Perhaps the most novel element of The Rights of the British Colonies Asserted
and Proved, beyond either its manner of address or the core of its critique
– both of which were emphatically, self-consciously British – was the solution
it proposed to the crisis then looming over the Anglo-American relationship. The
issue at hand, its author Otis claimed, was the distance that existed between
the people of America and their nominal governors in Britain. Physically as
well as administratively, neither information nor intention could travel
quickly and directly from the Crown’s American subjects to Westminster and back
again. Whether it was the efforts of appointed colonial governors to interpose
their will in place of the monarch, governments in Britain attempting to make
law for people in America they hailed as constituents but could hardly claim to
know, the difficulty inherent in overseeing over a dozen different governments
meeting in as many different locations, or the vast and rolling ocean that
separated one from another and added months to even the simplest communication,
America and Britain seemed ever to fumble at mutual understanding. What needed
to happen, as near as Otis could tell, was a fundamental consolidation of the
Anglo-American dynamic. No longer could Americans rely upon appointed envoys to
convey their wishes to a distant monarch. And no longer could Parliament claim
to act in accordance with the sovereign will of a people whose interests were
known to it peripherally if at all. Instead, the British government would need
to acknowledge the subordinate – but no less distinct and separate – authority
of the provincial legislatures while at the same time making provision for the
enlargement of the Houses of Parliament in order to accommodate the seating of
members elected from America.
Again, this was an unusual proposal
on the part of Otis, and one which was freighted with logistical difficulties.
Britain and America were indeed thousands of miles distant, separated by a
notoriously turbulent and storm-prone ocean. Information thus travelled slowly
from one region to the other, presenting a significant – one might say
insurmountable – hurdle to efficient bi-continental administration. Parliamentary
elections, for example, already took place over an average period of two months
at the beginning of the 1770s. As each county or borough formulated its own
procedures and set its own dates for voting and returns, results trickled in
slowly and incoming members weren’t seated in full for months after the final
ballot was counted. Adding members for the American colonies accordingly
threatened to turn this already time and labor intensive process into an
interminable, trans-Atlantic paper chase. A writ of election would need to be
sent from Britain to America, and then vote tallies sent from America to
Britain, followed by final results from Britain to America again. At this point
the victors in America would need to make the journey to London to take their
seats in Parliament – adding between six weeks and three months to an already
lengthy process – secure places of residence, and adequately familiarize
themselves with the relevant legislative procedures. Thus, before even calling
a quorum at the first session of a new Parliament, the addition of American
members would seem to turn a three month endeavor into one lasting half a year.
Delays on this
order would appear to multiply when one factors in the necessity of these
American MPs occasionally consulting with their assigned constituents. Whereas
the member for, say, Orkney and Shetland – the farthest riding from the seat of
Parliament in London – could expect in 1770 to take around two weeks to travel
to their constituency and back in order to assess the mood of their electors,
their theoretical counterpart from Boston or New York City could expect no
better than three months to elapse between the time they either depart or send
a request for information and when they might claim to be satisfied in having
an answer. With such interruptions arising potentially at any time during a
given legislative session, the likely result would appear to be either an
intolerable arresting of the speed at which the business of Westminster was
transacted or the habitual short-changing of the needs of American MPs. That
neither of these outcomes was particularly desirable was surely apparent to the
author of Asserted and Proved. And
yet, for all the deficiencies inherent in the attempt, Otis believed the
alternative – which is to say, the status quo – in so many ways to be so much
worse. While this might perhaps appear a somewhat unrealistic argument –
indeed, most of Otis’ American contemporaries were content to request that
Parliament simply refrain from further direct taxation – Otis presented a
typically thorough and convincing case which brought both practical and moral
evidence to bear in its favor. Britain owed its American subjects, he argued,
just as they owed Britain in turn.
One source of ire
and confusion that Otis identified as being in particular need of reform was
the relationship that existed between the citizens of the various colonies and
their appointed chief executives. Excepting Pennsylvania and Maryland – both of
which were formally the domain of individual Lords Proprietor – every one of
the Thirteen Colonies as they existed in 1764 possessed a governor appointed by
the Crown on the advice of the sitting ministry. In consequence, while the
magistrates in question were indeed beholden to the authorization and oversight
of the contemporary British government, their authority in America was at the
same time largely unchecked. Speaking to this state of affairs, Otis lamented
that,
Gentlemen
have had departments in America, the functions of which they have not been
fortunate in executing. The people have by these means been rendered uneasy, at
bad Provincial measures. They have been represented as factious, seditious, and
inclined to democracy whenever they have refused passive obedience to provincial
mandates, as arbitrary as those of a Turkish Bashaw [.]
Colorful language
aside, this was not a wholly uncharitable evaluation of the behavior of certain
of British America’s late 18th century chief executives. Some, like
Virginia’s Lord Dunmore (1730-1809), took advantage of their wide-ranging
responsibilities – and the opportunities they provided for the consolidation of
both their popularity and their power – by leading exhibitions against
neighboring native peoples while also ignoring the local legislature. Others,
like North Carolina’s William Tryon (1729-1788), used tax increases to pay for
personal luxuries and directed the provincial militia to suppress popular
accusations of corruption and cronyism. Granted, these men did not necessarily
represent the majority among their fellow office-holders. James Wright
(1716-1785), for example, was both successful in his efforts to expand
Georgia’s economy and popular as a result, while New Jersey’s William Franklin
(1730-1813) oversaw an infrastructure expansion and criminal justice reform
over the course of his fourteen years in office. The issue, therefore, was not
so much that every governor was a tyrant in waiting, but that their propensity
to do good or ill – to act selflessly or otherwise – was untethered from any
public mandate or close official scrutiny. If they were good, in short,
Americans were lucky. And if they were bad – heaven forbid – Americans were
stuck with them all the same.
It thus fell to
the individual governor to determine according to their own standards of
behavior which among their subjects were loyal and virtuous and which were
wicked and rebellious. And while the various colonial legislatures certainly
had it in their power, in the event of what their perceived to be abusive or tyrannical
actions on the part of their chief executive, to petition for redress from
Parliament and the Crown, their access to and influence within the halls of
power were likely to be comparatively limited. After all, many of the men
appointed to govern Britain’s American dependencies were from influential
families, were owed favors, or were a particular friend of the government of
the day. In consequence, though it was certainly possible for the reigning
ministry and the Crown to acquiesce to the plea of a given colonial assembly by
removing the relevant officer – Sir Francis Bernard (1712-1779), for instance,
was notably recalled from his post as Governor of Massachusetts in 1769 after a
petition to that effect was dispatched by the relevant legislature – colonial
governors tended to enjoy some degree of social and institutional insulation
from popular discontent. This favored status also made it much harder for those
colonial subjects accused of sedition, treason, or rebellion from easily making
the case for their innocence. Faced with reports from America of popular
demonstrations or riots – in response to a piece of legislation, say, or an
executive edict – the sitting government in Britain could choose to believe
either the pleas of the discontented or the assurances of their chosen
magistrate. As the latter already occupied a position of trust, had likely been
documenting expressions of purported disloyalty for some time prior, and was
closer to the situation than anyone in Parliament, it naturally followed that
most colonial governors in British America enjoyed the benefit of the doubt
whenever turmoil arose in their assigned domain.
Having suffered his
fair share at the hands of his colony’s own chief executive – the
aforementioned Bernard – Otis was doubtless particularly keen to see this
situation remedied. The cited logistical issues aside, American representation
in Parliament would surely have achieved just that, or gone some distance
toward it. Rather than attempt to have their petitions for redress heard in
Westminster through the efforts of sympathetic British MPs or colonial agents whose
access to the mechanisms of power was both limited and contingent, American
dissatisfied with their appointed governor could simply write to their elected
representative. Certainly this would not have guaranteed that the issue in
question would be taken up on the floor of the House of Commons, but it would
at least have provided Britain’s American subjects with something approaching
equal access to ministerial influence. As colonial governors often held weight
with the members of a sitting government – thus often guaranteeing them a
sympathetic ear in the halls of power – Americans could simultaneously rest
easy knowing that they possessed a representative in Parliament itself. Not
only would this have made it easier for disgruntled colonists to make their
case to those in a position to offer relief, but it would have ensured a
permanent American voice in all Parliamentary business concerning the
appointment or recall of American governors. Rather than have someone foisted
upon them without their consultation, Britain’s American subjects could expect
and enjoy a full and equal voice in deciding precisely who was chosen to
oversee their domestic affairs. Again, this certainly would not have guaranteed
that every individual granted the office of governor was exactly to the liking
of his nominal constituents. All the same, it would have at least raised the
political status of the Crown’s subjects in America to something like that
enjoyed by their counterparts in Britain.
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