Acknowledging this aspect of Henry’s
character, while placing it alongside his status as one of the most ardent –
and the most radical – Patriot statesmen of the Founding Generation, is a large
part of what makes him such an interesting subject of study. While there can be
no denying that he was every bit the impassioned advocate of natural rights and
individual sovereignty that he presented to his fellow Americans – as well as
an exceedingly skilled orator – he was also most definitely among the canniest,
most determined, and most manipulative debaters to have plied his trade in the
great forums of discussion from which the Revolution arguably derived its
abiding philosophical rigor. He had principles, to be sure, and stood by them
to the utmost. But consider some of the things he was willing to do to see
those principles realized just within the text of the address herein examined.
Over the course of his appeal to the Virginia Ratifying Convention, to the end
of seeing the proposed constitution defeated, Henry repeatedly obscured the
complexity of the subject at hand, engaged in gross generalizations, sought to
stoke the fear, the pride, and the shame of his fellow delegates, dragged the
discussion into tangent after tangent, and more than once made claims that
quite simply weren’t true. His motivations were pure, by all accounts, and it
was also true that amidst the aforementioned rhetorical trickery he often
demonstrated a willingness and an ability to discuss the issues at hand – i.e.
the nature of sovereignty, civil rights, and public virtue within a consolidated
American government – with rigor and enthusiasm. But the value of the former
seems to have outweighed the latter in Henry’s considered opinion. Whatever he
actually believed, and however willing he was to discuss his beliefs, he
appeared to attach greater value to strength of arms – rhetorically speaking –
than strength of ideas. Convincing someone that you’re right and they’re wrong
takes a great deal of effort, after all, and persistence, and even compassion.
Winning an argument is much, much easier.
In this
sense, and in certain aspects, Henry arguably embodied exactly the kind of
politician that the American public has since taken to lamenting the presence
of for as long as political media has existed in that country. Politicians are
dishonest, people say, and manipulative, and egotistical. They tell lies, and
they exaggerate, and they mislead, and they generalize, and all so that they
can win some battle or other that they’ve convinced themselves is more
important than being honest or having principles. Such litanies of frustration
are often followed by a kind of wistful grieving for the loss of political
innocence symbolized by the existence of this species of wanton narcissist.
“Things were better then,” they bewail, “When people said what they meant and
stood by their convictions. Oh, to have been alive to see it! And woe to us for
having lost it forever!” The Founding is naturally one of the “golden eras”
most often pointed to during discussions such as these, shining forth in the American
psyche as it continues to do. The Founders are held up as almost godly ideals,
sources of insight, paragons of virtue, and geniuses beyond the ability of the
modern world to produce. Armed with word and sword, they smote the wicked
British and built a nation upon the principles of liberty, equality, and
justice the likes of which the world had never seen. America and Americans will
never reach that height again, of course. The gods have long since ceased to
stride the earth. But attempting to emulate the example of the Founders – or at
the least paying heed to what wisdom they left in their wake – remains a widely
valued endeavor, and one which individuals and organizations of nearly every
political stripe seek to engage with to this day. To quote the Founders while
attempting to justify a given policy position is to invoke a purer rationale
than one could hope to synthesize on one’s own. To follow the lead of the
Founders while pursuing a given objective is to invoke a moral authority which
has virtually no equal in American public discourse.
As Patrick Henry has herein hopefully
helped to demonstrate, however, the kinds of political behaviors which have
caused generations of Americans to seek solace and inspiration in the example
of the Founders were far from unknown to that same sainted cohort. Henry, the
man whose exhortation to his fellow Virginians of, “Give me Liberty, or Give me
Death” continues to loom large in the American collective consciousness as
perhaps the single most powerful example of political conviction in the whole
of the nation’s history, was also demonstrably a purveyor of half-truths and
calculated omissions whose approach to political discourse, in not downright
underhanded, was rarely as forthright or transparent as his avowed convictions
would otherwise indicate. Quite possibly owing to his training and experience
as a lawyer at the bar – in which arena the unvarnished truth often proves a
less effective guarantee of success than a well – told story – the favorite son
of Hanover County, Virginia seemed to approach the various debates in which he
took part as though they were any other suit that he had been paid to try. At
the end of the day, regardless of who was telling the truth and who was lying,
there would be a winner and there would be a loser. The winner, regardless of
their convictions, was the one who managed to convince the jury that their
interpretation of the subject at hand was the correct one. And the loser,
regardless of the purity of their motivations or the justness of their
principles, was the one who failed to do the same. By a measure of value such
as this, results were what mattered far more than the integrity with which the
thing had been carried out.
Thus was Patrick Henry – that great
sentinel of liberty – able to say a great many things to his fellow delegates
to the Virginia Ratifying Convention which the modern investigator might regard
as disingenuous, manipulative, or even downright deceitful without wholly
abandoning the basic principles for which he was laboring. Henry knew – as well
as any 21st century political actor knows – that the surest way to
see your convictions made manifest in the world is to win, win, win. Because if
you don’t win, you have no power; and if you have no power, you can’t make the
things happen that you know need to happen. You don’t have to convince people
that what you believe is what they should believe, and you don’t have to have
an answer for every probing question or apparent inconsistency that comes your
way. All you need to do, by whatever means at your disposal and by whatever
measure you care to establish, is to show people that you are right and that
they can be right, too. Only then, once the dust has settled and victory has
been confirmed, does conviction really apply. This is to say, only when
conviction can reliably be translated into action. Otherwise, faced with an
equally determined opponent, principle can very quickly turn from virtue to
liability.
Henry was far from alone among the Founding
Generation, of course, in viewing politics through such an outwardly mercenary
lens. Alexander Hamilton (1757-1804), that great architect of American
institutions, was notorious for his rhetorical prowess and his penchant for
backroom dealing. Rare was the situation he found himself in that he hadn’t
already shaped to his advantage, and rarer still was the opportunity to advance
his goals that he didn’t actively and effectively seize. During the Newburgh
Conspiracy, for example, when, in March, 1783, members of the Continental Army
led by one John Armstrong (1758-1843) began discussing plans to march on
Congress from their camp at Newburgh, New York over unpaid wages and
underfunded pensions, Hamilton joined with a number of his fellow Congressmen
in attempting to leverage the apparent threat of mutiny to the advantage of
their particular policy objectives. The American treasury having been almost
entirely emptied – and legislation authorizing an import tariff having been
defeated in Congress in November, 1782 – Hamilton and his cohorts believed that
the need to suddenly and rapidly locate a source of military financing in the
face of a potential uprising represented the best chance to force through such
measures as would permanently expand the financial independence of the nascent
national government. That this scheme was ultimately foiled as a result of the
Continental Army Commander-in-Chief’s efforts to remind the men and officers camped
at Newburgh of their duty to Congress and to the nation – and that Hamilton’s
intentions, as far as history records, were entirely focused on strengthening a
government which he believed could do more good for more people – does nothing
to change the essential circumstances of the event.
Faced with the possibility of an
unauthorized military seizure of the legislative body of which he was a member
– representing essentially a coup d’état upon the contemporary American
government – Alexander Hamilton sought to use the threat of rebellion to
essentially extort the outcome from Congress which his and his colleagues had
thus far failed to achieve. He accordingly sought to encourage the mutineers,
pushed his fellow Congressmen to adopt the funding powers which they had
previously rejected, and worked to frustrate attempts at some manner of
alternate solution. His motivation, it bears repeating, did not appear to be
personal. That is to say, he was not attempting to enrich himself in the
bargain. Altruistic though his intentions may have been, however, his methods
were unquestionably narrow, self-serving, and duplicitous. Rather than proceed,
in spite of previous setbacks, in the spirit of honesty, reason, and
forbearance, he attempted to short-circuit the proceedings of Congress by way
of fear and desperation. The law would not have agreed with Hamilton on his use
of such means, nor would contemporary standards of morality have given him
leave. Neither of these things mattered to the man who would soon enough become
the first Secretary of the Treasury of the United States of America, of course,
because he knew – as Patrick Henry knew in 1788 – that he was right and that
his opponents were wrong.
Though Hamilton has since become somewhat
infamous in the annals of American history for exactly this kind of
questionable behavior, some of his most ardent opponents were no less guilty of
disregarding contemporary definitions of legality and morality in pursuit of
those objectives which they believed it most essential to achieve. No less
august a personage than Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826) – a man for whom virtue
became a watchword and liberty a rallying cry – engaged in a number of
enterprises just within the scope of his tenure as President (1801-1809) whose
rectitude were similarly shaky at best. In one instance, upon the unexpected
offer from French Emperor Napoleon (1769-1821) to sell the entirety of
Louisiana rather than just the city of New Orleans – whose purchase an American
delegation had been dispatched to Paris to negotiate in 1803 – Jefferson chose
to disregard both his own doubts and those of his fellow Republicans as to the
constitutionality of the prospect by pushing for the rapid approval of the deal
by the United States Senate. Though the Constitution – the text of which
Jefferson and his supporters loudly affirmed ought to have been followed to the
letter – did grant the President and the Senate sole authority to make treaties
which would subsequently possess the full force of law, it nowhere granted the
federal government the explicit ability to take possession of previously
foreign territory for the purpose of enlarging the American republic. There can
be almost no doubt whatsoever that the Republicans under Jefferson would have
pointed angrily to this very deficit had the administration of either George
Washington (1732-1799) or John Adams (1735-1826) attempted to pursue such an
expansion of federal power as the Louisiana Purchase most definitely
represented. As it stood, however, and despite contemplating the need for a
constitutional amendment – a sure indication that Jefferson was himself unclear
as to the strict legality of the course he was pursuing – the sale went ahead. Eager
to plant the seeds of the “Empire of Liberty” which he believed the American
continent was destined to become, Jefferson was evidently not about to let a
mere pang of uncertainty – vast though its implications may have been – stand
in his way.
In another instance, in that same fateful
year of 1803, Jefferson sought to eliminate Federalist influence within the
national judiciary by encouraging his fellow Republicans in Congress to use the
impeachment clause of the Constitution to remove a number of federal judges
that had been appointed by the two previous administrations. While at least one
of the men accordingly targeted for removal almost certainly warranted it –
that being District Court Judge John Pickering (1737-1805), a native of New
Hampshire who was suffering from mental deterioration and alcoholism – the most
prominent victim identified by the Jefferson Administration was guilty of
nothing more than indelicacy and arrogance while ruling from the bench. Samuel
Chase (1741-1811), a former Maryland legislator and Continental Congressman,
had been appointed to the Supreme Court by President Washington in 1796 and had
served relatively without incident for the better part of the decade that
followed. He was, to be sure, an opinionated man, and one who was not afraid to
give vent to his political frustrations while presiding over a case. But he had
committed no legal or ethical lapses while in office, and he had at no point
given evidence that his continued service presented a hazard to the welfare of
the American people. Regardless, because he was a Federalist and wasn’t quiet
about the fact, Jefferson sought his expulsion from the Court. “Ought the
seditious and official attack on the principles of our Constitution [...] to go
unpunished?” he hinted accordingly to Republican Congressman Joseph Hopper Nicholson
(1770-1817). Articles of impeachment were thereafter introduced in the waning
months of 1803 by Nicholson’s colleague John Randolph (1773-1833) and Chase was
brought to trial before the Senate in February, 1805 on eight counts of having
behaved in a manner unbecoming of a federal justice.
Though Chase was subsequently acquitted on
all counts by the Senate – controlled, it should be noted, by Jefferson’s own
party and presided over by his Vice President, Aaron Burr (1756-1836) – a fact
of tremendous significance to the principle of judicial independence as applied
in the United States of America, this would seem to matter somewhat less under
the circumstances than the fact that he was impeached and tried to begin with. Jefferson
and his Republican allies – in the House if not in the Senate – were evidently
so convinced that the American people stood to benefit from their policy
program that they were willing to essentially weaponize the impeachment process
defined by the Constitution so as to clear away potential opposition in the
federal courts. In some cases – that of the aforementioned John Pickering –
this was likely just as well. But Samuel Chase had done nothing more than
exercise the right to free speech which he possessed under the Bill of Rights.
It was indelicate of him, certainly, to behave the way he did, and somewhat at
odds with the principle of a non-partisan judiciary. During proceedings before
a Baltimore grand jury, for example, Chase had responded to the recent repeal
of the Judiciary Act of 1801 – passed during the waning months of the Adams
Administration in order to ensure continued Federalist influence over the
federal courts – by declaring that such actions would soon enough, “Take away
all security for property and personal liberty, and our Republican constitution
will sink into a mobocracy.” Troubling though this action may have been –
a Republican plaintiff, for example, might thereafter been fairly given to
question Chase’s ability to hear his case – it nonetheless hardly qualified as
a “high crime or misdemeanor” for which impeachment was the proper remedy.
President Jefferson, though he had vociferously defended the principle of free
expression as Vice President under John Adams in the 1790s in the face of the
Sedition Act (1798), appeared in this case to be uninterested in such legal
niceties. Justice Chase and his ilk posed a political problem for the
newly-empowered Republicans and threatened to derail their plans for the nation
at large. As Jefferson doubtless considered said plans to be to the benefit of
the American public as a whole, it was accordingly permissible for him and his
cohorts in Congress to temporarily ignore certain principles for which they
might otherwise profess the most ardent support.
Even George Washington – the darling of the
Revolution and a man whose probity and restraint comes across at times as
almost superhuman – was not immune to the promise of what such temporary lapses
could conceivably deliver. As discussed in a previous entry in these very series,
the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army was at times reviled about as
much as he was heralded during his service in the Revolutionary War. Many a man
professed to him their undying loyalty and sought to protect him from
defamation or disaster. But many others coveted his office, or doubted his
competence, or held fast to personal agendas to which he presented an obstacle.
Rather than allow this state of affairs to play out on its own, however – that
is to say, rather than allow Congress to decided, according to whatever
information it deemed significant, to decide what became of his command –
Washington carefully but deliberately manipulated the situation to his own
maximum benefit. He instructed the coterie of young officers who followed steadfastly
in his wake to restrain themselves in some instances and sally forth in others,
collected such damning information concerning his rivals as his supporters were
able to secure, allowed his enemies in the Continental Army to overplay their
hands when it appeared that he was determined to offer no resistance, and then
presented such damning evidence as would destroy the reputation of any
challenger to his authority. It was, as aforementioned, a subtle course of
action, and not one which Washington was necessarily wrong to pursue. History
ultimately proved, after all, that he was the man to lead the Continental Army
to victory. All the same, however, his likely rationale – that he was indeed
better suited to command the forces authorized and funded by Congress than any
other officer presently available – was exceedingly slippery. Right though he
may have been about his own abilities and those of his potential replacements,
it really wasn’t his place to decide who should have commanded the Continental
Army. He had been called to service by Congress in 1775 – reluctantly, it
appeared at the time – and it was the responsibility of Congress alone to
either keep him in place or ask him to step down. By subtly shaping the
circumstances within which challenges to his authority came to light, he was
thus essentially putting this thumb on the scales – not substituting his
opinion for that of Congress, but most definitely tilting the odds that they
would side with him in his favor.
“Yes,
yes, yes,” you’re doubtless muttering to yourself just now, “But what does any
of this matter? Are you really saying that dishonesty in politics is in some
way justified by the various examples set by the Founding Generation?” No,
that’s not what I’m saying. Henry was wrong to act as he did during the
Virginia Ratifying Convention; as was Hamilton in 1783; as was Jefferson twenty
years later, as was Washington during the Revolutionary War. Little profit can
be derived, I think, when people in positions of power and influence forgo honesty
and justice in pursuit of some goal or other which they cannot see achieved otherwise.
What I am saying is that anyone who feels the same way should not look to the
Founding Generation for examples of how public servants ought to behave. The
Founders were most definitely possessed of uncommon wisdom, insight, ingenuity,
and forbearance between them and their actions on behalf of the cause of
American independence and American nationhood were and continue to be a
blessing upon the lives and livelihoods of their countrymen. That being said,
they could also be as ambitious, and self-serving, and duplicitous as any
politician whose behavior has become cause for public lamentation. Certainly
they were capable of making tremendous personal sacrifices on behalf of the
principles which they professed and the community to which they had pledged
their service. George Washington’s health paid dearly for his years of military
service, Thomas Jefferson traveled to the other side of the world – shortly
after losing his wife and daughter, no less – in order to represent his
nation’s interests in foreign courts, and Alexander Hamilton fairly threw
himself into danger at every opportunity during his service with the
Continental Army. Even Patrick Henry, who never served in any military post
that threatened to expose him to mortal danger or in fact ever deigned to leave
the confines of his native Virginia, voluntarily gave up the influence which he
had gathered to himself over the course of the 1760s and 1770s in order to take
possession of an office – i.e. Governor of Virginia – whose power was
comparatively quite limited. Duty had compelled these men, and for that they
should be celebrated. But they were also all of them keenly interested in
promoting their own agendas, and to that end demonstrated an often pliable
sense of what was strictly moral or legal.
To attempt to be succinct, I might say that
in politics it does not pay to ever trust anyone always and completely. Some
people in public service are very clearly interested only enriching themselves.
These individuals, if they are to be dealt with at all, should be kept at arm’s
length at all times. That being said, even the greatest statesmen of a given
time and place, whose reputations appear to have been founded upon the
unshakable bedrock of honesty and integrity, should never be given carte blanche to do as they will. Politicians,
at the end of the day, are still politicians. They may loudly decry the
necessity and the kinds of decisions it forces them to make, but a significant
portion of their job revolves around finding ways to win. Sometimes this means
winning elections, sometimes it means winning a debate; the challenges and
temptations are the same regardless. And why shouldn’t they be tempted? The
questions they are made to answer routinely involve matters of life and death,
wealth and destitution, health, happiness, and the very nature of the public
good. If, in order to see accomplished some end which they truly believe could
change countless lives for the better, why shouldn’t they willingly commit some
minor infraction? Would it not be manifestly immoral to do otherwise?
These kinds of inquiries, I suspect, are
better left to philosophers and priests to answer with anything like definite
certainty. That being said, they are questions which countless public servants
have faced and continue to face at all times and in all places. Sometimes they
abjure their convictions and sometimes they do not, but not one of them, I am
convinced, is above having to at least consider the prospect. What is required,
therefore, of the individual whose lives and livelihoods hang in the balance of
these great and terrible decisions is nothing less than eternal vigilance.
Ironically enough, this was precisely the prescription that the Founders
themselves seemed universally to offer to the fears and concerns of their
countrymen as to the fitness or longevity of republican government. Perhaps
they knew their own limitations as well as subsequent generations would come to
know their virtues. Trust no one with power they said, while they themselves
held it; take nothing for granted, they said, when they as often depended on
their fellow Americans to do exactly that. Patrick Henry himself, whose speech
to the Virginia Ratifying Convention delivered in the summer of 1788 was the
subject and catalyst of the present discussion, shines forth as an excellent
example of precisely this dichotomy. In the same oration in which he held forth
with any number of misleading claims and unverifiable assertions, he also
cautioned his fellow delegates that power cannot be trusted regardless of who
wields it. “But we are told,” he said,
That we
need not fear; because those in power, being our representatives, will not
abuse the powers we put in their hands. I am not well versed in history, but I
will submit to your recollection, whether liberty has been destroyed most often
by the licentiousness of the people, or the tyranny of the rulers. I imagine,
sir, you will find the balance on the side of tyranny.
Perhaps Henry did
not knowingly intend to refer to himself in this instance as one of those
rulers who was bound to indulge in some manner of tyranny. But if the
admonition could be said to apply to anyone at all, it most assuredly applied
to him as well. Do not trust your public servants, he said, and only too right
he was. I would add to that not to blindly trust the Founders, either. There is
much than can be learned from them, I would be the first person to attest. But
just as sure as they tried to mislead their countrymen during that moment when
they all of them drew breath on this earth, they will mislead you, too, if you
let them.
I don’t know about you, but I’d rather
consider that a dare.
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