Mr. President

by Ray Raphael

  Anti-Federalists, like Federalists, railed against “faction.” The Senate was dangerous because it was so small, insular, and enduring. Senators, who were not elected by the people, would serve long terms with no accountability. Isolated within their chamber, they could scheme and connive; in the end, a tiny group would prevail and wield immense power. The House, too, was prone to faction. As we have seen, William Grayson revealed how a few congressmen from small states could manipulate the elector system to choose the president and create “a government of a faction.” Today, we decry partisanship and Washington insiders; in the founding era, people likewise derided the spirit of faction or the spirit of party. Congress bashing, a favorite political sport today, has deep roots dating from the founding era. Then, as now, it was practiced across the political spectrum, uniting Americans in an odd assault on their own government.

  Here at last was a point of agreement. If the Constitution did in fact become the law of the land, the president, who was responsible to the nation as a whole, might be able to counterbalance the tendency for factions to rule. Federalists promised this, and Anti-Federalists could at least take solace in it. If a president could avoid becoming the tool of Congress, he might just be able to keep factions at bay. That was certainly the thinking of the two men who pushed hardest at the Federal Convention to establish the executive’s independence from the legislature. Gouverneur Morris insisted the president should be “the general guardian of the National interests,” while James Wilson wanted him “to stand the mediator” between factions. Citizens of all persuasions could unite around that ideal.44

  In the end, not enough Americans feared the presidency with sufficient zeal to prevent ratification. Some tried to place limits on a president’s time in office, and a few tried to guard against his military muscle, but no changes were made. The presidency survived intact, exactly as it emerged from the Federal Convention. Yet for the Constitution’s opponents, all was not lost. During the ratification debates, Anti-Federalists complained that George Washington, above reproach and therefore unchallengeable, had lined up against them; after ratification, though, Washington suddenly turned into an ally of sorts. He appeared fair, honorable, and not vindictive. Their problems with the presidential office had stemmed not from its likely first occupant but from powers that might be abused later. So when Washington agreed to serve, Anti-Federalists believed they might receive at least a temporary reprieve. The first president would line up squarely against party and faction. He would not let one group, in this case his Federalist friends, dominate another, even if they had been his opponents.

  This was the hope, at any rate. It was not an unreasonable one. Washington did have the good of the nation at heart, no doubt about that. He understood that the American people, currently divided, needed to be healed and united, and he even threw his support behind a Bill of Rights, which many of his fellow Federalists staunchly resisted. That was certainly a start, but overcoming differences would not come easily. Issues would inevitably emerge, and with them factions and parties. The notion that one man, exercising transcendent leadership, could somehow put the brakes on divisiveness would soon be put to the test.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Launch

  On the first day of 1789, George Washington wrote to William Pierce, a fellow delegate to the Federal Convention, who was soliciting an appointment as collector for the port of Savannah. Washington “sincerely & fervently” hoped not “to have any agency in the disposal of federal appointments”—meaning, of course, he did not wish to be chosen for the office of president. “Should it (contrary to my wishes) fall upon me, I shall certainly be disposed to decline the acceptance, if it may, by any means, be done consistently with the dictates of duty.” Yet the very next day, Washington informed James Madison he had something private he wished to send him, so private that he could not entrust it to “an uncertain conveyance.” This turned out to be a seventy-three-page rambling draft of an inaugural address he would deliver to Congress, should he become president. At first glance, the two letters seem contradictory and perhaps even hypocritical, but in fact they were both honest and heartfelt, if not exactly forthright. Washington did not seek the job and seemed genuinely to wish that “some other person” be elected who could “fully execute all the duties full as satisfactory as myself”; on the other hand, he knew very well that nobody else would be able to unite a divided nation, and uniting the nation was first and foremost among a president’s responsibilities. This was a momentous and pivotal moment. If he shirked his duty now, “some very disagreeable consequences” might ensue. “For the good of my country,” and to receive the respect of his countrymen, which he had always desired and some say craved, he really had no choice.1

  Washington never did deliver that particular address, which in the next century was torn to pieces by Jared Sparks, the noted collector and editor of Washington’s writings, and handed out bit by bit to autograph seekers. Enough shreds have been recovered to give a sense of the work, in which the first president endeavored to exculpate himself from the apparent sin of assuming the office. It would undoubtedly have been the most apologetic inaugural address in history (“From the bottom of my soul, I know, that my motives on no former moment were more innocent than in the present instance”) and perhaps the most philosophical (“If a promised good should terminate in an unexpected evil, it would not be a solitary example of disappointment in this mutable state of existence”).

  The actual speech Washington delivered to Congress on April 30, after his inevitable election and reluctant acquiescence, was much shorter but no less unassuming. He professed his own “deficiencies” in “civil administration,” appealed to “that Almighty Being who rules over the Universe,” and renounced “every pecuniary consideration” for his service. After reminding congressmen that the president was empowered by the Constitution to recommend “such measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient,” he offered a few words of avuncular advice: embrace “no local prejudices, or attachments; no separate views, or party animosities,” and act according to “the pure and immutable principles of private morality.” That was the extent of the direction offered by the first president of the United States—almost. Cleverly, he declined to weigh in explicitly on the most disputed topic of the hour—whether to amend the Constitution—but his manner of doing so left no doubt where he stood. While he assumed Congress would “carefully avoid every alteration which might endanger the benefits of an united and effective Government,” he likewise assumed it would display “a reverence for the characteristic rights of freemen, and a regard for the public harmony” and figure out how such rights and harmony should be “safely and advantageously promoted.” No representative or senator in Federal Hall, the newly renovated home for Congress, could mistake the message: protect the structure of the Constitution, but avoid further discord by ceding to Anti-Federalist demands for a Bill of Rights.2

  This is how Washington hoped to lead, gently and by example. He would take the government and the people by the hand and show them the high moral ground. Together, under his tutelage, the people and their representatives would eschew selfish interests and work toward the good of the whole. “Party animosities” and “local prejudices” constituted the greatest impediment to effective governance, and the overarching goal of the president must be to keep these at bay.

  After Washington delivered his address, the new president and members of Congress repaired to St. Paul’s Chapel to attend “divine service.” The Senate then returned to its chamber and appointed a three-man committee to draft a response to “his most gracious speech,” as Vice President John Adams, presiding over the Senate, called it. Pennsylvania’s prickly Anti-Federalist William Maclay, though, took offense at the honorary words “his most gracious.” They were “the same that are usually placed before the speech of his Britannic Majesty,” he noted; their use by the Senate would “give offense” to the people, who had just endured “a hard struggle for our liberty
against kingly authority.” In his journal, which contains the most detailed extant account of the first Senate, Maclay recounted the sharp debate that ensued between himself and Adams, who saw no reason to object to a practice simply because it had been used by “that Government under which we had lived so long and happily formerly.” Herein lay the source of much tension, which the Federal Convention and the ratification debates had not finally resolved. Would the office of the presidency be entirely removed from monarchical connotations, or was there some merit in the pomp and circumstance that commanded elevated respect and anchored and unified the people of Great Britain?3

  Maclay won that initial symbolic skirmish, and “his most gracious” was stricken from the record, but another such battle, larger and more significant, soon followed. Several senators, supported with zest by the body’s president, John Adams, reasoned that granting the president some lofty title would “add greatly to the weight and authority of the Government both at home and abroad.” Various suggestions were offered: “Excellency” (a title already applied to state governors and to General Washington, when he was commander in chief during the war), “Elective Highness,” and finally “His Highness the President of the United States of America, and Protector of Their Liberties,” a convoluted title embracing both monarchical and republican connotations. Maclay, of course, adamantly rejected any such “high-sounding, pompous appellation,” while Adams argued that calling the chief executive officer simply “President” was demeaning because “there were presidents of fire companies and of a cricket club.” For the better part of several days, May 8 and 9 and again on May 14 and 15, senators sparred, with Adams emerging victorious this time around. Yet “His Highness” was exactly the sort of haughty tone that Anti-Federalists had feared from the upper house of Congress, and with an early application of the Constitution’s checks and balances the House refused to go along with any title beyond “President of the United States of America.” Although the lofty title failed to make it all the way through Congress, the very idea of it exacerbated unhealed wounds. David Stuart, who regularly kept Washington apprised of the political mood in Virginia, informed the president, “Nothing could equal the ferment and disquietude, occasioned by the proposition respecting titles. As it is believed to have originated from Mr. Adams & [Richard Henry] Lee, they are not only unpopular to an extreme, but highly odious. Neither I am convinced, will ever get a vote from this State again.” Further, Senate approval of “His Highness” was construed by Virginia Anti-Federalists as “verification of their prophecies about the tendency of government. Mr. Henry’s description of it, that it squinted toward monarchy, is in every mouth, and has established him in the general opinion, as a true Prophet.”4

  However powerful the office of the president might become, Washington had no official duties during his early months in office. The primary function of the chief executive was to execute the laws, but Congress had yet to pass any legislation. The president was also supposed to appoint judges, but Congress hadn’t created any courts, so there were no judgeships to fill and of course no federal criminals to pardon. The president was empowered to “require the Opinion, in writing, of the principal Officer in each of the executive Departments,” but there were no such departments and hence no such officers. Theoretically, Washington could negotiate a treaty, but he would have to do so without any executive infrastructure and “with the Advice and Consent of the Senate,” whatever that might entail. There were only two powers he could exercise on his own: he could receive ambassadors if some should arrive at his doorstep, and as commander in chief he could issue orders to the 682 federal troops scattered in six western outposts and the arsenals at West Point and Springfield. This was the extent of his discretionary authority.5

  While there was little of substance to command his attention, Washington busied himself with establishing presidential protocol “in all matters of business & etiquette.” Fully appreciating the symbolic importance of his office, he tried to discover the proper balance between “too free an intercourse and too much familiarity” on the one hand and “an ostentatious show” of monarchical detachment on the other. How, and how often, should he make himself accessible to the public, to members of Congress, or to personal friends? Should he participate in “great entertainments” on national holidays, and if so, which ones? Would it be appropriate to tour the country during recesses of Congress? “Many things which appear of little importance in themselves and at the beginning, may have great and durable consequences from their having been established at the commencement of a new general Government,” he believed. Whatever he did would establish a precedent; collectively, these precedents would set the tone of the presidential office and help define the relationship between the people and their government. Washington’s first job as president, then, was to establish what it meant to be a president. He solicited advice from James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, John Adams, John Jay, and Robert R. Livingston, and in the end he developed “a discriminating medium,” as he called it, that suited him well. Yes, he would meet the public, but only at specified times and in appropriate venues. He would be the people’s friend, but he would also “preserve the dignity & respect … due to the first Magistrate.”6

  While Washington established presidential protocol and considered applications for posts that did not yet exist, Congress alone conducted the pressing business of government. First on its agenda was raising money for operations, without which all else would be futile. For over two months it debated a list of import duties, each of which angered some particular constituency. Also, to placate Anti-Federalists, some congressmen wanted to develop a Bill of Rights; if Congress failed to introduce any amendments to the new Constitution, state conventions would likely do so instead, and these might attempt to tinker with the body of the document. Further, it fell to Congress to establish the remainder of the federal edifice. Neither the executive branch (save for the president) nor the judicial branch would even exist until the legislative branch created it. As David Humphreys and Washington stated in their first draft of the inaugural address, Congress was “the first wheel of the government—a wheel which communicates motion to all the rest.”7

  In the process of establishing the various executive departments, Congress hotly debated the balance of power between the legislative and the executive branches, a prominent issue at the Federal Convention and the subject of some controversy during the ratification debates. At issue was the “Advice and Consent” phrase in the second paragraph of Article II, Section 2 of the Constitution. The president was empowered to “nominate” major public officials—these included ambassadors, Supreme Court justices, and “other public Ministers and Consuls,” commonly understood to include the heads of executive departments, but these would not become official appointments until approved by the Senate. This compromise, pushed by the Committee of Eleven near the end of the Federal Convention, failed to resolve a major question: Who, if anyone, held the power of removal? Whoever possessed authority to dismiss an executive officer could effectively control that person’s actions, yet the framers, in a rush to complete their work, had entirely overlooked the issue.

  On June 16, a Tuesday, the House of Representatives took up a committee’s draft for the creation of the Department of Foreign Affairs, to be headed by a secretary of foreign affairs who would be “removable from office by the President of the United States.” This phrase, which followed a list of the secretary’s duties, excited far more interest than the duties themselves, and Alexander White of Virginia moved to strike it out. White and several others explained why. “If the Senate are associated with the President in the appointment, they ought also to be associated in the dismission from office,” they reasoned, and Congress therefore had “no right to deprive the Senate of their constitutional prerogative.” This was not only constitutional law but also sound policy. Senators, with their long terms, were intended to provide stability; they would prevent a president from arbitrarily removing office
rs who were adequately performing their jobs. “A change of the Chief Magistrate, therefore, would not occasion so violent or so general a revolution in the officers of the Government, as might be expected if he were the sole disposer of offices.”

  Some speakers also argued that the Constitution did provide for the dismissal of federal officers: “The President, Vice President, and all civil Officers of the United States, shall be removed from Office on Impeachment for, and Conviction of, Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.” Although this seemed to compete with the notion that the Senate and the president, without the House, would share the power of removal, at least it kept the power out of the hands of the president alone. At first glance, the impeachment argument appeared sound, for “all civil Officers” would certainly include the secretary of foreign affairs and other heads of departments that Congress was about to create, but in fact it carried little weight. The standards for impeachment were strict, while it was easily argued that officers should sometimes be removed for less heinous offenses. Inability to perform a job adequately should be sufficient grounds for removal, although not impeachment. So the question remained: Who, exactly, would remove the heads of executive departments, the president alone or the president with the advice and consent of the Senate?8