by Ron Carter
Washington looked about. “Any debate?”
There was none.
“Is there a second?”
Another delegate spoke up. “Seconded.”
“All in favor say yea.”
The response was firm, loud.
“All against say nay.”
No one spoke.
“Motion carried. The rule is stricken. Any other debate?”
Richard Dobbs Spaight of North Carolina rose. “Permission to speak.”
“Granted.”
Spaight spoke with conviction. “I propose a rule to provide that, on the one hand, the house may not be precluded by a vote upon any question from revising the subject matter of it, when they see cause; nor, on the other hand, be led too hastily to rescind a decision which was the result of mature discussion.”
Thoughtful men fell silent as they considered. Spaight’s proposal provided a way to go back and change a prior vote if it became obvious that it was wrong. And in this business of inventing a government, one thing was imminently clear. What they decided today could be a stumbling block tomorrow. If they lacked the power to correct their own prior mistakes, only mischief could result.
Heads nodded vigorously. Washington went on.
“Any debate?”
The silence held.
“Very well. The committee will reduce the proposed rule to writing for a vote tomorrow.”
Again Washington looked about. “Is there further debate?”
There was none.
“All in favor of the rules offered by the committee, as amended, say yea.”
The yeas were unanimous.
“All against say nay.”
There were no nays.
“The rules are approved and are binding upon this convention.”
Washington referred to the paper on his desk. “Are there any other motions at this time?”
There were none.
“Are there any other matters of business to come before us at this time?”
Pierce Butler of South Carolina rose. “Permission to speak.”
“Granted.”
Tending to be rash, outspoken on occasion, Butler was nevertheless a man of judgment and value, both to his state and the convention. He wasted no time.
“I am sure we are all aware that this fair city enjoys the blessing of ten separate newspapers, each one committed to delivering news superior to the other nine. I shared with many of you all ten special editions that were published Saturday last and was staggered to learn of the profound and magnificent strides we made last Friday. My recollection is that we elected our President, his Excellency George Washington, our secretary, and appointed a committee to draft our rules, and adjourned. The entire proceeding lasted but a few minutes. Yet, I was sorely taxed to match the glorious and glowing account in the newspapers with the facts as I know them.”
He paused, and there were chuckles and nods throughout the chamber. He sobered, the hall quieted, and he went on.
“These newspapers reach far and wide in this land, very quickly. Our constituents in our various states will hear of these proceedings within a few days of the event. And, given the nature of the human race, it is clear to me we will be subjected to an onslaught of opinion and pressure from our own people that can only be destructive of our aims here.”
Again he paused, shifted his feet, and there was the sound of others moving in their chairs. The hall quieted, and he went on.
“I therefore suggest there would be great wisdom in guarding against licentious publications of these proceedings. Should our debate become grist for the newspapers, this convention can, and likely will, quickly reduce to a battlefield of regional opinion that will end in disaster. The proceedings within these walls ought to remain here until we are finished.”
Butler stopped, waiting for a response.
For several moments no one spoke. Few had considered what the newspapers could do to such a convention. Fewer still had reckoned that if the newspapers had the power to wreck it, it was only a matter of time until one tried. And almost none of them had thought to the bottom of it. If one newspaper tried, the dark side of human nature would pounce on it. The circulation of that newspaper would skyrocket, the other nine would follow to protect their share of the market, and every great and noble hope for success in the convention would be forever buried and lost in an avalanche of perverted sensationalism.
Washington broke the silence. “Very well. The committee will prepare a written motion for consideration tomorrow.”
Butler answered, “Very well, sir,” and sat down.
“Is there other business?”
The secretary, William Jackson stood with a document in his hand. “Yes, sir. I have a letter received this date from various leading citizens in the state of Rhode Island.”
Rhode Island! The state that had made such a study of obstinacy, nonconformance, and disruption that newspapers had begun to call it “Rogue Island.” The Articles of Confederation that bound the thirteen states together required that all thirteen states must concur in matters affecting the United States at large. No one could remember how many times Rhode Island had used that as a weapon to single-handedly wreck what the other twelve states proposed. For reasons that left wise men shaking their heads in absolute wonder, Rhode Island had for years steadfastly used that veto power to deny the United States what was desperately needed in commerce, trade, paper money, tariffs, border disputes, and international trade. Worse, it had never paid its share of the costs of the war. The ultimate insult came when Rhode Island refused to send delegates to the Grand Convention and made it clear they did not intend to.
Rhode Island? Instantly muffled laughter could be heard. Only Washington’s icy stare silenced it. Jackson went on.
“If I may summarize, the letter states that the citizens deplore the failure of Rhode Island to send delegates to the Convention, owing to a nonconcurrence of the upper and the lower houses of their legislature. They believe that the well-informed through their state are in favor of giving Congress full power over commerce, and they sincerely hope that the absence of Rhode Island will not result in action unfavorable to the commercial interests of that state. They request that this convention make such provisions as have a tendency to strengthen the Union, promote commerce, increase the power, and establish the credit of the United States.”
Jackson pursed his mouth, thumped the paper onto his desk, and looked up at Washington.
Washington looked down at him. “The letter shall be placed on file.”
Jackson bobbed his head. “Yes, sir.” He took his seat.
Murmuring was heard on the floor, and then it subsided.
Once again Washington scanned the delegates. “Is there any other business to be brought before us at this time?”
The delegates looked at each other, shaking their heads.
“We stand adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
All stood and held their places while Washington left the dais and walked from the room. It was only then that the others began gathering their papers, and open talk flowed as they made their way out while Madison remained at his desk, writing rapidly to complete his notes of the proceedings of the day. Others glanced at him, hunched forward, quill scratching furiously, and they began to realize the little man with the soft voice had voluntarily taken upon himself the gargantuan task of creating a record that was detailed, inclusive, and objective to a fault. It occurred to a few that such a record, if made public when their work was finished, could prove to be an embarrassment to some, a great compliment to others, depending on their conduct.
Finished writing, Madison laid down his quill, capped the ink bottle, gathered his papers, and drew his watch from his pocket. It was three minutes past 2:00 p.m. He thrust the watch back into its place, tucked his case beneath his arm, and walked out.
Matthew was waiting, and Madison stopped in the hall as Matthew spoke.
“I take it the rules were approved.
”
“A few modifications. Nothing significant. Walk with me.”
They moved down the hall side by side, Matthew looking down, Madison looking up as they talked.
“Anything else of significance that I may know?” Matthew inquired.
Madison pondered for a moment. “Yes. It appears we’ll be able to reconsider a vote if we later see it was wrong. Sounds trivial, but in this business it could be critical.”
“Who proposed it?”
“Mr. Spaight. North Carolina.”
They pushed through the front doors out into the uncommon beauty of a late spring day and turned toward Madison’s boardinghouse.
“Anything else?”
Madison smiled. “We filed a letter from Rhode Island.”
Matthew exclaimed, “Rhode Island? They wrote a letter?”
“Yes. Some good citizens voiced their strong disapproval of their legislature. Wanted us to know they hoped we would solve all their problems with commerce, tariffs, credit, and the rest of the civilized world.”
Matthew chuckled out loud. “Would it be a big surprise to anyone if this convention excluded that state from the Union?”
Madison grinned at him. “Only to Rhode Island.”
“Anything else of significance?”
Madison slowed and stopped, organizing his thoughts, making a decision. He looked at Matthew.
“Yes. It was proposed we keep the newspapers and the public out of this. Newspapers being what they are, and human nature being what it is, that combination could stop this convention permanently.”
Madison stared into Matthew’s eyes, waiting for him to grasp the portent of the thought. For five seconds Matthew struggled before the light of understanding burst in his mind.
“Wait a moment. Keep the newspapers out? What of the rest of us who have an interest in this? A deep interest. If you keep the newspapers out, you’ll have to keep us out, too. Who proposed this?”
“Mr. Pierce Butler. South Carolina.” Madison slowly shook his head. “He’s right. Newspapers live on sensationalism. This convention must live on hard, cold realism. Our debate must be honest, straightforward, uninhibited, the best we have in us. We must be free to admit our errors, change our position, and move on. That will not happen if the newspapers and the public are given free access because none of us will be willing to appear foolish. We cannot be compromised, diverted, by public reaction or the slanted views of the newspapers or the public gadflies who feast on such things. Sensationalism and hardheaded reality do not mix well, and given a choice, most people prefer the sensational. That gives the newspapers and the nabobs the power to enflame the public in any direction they choose, and once that starts, it is only a matter of time until all we say, all we do, will be lost in a country divided against itself. I despise it, but Mr. Butler is right. We have to protect this convention. The newspapers and the public will be excluded.”
Matthew persisted. “And the rest of us?”
For a moment Madison dropped his eyes. “It appears you will be unintended casualties along with them.”
Matthew groaned and his head rolled back for a moment. “When will we know?”
“Tomorrow. Mr. Butler will present a written motion. There will be a vote.”
“What is your prediction?”
“It will pass.”
Madison saw the bitter disappointment in Matthew, and placed a hand on Matthew’s arm. “Can you see the wisdom in it?”
“Yes. In part. But I’m conflicted. I see the need for it, but I also see the need for the people to know. To deliberate. Decide.”
“So do we. But weigh them in the scales of wisdom. There is no question which is the greater need.”
Matthew drew a great breath. “Well, it’s useless to fret. The convention was called to handle such matters, and all we can do is trust you men. We’ll know soon enough.”
Madison stepped back. “I have to go now—an appointment.”
“I will see you in the morning.”
Matthew walked steadily back to the boardinghouse, struggling with his thoughts and the anguish following Madison’s advice of excluding the proceedings from public scrutiny. He was hanging his tricorn in the cloak room when Mother Asher appeared in the archway to the kitchen.
“Mr. Bouchard left today.” She drew a small sealed letter from her apron pocket. “He left this for you.”
She saw the surprise in Matthew’s face as he accepted it. He thanked her and climbed the stairs to his room. He dropped the letter on his table, sat down, and for a time stared out the window, going over again and again the report from Madison.
Close the convention to the public? My purpose in being here—gone. What can be done about it? Nothing. Nothing.
He picked up the letter, broke the seal, and spread it on the table. The penmanship was crude, and the few lines were brief.
28th May ’87
Philadelphia
Dear Sir:
I am a cobbler and unskilled in writing. I will see my daughter and her husband, and my grandchildren, soon. Then I will return to Reading. I do not believe anyone ever gave me such a gift. I will remember you. God bless you.
Y’r obd’t servant,
Ira Bouchard
Matthew read the lines again, then raised his head to peer out the window. He was seeing ten thousand more Ira Bouchards who had answered the call and offered their all for their country. Then he was seeing the East Room of the Statehouse, where twenty-nine men had met twelve hours earlier to begin the impossible process of creating a new nation to be certain the Ira Bouchards had not fought in vain.
Notes
Philadelphia had ten newspapers during the time portrayed, one of which was the Herald. Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, p. 26; Warren, The Making of the Constitution, p. 123.
Benjamin Franklin’s arrival at the Grand Convention on Monday morning, May 28, 1787, was sensational, since he arrived in a sedan chair as described. Though a familiar form of conveyance in other lands, sedan chairs were unknown in America prior to that time. Moyers, Report from Philadelphia, page dated Monday, May 28, 1787.
The commencement of the Grand Convention with its setting, participants, the order of business, and conclusions reached are accurately portrayed, including the tenor of the letter sent by certain citizens of Rhode Island, which because of its prior obstinacy had for years been cynically referred to by many as “Rogue Island.”
A motion was made to close the Grand Convention to everyone except the delegates, in the fear newspaper reports would politicize the proceedings beyond hope. The motion passed and later proved to be the salvation of the entire effort. Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 132–33, 166–68; Warren, The Making of the Constitution, pp. 130–31; Moyers, Report from Philadelphia, page dated May 28, 1787; Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? pp. 154–55.
Philadelphia
May 29, 1787
CHAPTER IX
* * *
The convention will come to order.”
Half a dozen delegates checked their pocket watches. It was exactly 10:00 a.m., and President George Washington was standing behind his desk. All talk ceased, and each man took his seat.
“Mr. Secretary, do we have a quorum present?”
“Yes, sir. We do.”
Washington looked at Spaight. “Mr. Spaight, I believe you have a motion.”
Spaight stood. “Yes, sir, I do.” He raised a document, scanned it for a moment, then read slowly.
“I propose that a motion to reconsider a matter that has been determined by a majority, may be made with leave unanimously given, on the same day on which the vote passed; but otherwise not without one day’s previous notice, in which last case, if the House agree to the reconsideration, some future day shall be assigned for that purpose.”
He stopped, and for several seconds silence held as each man considered the language.
Then Washington asked. “Second?”
Several spoke simultaneou
sly to second the motion.
Washington continued. “Debate?”
There was none, and the vote was unanimous.
Washington next turned to George Mason, a fellow Virginian. “Sir, do you have a motion prepared?”
Chancellor George Mason rose to represent the three-man committee on rules. Sixty-one years of age, he entered life in the noted Mason family of plantation owners. He had attended William and Mary College, studied law with Stephen Dewey, was admitted to the Virginia Bar in 1746, served in the Virginia House of Burgesses and the Second Continental Congress and later as judge of the court of chancery and member of the elite committee composed of Thomas Jefferson and George Mason, among others, to revise and codify the laws of the state of Virginia. He made a profound impression with his dedication and had earned the title “Mason the Just.”
“I do.” Mason read carefully. “I propose a motion that no copy be taken of any entry on the journal during the sitting of the house without leave of the house; that members only be permitted to inspect the journal; that nothing spoken in the house be printed or otherwise published or communicated without leave.”
Dead silence seized the room for a full five seconds.
“Is the motion seconded?”
Several voices raised to second the motion.
“Debate?”
Men looked about, but none spoke. The startling proposal made by Butler in the previous session, had been debated overnight by nearly every man present, in their boardinghouses, or the Indian Queen, and each understood that it must pass, or the convention would almost certainly become a hopeless tangle of bitterness. George Mason had thoughtfully reduced it to the written proposal that was now before the delegates.
“There being no debate, all in favor say yea.”
The vote was unanimous.
Washington spoke in measured words. “The motion passes and is now binding on every man who attends this convention. It is to be enforced without exception. Nothing written or spoken in this chamber between this time and the adjournment sine die shall leave this room. Nothing in your letters to business associates, your families, nothing in the journals you keep outside this room. I trust each of you understands that by taking your oath as a delegate, you have also taken your oath to the secrecy required by this rule, which is effective as of this minute.”
