Speech to the Virginia Ratifying Convention, Part VI: Human Nature

The possibility that a declaration of rights could yet have been added to the text of the proposed constitution, while no doubt a source of comfort to those who were on the verge of being convinced of the necessity of its adoption, was necessarily lost on the likes of Patrick Henry. Even if he hadn’t been otherwise convinced that the amending formula was hopelessly flawed – being weighted in favor of small states – his perspective on human nature ruled out anything like the degree of trust with which the Framers seemed to regard the Representatives and Senators they had proposed to empower. Once possessed of the authority to intrude into the lives of their constituents in ways that the majority of the state constitutions explicitly forbade, Henry asked of his fellow delegates at the Virginia Ratifying Convention, why would even an elected officer of the proposed national government agree to lessen their own power?

   

Was there ever an instance? Can the annals of mankind exhibit one single example where rulers overcharged with power willingly let go the oppressed, though solicited and requested most earnestly? The application for amendments will therefore be fruitless. Sometimes, the oppressed have got loose by one of those bloody struggles that desolate a country; but a willing relinquishment of power is one of those things which human nature never was, nor ever will be, capable of.

By and large, this would seem a fairly convincing argument. History did tend, in the 18^th century – and does tend, in the 21^st – towards those in possession of power fighting tooth and nail to keep it or enlarge it rather than peacefully giving it up.

Take the American Revolution itself as a case in point. Successive British governments could have paid heed to the petitions offered by the various inter-colonial assemblies which sprang into existence between 1765 and 1775 and refrained from any longer attempting to affirm the legislative authority of Parliament over the Thirteen Colonies. That they did not, and rather chose to declare the assemblies in question to be rebellious and criminal, was far from surprising. Taking it as their right and their duty to regulate the economy of the burgeoning British Empire, the relevant MPs and ministers doubtless believed that consulting with a set of colonies on the far side of a vast and turbulent ocean every time they wanted to levy an import duty represented an unacceptable obstacle to the timely completion of their work. At the same time, these individuals also no doubt regarded the idea of taking any kind of direction from a party of backwoods frontiersman who seemed in no position to offer real resistance to be tantamount to an insult to the dignity of Parliament and to the authority of the ministers of the Crown. Whether it was a matter of efficiency or pride, of course, the end result was the same. The sitting government and its supporters in Parliament had power, and they’d be damned before giving it up simply because they were asked to do so.

No doubt this would have been the most vivid example of what he was arguing for to those who heard Patrick Henry speak – a number which included Edmund Pendleton (1721-1803), who had served in the First Continental Congress and the Virginia Committee of Safety, Benjamin Harrison V (1726-1791), who was among the first in Virginia to sign a boycott against British goods in 1770, and the aforementioned George Mason. Having put their names to the remonstrances and suffered to be branded as outlaws by their sovereign, many of the Virginians whom Henry addressed were primed to respond in the affirmative that power was not easily surrendered by those who possess it, whether justice was demonstrably on their side or not. That being said, an equally impactful and equally recent incident could as easily have been called to mind whose substance would have at least partially discredited Henry’s core contention as to the nature of mankind. The incident in question – heralded by generations of observers as one of the greatest moments in American history – was the resignation as Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army of George Washington (1732-1799) two days before Christmas in 1783.

Having serving in that selfsame capacity since June 19^th, 1775, Washington determined that the signing of the Treaty of Paris on September 3^rd and the departure from New York of the last of its British occupiers on November 25^th signaled the formal end of hostilities between the nascent United States of America and the Kingdom of Great Britain and completion of the task which he had agreed to take on eight years prior. In preparation for his subsequent departure from military life, he bid farewell to the Continental Army on November 2^nd at Rockingham, New Jersey, dined for the final time with his officers on December 4^th at Fraunces Tavern in New York City, and informed Congress of his intention to resign on December 19^th. Congress responded by inviting him to do so in person, and on December 23^rd – following a ball held the previous day in Washington’s honor at the Maryland State House where Congress was then meeting – the General read a speech before assembled delegates and handed his commission to their presiding officer, Thomas Mifflin (1744-1800).  He departed the next day for Mount Vernon and arrived in time for Christmas.

Though even at the time this was widely heralded as a remarkable act on the part of Washington, it was not in itself wholly without precedent. Many among his fellow Americans heralded the former general as the greatest gentleman of his age for willingly surrendering what was perhaps the most powerful single office then in existence in the United States. Even George III (1732-1820), who had perhaps as much reason to despise Washington as anyone ever would, was heard to remark in 1797 to the American painter Benjamin West (1738-1820) that the act of his resignation made the master of Mount Vernon, “The most distinguished of any man living [and] the greatest character of the age.” But there was also a very obvious and very appropriate comparison which just about everybody with knowledge of the episode seemed unable to avoid making. George Washington, they said, was like a modern Cincinnatus who, having heeded the call of his countrymen, served his people tirelessly and well before returning to his humble farm. In point of fact, Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus (519-430 BC) was a member of the patrician class born during the final years of the ancient Roman Kingdom who became famous for twice being granted the office of Dictator – a kind of temporary absolute monarchy enacted during emergencies – by the Senate of the Roman Republic only to surrender the associated authority after less than a month and return to his homestead beyond the Tiber. For his integrity, scrupulousness, and forbearance, Cincinnatus was lionized by subsequent generations of Romans as a model of statesmanship and the ideal of Roman virtue, to the point of becoming a kind of legendary figure in the culture of the Roman Republic.

For much the same reason, Cincinnatus also became a favorite of those members of the 17^th and 18^th century European Enlightenment who found particular inspiration in the history and politics of republican Rome. Seeking examples of self-sacrifice and nobility upon which to form a model of suitable political behavior amidst an era wholly dominated by hereditary monarchs and endemic corruption, Cincinnatus doubtless appeared to the reformers and philosophers then at work in Britain and the Continent as proof that it was possible to wield power selflessly and that ambition did not always have to triumph over honor. This was, of course, in spite of the fact that Cincinnatus was an avowed traditionalist who spoke loudly and often against the empowerment of the plebian class, and who first rose to prominence in Roman public life by steadfastly opposing the creation of a codified constitution during his year as Consul in 460/459 BC. His politics, however, were not what Cincinnatus was remembered for, nor even the specifically attested events of his life. Rather, it was the idea of Cincinnatus that fired the imaginations of the Roman people and their self-appointed successors in 17^th and 18^th century Europe. The legends that grew up around him were what mattered to those who held his name in high esteem, and in the telling they created the inspiration they needed to sustain them in their lives and work. 

Even as early as 1788, George Washington had come to occupy a similarly hallowed position within the nascent political culture of the United States of America. Like Cincinnatus, he had left behind a life of rural tranquility to take up the mantle of leadership thrust upon him by his countrymen during a moment of crisis, served as long as he believed was absolutely necessary, and then relinquished his power so that he could return to his farmstead. The parallels were almost too perfect, and in truth the American people were almost certainly in need of a figure to unite and inspire them in the same way that the people of ancient Rome had seemed to need Cincinnatus. To be sure, none of this was lost on the likes of Patrick Henry, given though he seemed to be to a kind of habitual suspicion of power and fame. A large part of what allowed the Framers to propose the creation of a singular chief executive possessed of relatively wide-ranging powers had been the almost certain knowledge that Washington would be the first person upon which the office would be bestowed. If Henry harbored any objection to this outcome, he never gave voice to it, and his relationship with the master of Mount Vernon remained convivial throughout the remainder of both their lives. But it also would have been entirely in keeping with his accustomed approach to questions of political economy to concern himself with the long term consequences of short term thinking. Washington may yet have served, and in that case the United States would be in the safest hands imaginable. But what of the Representatives and Senators who would serve alongside him? And the justices of the federal courts? And the presidents that would follow? Could any of them be depended on to act with the integrity and forbearance of a Washington, or would they behave as Henry insisted all men were bound to and seize what power their countrymen had foolishly placed in their hands?

This is where the Framers doubtless hoped that the ideal of Cincinnatus would come to bear fruit. Legendary though he had largely become, the story of ancient Rome’s shortest serving Dictator had nevertheless served the useful purpose of inspiring countless generations to aspire to humility and virtue amidst the hardships of a world that did little to reward either. Granted, the Roman Republic existed within a socio-historical context rather much divorced from the reality of the United States of America in the late 18^th century. Luckily, there existed a far more modern example of exactly this kind of selfless behavior for contemporary Americans to embrace and emulate. Cincinnatus, it bears admitting, had become something of a cipher in the tens of centuries since his life and death. But George Washington was a man who yet lived, and breathed, and could be understood on terms familiar to the contemporary American mind. He had been a farmer, and a statesman, and had served his country long and well in the role that had been thrust upon him by the events of the moment. And then, like a figure out of legend, he’d done something which Patrick Henry had affirmed, “Human nature never was, nor ever will be, capable of [;]” he’d given up the incomparable power that his countrymen had willingly placed in his hands and retired to a life of private enterprise.

Not everyone could be expected to behave in this way, of course. Indeed, it would seem entirely fair to say that very few ever did or ever would. And yet, of his own accord, George Washington had, and in a very public way. The knowledge of his selflessness may not have thereafter transformed the political culture of the union of American states, of course. But, like the distant, mythologized figure of Cincinnatus to whom he was often compared, it was entirely likely that his behavior would serve as an inspiration to others to lay aside their ambitions and desires and act in a manner which they knew to be virtuous and just. If nothing else, Washington’s existence was at least proof of something very important to the prospect of stable republican government: that sometimes, in apparent defiance of their own selfish interests, people could be selfless, and noble, and reject the temptation of power. It did happen, and therefore it could happen. This fact did not necessarily rob Henry’s assertion of its essential force and cogency. It would have been far more sensible to think of George Washington’s abiding selflessness as an exception to the rule of human behavior rather than something that could be counted on to very often recur. All the same, failing to acknowledge it at all did weaken Henry’s position somewhat, making it appear as though he had either failed to consider the significance of Washington’s resignation or that he simply had no counter-argument. In actual fact, the reason Henry omitted any mention of the most prominent American of his age acting in a way which he explicitly affirmed was impossible almost certainly had everything to do with the rhetorical requirements of the moment. “People never give up power,” it bears admitting, sounds a fair bit snappier than “people never give up power, except for the odd occasion which you can neither predict nor count on.” And Henry was always one for the snappy declarative, as the general character of his oratorical career well attests, whether or not it strictly aligned with the myriad complexity of the actual facts.