted by the Holy Roman Empire’s appointed overlord
of the city of Altdorf, slew the man with a shot from his crossbow, and helped
lead the rebellion of the Swiss cantons that resulted in their independence
from Imperial rule. For these deeds Tell was perceived in Switzerland as early
as the 17th century and in greater Europe in the 18th
century as a symbol of resistance to tyranny, and the possibility that virtue
could triumph over arbitrary authority. Doubtless Warren seized upon this
aspect of the Tell legend as evidence that the historical cycle she had
theretofore described in which virtue was ever corroded by vice was not
incapable of being broken.
Or perhaps “broken” is the wrong
word. “Every age has its Bruti and its
Decci,” Warren wrote, “As well as its Caesars and its Sejani.” This rhetorical
construction – the opposing of figures from Classical antiquity representing
the best and worst of their respective eras - would seem to indicate a belief,
not necessarily in the ability of human reason to break free of the patterns of
history, but to at least seek a balance whereby a sense of moral or
philosophical equilibrium might be achieved. “Bruti” was almost certainly meant
to indicate Marcus Junius Brutus (85 BC – 42 BC), Roman Senator, friend of
Julius Caesar, and his eventual assassin. Meanwhile “Decci” possibly referred
to a Roman official named Publius Decius who served as Tribune of the Plebs (a
sort of guardian of the popular will who could veto the orders of republican
Rome’s highest authorities) in 120 BC and brought charges against Consul (chief
executive of the Roman Republic) Lucius Opimius for his role in ordering the
execution or imprisonment of thousands of Roman citizens without proper trial.
Both of these Roman statesmen have often been construed in recorded history as
men of honor and conscience who attempted to arrest the descent of their
society into venality and decadence. It seems entirely appropriate, then, for
Warren to have selected them as exemplars of virtue that emerged from within an
increasingly corrupt system. This is particularly so because both men lived
during Rome’s republican era; the forces they sought to confront were of
similar origins and character to those that were daily affecting republican
America, and the manner in which both sought to reinforce the ideal of the
public good could doubtless have been viewed by Americans like Warren as
precedential.
To these honorable republicans
Warren opposed perhaps the most famous Roman of all, Gaius Julius Caesar (100
BC – 44 BC), and the so-called “Sejani,” one Lucius Aelius Sejanus (20 BC – 31
AD). Little need be said about why Caesar found himself the source of Warren’s
ire; if any one person was responsible for the collapse of the Roman Republic
and the rise of the Roman Empire it was he. Accordingly, though he has been the
subject of veneration and emulation following shortly upon his death and in the
centuries since, he had not been looked upon favorably by supporters of
republicanism. Sejanus, on the other hand, is a slightly more obscure figure.
Confidante of Emperor Tiberius (14-37), Sejanus was a soldier by training who
became prefect of the imperial bodyguard upon his friend’s ascent to the
throne. Via a process of manipulation, consolidation, and more than one
carefully calculated murder, he rose to a position of power second only to the
Emperor himself. When Tiberius withdrew to his permanent retreat at the Italian
island of Capri in 26, Sejanus was left in control of the imperial
administration, making him the de-facto ruler of the Roman Empire. Tiberius was
eventually alerted to the degree to which Sejanus had usurped his authority,
and in 31 had him arrested and executed without trial. As with Caesar, the life
of Sejanus testifies to the incredibly destructive influence of unchecked
ambition within a political culture that fails to prize accountability and
integrity. Though he was but one man, the flimsiness of imperial Roman
institutions allowed him to rise to a position of almost supreme power because
he was the most ruthless and the most cunning, and because he had the Emperor’s
ear. This, Warren would no doubt have lamented, is a wholly unacceptable status
quo for a political entity in which so much power was vested. Caesar too was
one man, and though he should not be held singly responsible for the fatal
corruption of republican Rome, his role in its final disintegration was
essential and undeniable.
That all four of the men Warren mentioned in section eighteen of Observations, Brutus, Decius, Caesar,
and Sejanus, were Ancient Romans who were born, lived, and died within the span
of about 200 years was perhaps intended to speak to the sense of balance or
equilibrium described above. Whereas in section six she seemed intent on
highlighting how important it was that the American Revolution had broken with
the Western historical trend of acquiescence to the existing of standing armies
(and all the negative consequences therein), the examples she denoted in
section eighteen appear to speak to a somewhat more modest proposition. As
there was a Caesar, who expertly subverted the institutions of the Roman
Republic, so there was a Brutus to strike him down. And as there were men like
Decius, who sought to reassert the rule of law in an era of increasing
lawlessness, so too there were men like Sejanus, who bowed, and scraped, and plotted,
and killed, until the greatest sovereign power then in existence lay at their
feet. Such different sensibilities these men possessed, such opposing views of
power, responsibility, ambition, and virtue. And yet they were all Romans; all
products of the same culture, the same general era.
The message that Warren was
attempting to impart is accordingly rather simple: every civilization can in
every era produce in equal measure men of great wisdom and men of great ego.
America was no different in this respect, though it was her hope that the
country, “May yet produce characters who have genius and capacity sufficient to
form the manners and correct the morals of the people, and virtue enough to
lead their country to freedom.” The manner in which she endeavored to convey
this message, however, was somewhat more complex. History, as she attempted to
elucidate, was indeed studded with examples of powerful, influential figures
rising from the same time and place that nevertheless stood for often violently
opposed sets of values. For Cato, Brutus, and Decius there was Caesar and
Sejanus; the era of Padilla and the Comuneros was also the age of Charles,
first King of Spain, and Holy Roman Emperor. Post-Revolutionary America, Warren
feared, may too have been host to grasping, ambitious men who cloaked their
base desires for power behind a mask of selflessness and public virtue. The
results of the constitutional convention in Philadelphia seemed to her evidence
enough of the avidity with which certain classes in America yearned to secure
their position in the midst of an unstable post-war settlement. Yet if history
was any indication, she deduced, there was reason to hope.
Why Warren felt the need to take
such an expansive view of what is arguably a fairly simple axiom perhaps has
something to do with how she viewed the world, and in turn how she hoped her
fellow American would as well. As with her discussion in Observations of the history of standing armies, her illustration of
the commonality of virtue and vice throughout history appears intended to tie
events in 1780s America to the broader narrative of Western civilization. The
United States, many of the Founders sought to assert, was not an insignificant
frontier backwater, but rather the continuation and culmination of all that had
come before. In some cases this sense of continuity meant rejecting or
modifying earlier precedents, while in others it meant finding strength and
solidarity in them. In either case, however, the past could not be ignored;
indeed, it was prologue to all that came after. By describing some of the
historical precedents, trends, and cycles she felt America was poised to
discard or embrace, Warren was perhaps in her own particular way contributing
to this same idea. Why discuss ancient Rome, Imperial Spain, or the legend of
William Tell if they had nothing to do with America?
In fact, Warren seemed eager to communicate,
they had everything to do with events then unfolding in the United States of
America because that country and its people represented the final realization
of Western history and culture. Doubtless this sounds grandiose in the extreme,
but it was a belief very common to members of the Founding Generation. America,
they reasoned, was to be a society perfected; the distillation of all that was
good and virtuous about Western culture and government, filtered through the liberal
radicalism of the Enlightenment. Attempting to explain such a complex and
weighty concept to the great mass of Americans was no small task, but not
without its due reward. If Americans could be made to understand how important
the fate of their nascent nation was, how unparallelled the opportunity they had
been presented to fulfil the promises and reject the mistakes of centuries
past, perhaps they would cease to take their hard-fought liberty for granted –
as some seemed determined to do – and stand fast to secure their country
against, “The rude breath of military combinations, and the politicians of
yesterday.” Few were as well-equipped or well-disposed to this effort than
Mercy Otis Warren, and she attacked it with singular enthusiasm and aptitude.
Further examples of Warren’s affection for argument via historical
example, and in particular her knowledge or the Classics, came be found in
sections one and eighteen of Observations.
In the former, she opined that the proposed constitution described a style of
republic that was heavily influenced by aristocratic principles, and that the
resultant federal office-seekers had would have no greater desire than to,
“Sail down the new pactolean channel.” The meaning of this passage may not be
immediately apparent – it certainly wasn’t to me – but in fact the word
“pactolean” is meant to refer to the River Pactolus, near the Aegean coast of
Turkey. It was in the waters of Pactolus that King Midas was said to have
cleansed himself of his golden touch, no doubt because the river contained high
quantities of electrum (a natural alloy of gold and silver). This natural
treasure eventually became the foundation upon which the ancient kingdom of
Lydia built its economy, and so the adjective “pactolean” is meant to denote
something or someone that possesses a high degree of material wealth. What
Warren thus attempted to argue in Observations
was that supporters of the proposed constitution regarded its successful ratification
as key to their own personal enrichment.
For Warren to have used the term
“pactolean” she would presumably have had to know something about the history
of ancient Turkey or Hellenistic mythology. It was not a word in common usage,
and so it seems a safe assumption that those who did deploy it were conscious
of where it came from and what exactly it was supposed to refer to.
Interestingly, a brief investigation reveals that the passage quoted above was originally
taken by Warren from the text of another of the Anti-Federalist Papers. The
paper in question, the sixth to be published under the name Cincinnatus (a pseudonym
of Virginian Arthur Lee), first saw public circulation in December, 1787,
approximately two months before Warren’s Observations
was released to the public. In it, the author responded to the praise heaped
upon the proposed constitution by one of its authors, Scottish-born James
Wilson (1742-1798), by claiming that the most likely person to support the new
federal charter was a failed entrepreneur whose wealth had been ruined and who
would enthusiastically seize upon the opportunity to help erect a system of
government seemingly designed to reward rampant speculation. This theoretical
opportunist, Cincinnatus wrote, would no doubt have been, “Animated by an
anticipation of that happy hour, when he might sail down this new pactolean
channel […] to sing a requiem to our expired liberties, and chant hallelujahs
to his approach-to wealth and consequence.”
Simply because a reference to the
River Pactolus in its cultural/historical context found in her Observations was in fact part of a
quotation from an earlier work does not mean that Warren was simply parroting
back something she liked the sound of. To use the term correctly she would have
had to understand what it referred to, and so would have required some degree
of knowledge concerning Greco-Turkish history and mythology. Likely she seized
upon the quoted phrase while reading Cincinnatus VI because she was familiar
with its meaning and enjoyed the particular turn of phrase. This would of
course indicate that, in addition to the rich personal understanding of history
and philosophy that Mercy Otis Warren possessed, she was also familiar enough
with the works of her fellow Anti-Federalists to cite them when she felt the
situation called for it. Considering her aforementioned thirst for knowledge,
and the sense of political engagement she displayed during the 1770s as a
satirical, pro-revolutionary playwright, the notion that Warren read some of
the other commentaries that had been published on the topic of the proposed
constitution is not terribly surprising. That being said, the fact that she
quoted Cincinnatus VI in her own critique of the Constitution is potentially
indicative that Mercy Otis Warren thought herself an equal participant in the
Anti-Federalist effort. Having kept abreast of the work being produced by
like-minded individuals, she quoted one whose opinion she shared as one would a
colleague.
The classical reference that Warren deployed in section
eighteen of Observations also helps
demonstrate a degree of affinity between her work and that of other American
political commentators, if not quite as directly. Warren argued near the middle
of said section, amid a description of the ways in which the American people
were ill-suited to monarchy, described the former as having been, “Inspired
with the generous feeling of patriotism and liberty, and […] like the ancient
Spartans have been hardened by temperance amid manly exertions, and equally
despising the fatigues of the field, and the fear of enemies.” In addition to
demonstrating a degree of knowledge, and apparent veneration, of the residents
of Ancient Sparta, this passage also shows ties Warren to other prominent
Americans who felt the same comparison was appropriate. In the third of John
Dickinson’s Letters from a Farmer in
Pennsylvania, for instance, the great moderate of the Revolution likewise
referred to the Spartans as a model of temperance and bravery who were worthy
of emulation by Americans. They were a, “brave and free people,” he wrote, who
were inspired by a, “happy temperament of soul [.]” He then went on to quote
Greco-Roman historian and essayist Plutarch’s description of the Spartans, who
he claimed exhibited in battle, “at once a terrible and delightful fight, and
[proceeded] with a deliberate valor, full of hope and good assurance, as if
some divinity had sensibly assisted them.”
Consider the words that Mercy Otis Warren and John Dickinson
each felt were appropriately ascribed to the Spartans and to their fellow
Americans. Dickinson characterized the Spartans, and in turn described his
ideal vision of the American temperament, as happy, brave, and free, and
doubtless agreed with the quoted Plutarch that they were also valorous, and
full of hope. Twenty years later, Warren compared the same two peoples, noting
specifically Americans` patriotism and liberty (synonymous perhaps with the
freedom that Dickinson ascribed to the Spartans), and the Ancient Spartans`
lack of fear (bravery, one might say). Evidently these two American
commentators and philosophers both felt there was a connection or affinity
between the citizens of 18th-century America and Classical Sparta,
and employed much of the same vocabulary to describe said relationship. It`s
certainly possible that Warren had read Dickinson Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania, and had been influenced by
the comparison he drew between the two cultures. Considering the knowledge she
elsewhere demonstrated in Observations,
this seems far from unlikely.
Then again, even if she had not been familiar with
Dickinson`s work specifically, allusions to the history, culture, and
literature of Ancient Rome and Greece were quite common among the literary
output of the 18th-century American elite. That Dickinson and Warren
both compared their fellow Americans to the valorous inhabitants of Sparta may
simply be an indication of their shared frame of reference. If both had studied
the Classics, both would have known of the Spartan`s reputation. Whatever
caused Dickinson in 1767 to imagine that his fellow colonists were capable of
donning a Spartan aspect could just as easily have spurred Warren in 1788 to
claim that the American people were best compared to those ancient warriors in
their common bravery, and freedom of spirit. Where the two differ in their
characterization might possibly be explained by the separate contexts in which
they each wrote. Dickinson didn't explicitly argue that his fellow American
colonists were like the Ancient Spartans, only that he hoped they would be in
light of recent political tensions. The fact that he was writing during the
years immediately preceding the Revolutionary War likely explains his imploring
tone; the strength of American determination had not yet been tested, and
Dickinson only hoped his countrymen would be equal to the exertions demanded of
them. Warren conversely asserted that Americans had, like the ancient Spartans
[…] been hardened by temperance amid manly exertions, and equally [despised]
the fatigues of the field, and the fear of enemies.” Because she was writing
twenty years after Dickinson, with the Revolutionary War safely behind her and
the popular memory still flush with scenes of military glory, doubtless she
felt that the comparison need no longer be simply a hopeful one. To her eyes,
as no doubt to many others`, Americans had become like the Spartans through
their shared experience of suffering and ultimate triumph.
Warren`s shared point of reference with Dickinson –
Americans = Spartans – combined with their differing emphasis – hopeful versus
declarative – is perhaps an indication of the intellectual continuity that the
two formed a part of. Dickinson, despite how his reputation has languished in
the intervening centuries, was one of the most prominent voices in favor of
colonial resistance to British political centralization before and during the
American Revolution. His Letters from a
Farmer in Pennsylvania were incredibly influential, and his presence during
the drafting of both the Articles of Confederation and the United States
Constitution doubtless exercised a much-needed moderating influence on the
respective end products. Mercy Otis Warren, largely self-educated and
exceptionally knowledgeable, was likewise an active participant in the events
of the Revolutionary era. Though not as prominent a prominent a figure as many
of her contemporaries, she was undeniably a part of the greater conversation.
Like Dickinson – or indeed Adams, Jefferson, Washington, or Madison – Warren
spoke of America in terms of the history and philosophy she was familiar with,
and which she felt best applied. Her male counterparts spoke of Cato and
Caesar, Brutus, Plutarch, rivers of wealth, the downfall of republics, and the
virtues of the Ancient Spartans. And so did she.
No comments:
Post a Comment