The Great Divide

by Thomas Fleming

  Many nobles and recently resigned government ministers fled Paris. One of them, seventy-four-year-old Joseph Foulon, took refuge with a friend in the country. Hatred for aristocrats was swirling through Paris, and Foulon was among the most detested. He had held many posts in the royal government, most recently the controller general of finances. In a government constantly short of funds, he functioned as a sort of abominable no man in his losing struggle to balance France’s books. Vicious stories about him circulated ominously: he supposedly had said, during a famine many years earlier, “If those rascals have no bread, let them eat hay.” This was obviously a fiction, in the same category as Queen Marie Antoinette’s purported later advice to the poor: “Let them eat cake.”

  Seized by peasants on his friend’s estate, Foulon was transported back to Paris and made to walk barefoot through the streets to the Hotel de Ville. Someone strapped a bundle of hay on his back, and when he begged for water, his captors gave him peppered vinegar. Lafayette and members of his National Guard tried to rescue him, but the mob fought them off and hanged their battered captive. When the rope broke, they decapitated him and paraded his head through the streets with hay jutting from his mouth. His son-in-law, Berthier de Sauvigny, who had served as Intendant [finance minister] of Paris, met a similar fate a few days later.

  Jefferson knew neither of these men personally. He reported their deaths to his favorite correspondent, James Madison, without the slightest trace of pity. He saw their fates as further evidence of the decline and fall of the aristocracy, a word that had long stirred his deepest antipathy, when he was in an ideological mood. At other times, he freely admitted many aristocrats were decent men like the Marquis de Lafayette.

  For the next two months, Paris was relatively quiet. In Versailles, the National Assembly began debating what to put in a constitution. In the provinces, there was evidence of growing unrest, and foreign governments were making ominous noises on France’s borders. But Jefferson still felt enormously optimistic. For the man who loved to legislate, the situation seemed ideal. There were no legal obstacles left on the path to a satisfying revolutionary outcome: a constitutional monarchy.

  The King would become the humble servant of the legislature while French citizens of all descriptions would win a galaxy of human rights, from trial by jury to the vote. Jefferson summed up his feelings and hopes to one of his French correspondents in memorable words: “I have so much confidence in the good sense of man, and his qualifications for self-government, that I am never afraid of the issue where reason is left free to exert her force, and I will agree to be stoned as a false prophet if all does not end well in this country. Nor will it end with this country. Here is but the first chapter in the history of European Liberty.”11

  What was happening to the American envoy? He was having a conversion experience. With no traditional religious faith to balance his intellect and emotions, politics had become Thomas Jefferson’s religion. The cause of liberty, sustained by his belief in the essential goodness of human beings, became his chief article of belief. Few people, above all Jefferson himself, have understood his experience this way. Viewed from the distance of two centuries, it was a turning point in American history.

  Across the English channel, another student of politics was watching the events in Paris. Edmund Burke had been hailed in America in 1775 when he gave a sensational speech in Parliament, calling on England to grant Americans their rights before it was too late. He had been equally enthusiastic about the French Revolution at first. But now he was growing dubious. Not long after Jefferson expressed his soaring confidence to his French correspondent, Burke wrote a letter to a British friend who had expressed similar optimism.

  “That they can settle their constitution, without much struggle, on paper, I can easily believe: because at present the interests of the Crown have no party, certainly no armed party, to support them; but I…very much question…whether they are possessed of any…capacity for the exercise of free judgment…There is a mob of their constituents ready to hang them if they should deviate into moderation…”

  Throughout this turbulent summer in Paris, Jefferson’s emotions were complicated by a growing desire to go home. In the spring, he had written to John Adams that if he stayed much longer, Europe would begin to feel like a prison to him. He may have been influenced by Adams’s decision to go back to America in 1788. A new government was taking charge of the United States, and both men wanted to participate in it.

  For Jefferson, the impulse was shadowed by his unhappy experience as governor of Virginia. He concealed his ambivalence by asking for a five-month leave of absence from Paris, to put his American affairs in order. In September, he was delighted to receive a letter from Foreign Secretary John Jay, approving this plan. This would give him time to observe the American scene and decide whether he approved the new Constitution and the government it had created.

  With his departure scheduled for early October, Jefferson began thinking large thoughts about the meaning of the revolutionary upheaval in France. More and more, he focused on an epochal idea that was swirling through Paris. On September 6, 1789, in one of the longest and most important letters of his life, he described it to James Madison. He told his ex-councillor that the central idea was larger than the turbulent scenes he was watching in the streets around his residence. Jefferson had begun to think it justified all revolutions and might be useful to the new government in America.

  “The question whether one generation of men has a right to bind another seems never to have been stated on this or our side of the water. Yet it is…of such consequence as … to merit… place…among the fundamental principles of every government.”

  What was this huge idea? The earth belongs to the living. Jefferson declared the principle was self-evident: no man has power or right over his money or property after his death. It “ceases to be his when himself ceases to be, and reverts to the society.” Debts contracted by the dead person should also be cancelled.

  Jefferson proceeded to apply this principle to generations. He had studied mortality statistics and concluded that every nineteen years, a new generation took charge of the affairs of a nation. Why should they be obliged to repay the debts of the previous generation? They were also under no obligation to obey the laws that the previous generation may have passed in a legislature or enshrined in a constitution. “Every constitution…and every law, naturally expires at the end of nineteen years. If it be enforced longer, it is an act of force and not of right.” The only true test of a government was its support by the will of the majority of the current generation.

  Jefferson thought this principle was especially relevant to the situation in France. After hundreds of years, the nation was burdened by huge amounts of land given to the Catholic Church, to hospitals, colleges, and orders of chivalry. Then there were monopolies on commerce, given to or acquired by various groups. One group, “the Farmers General,” alone had the right to import tobacco. The legislature should feel free to abolish or alter all these obligations, with the understanding that the next generation might disagree and restore some of them. “The legislature of the day could authorize…appropriations and establishments for their own time, but no longer.”12

  Jefferson urged Madison to “turn this subject in your mind…particularly as to the power of contracting debts, and develope (sic) it with the perspicuity and cogent logic so peculiarly yours.” The envoy thought it might be very relevant to “the councils of our country.” He knew by this time that Madison was in the new Congress, at work on creating the inner structure of the American government.

  Reading over this explosive letter, Jefferson decided not to entrust it to the mails. By the time he finished writing it, he was only two weeks away from boarding a ship and returning to the United States after an absence of five years. He decided to tuck it into his luggage and give it to Madison personally when they met in Virginia.

  The letter made one thing very clear. Emotionally and psycholo
gically, Thomas Jefferson was not a friend of this new government that George Washington, James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, and a host of other Americans had labored so hard to create. The idea of a perpetually renewable or readily transformed constitution made a mockery of Madison’s letter to Alexander Hamilton, telling him that New York state had to accept the Constitution irrevocably, with no reservations or claims to a right to abandon it if it did not suit them.

  Jefferson’s tentative and speculative tone, and the request for Madison’s help in developing this idea, made it equally clear that the ambassador was not coming home to challenge the new government. He saw himself as a possible participant in its development. But it would slowly become apparent that Thomas Jefferson was determined to make sure this development met the approval of a man who had become a passionate believer in the world-transforming importance of the French Revolution.

  CHAPTER 6

  The President Takes Charge

  THUS FAR, PRESIDENT WASHINGTON had played a largely behind-the-scenes role. Judging him on his first six months in office, one might be tempted to agree with the authors of a recent book that declared: “When he assumed the presidency, Washington intended to preside, not to command or demand.” On the contrary, the man who lived dangerously, the general who commanded an army in a seesaw eight-year war, did not “assume” the presidency to be a figurehead.1

  As a general, he had written bold letters to the frequently feckless Continental Congress, informing them, among other things, to stop relying on patriotism to win “a long and bloody war.” As president, he was determined to assert similar leadership to define this new office. When Charles Thomson, the secretary of Congress under the Articles of Confederation, arrived at Mount Vernon to inform Washington that he had been elected president, he replied: “I wish that there may not be reason for regretting the choice, for, indeed, all I can promise is to accomplish that which can be done by honest zeal.”2

  The choice of words is significant. Zeal was not the attribute of a presider. The word emanates energy, decision, action. Zeal is what a man brings to a challenge that has to be confronted and resolved. This was Washington’s view of the presidency’s importance. Congress needed a decisive leader to preserve the unity of a continental-sized nation, already stretching fifteen hundred miles along the Atlantic seaboard, and rapidly expanding westward. The presidency was the essential ingredient in this new federal vision.3

  At the same time, Washington understood that making a new political system acceptable to four million often skeptical, contentious Americans required a combination of leadership and patience. He did not expect harmony to be achieved overnight, or even in a year.

  Washington was convinced that it was important to make the president a visible presence to as many citizens as possible. In New York, he held both formal levees and informal receptions to emphasize that the president was both a figure of authority and a down-to-earth man, ready to exchange jokes and chat about the news of the day. He supplemented this hospitality by occasionally strolling the streets of New York, greeting and being greeted by average citizens. Vice President John Adams, still obsessed with the need to create an aura of importance, was, someone wryly observed, “never seen but in his carriage and six.”4

  During one of these strolls on the street known as “the Broadway,” Washington encountered a Scottish maid escorting a young boy. “Please your honor,” she said. “Here’s a bairn named after you.” The President patted six-year-old Washington Irving on the head, instantly creating a legend in the young man’s family. Decades later, Irving’s three-volume biography would be considered the best account yet written about the complex man who was almost reflexively called the father of his country.5

  The President’s concern about connecting with the public was rooted in one of the primary lessons he had learned as a general. Summer and winter, for eight long and often discouraging years, he had shared camp life with the Continental Army’s officers and men. Not once did he retreat to Mount Vernon or move into some similar mansion in New Jersey or Pennsylvania for winter quarters. He refused to leave discipline and morale problems to be solved by lower ranking officers.

  Staying in close proximity to his troops had resulted in a steady accumulation of loyalty and respect. This was the experience President Washington hoped to duplicate in the fall of 1789 when he told James Madison of his plans to make a tour of New England. On October 15, he rumbled out of New York in his coach, accompanied by six servants and two aides, Major William Jackson and Tobias Lear.

  South Carolinian Jackson had distinguished himself as a fighting soldier during the Revolution and served as Washington’s aide-de-camp in the closing years of the war. He later proved himself a capable assistant as secretary of the Constitutional Convention. Tobias Lear was a genial New Hampshireman who became Washington’s personal secretary in 1784 and would remain indispensable for the next sixteen years. Both men had the candor and self-confidence that Washington valued in his assistants.

  The President had invited Vice President John Adams to join them. Again displaying his almost total lack of political instincts, “Honest John” had curtly declined the invitation. He found it difficult and frequently impossible to restrain his envy of Washington’s fame. This flaw would eventually erode his effectiveness as a federal leader.

  The purpose of the trip, as Washington explained it in his diary, was to “sample the temper and disposition of the inhabitants toward the new government.” He also felt he was entitled to a vacation. He had dealt successfully with Congress and survived a painful illness, a tumor on his thigh that had greatly alarmed his doctors and his wife, Martha. That estimable lady, having devoted a great deal of time to supervising weekly presidential dinners and receptions, had decided to stay in New York and enjoy the company of her two grandchildren, ten-year-old Nelly and eight-year-old George Washington Parke Custis, usually called “Washy.”

  Martha foresaw that her husband’s tour would involve numerous official dinners and parades and speeches that she had little or no desire to endure. The President, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy these ceremonies, which were numerous as they progressed toward Boston. When they approached a town, Washington usually mounted a favorite white charger who spent most of his time trotting behind the baggage wagon that accompanied them. The President was often called the finest horseman of his era. His confident mastery of his steed made a strong impression on the crowds that swarmed to see him.6

  Any man would have found it hard to dislike the compliments that were showered on the nation’s leader. He was regularly called “Columbia’s favorite son” and “the man who unites all hearts.” Washington regarded these effusions as tributes to the presidency. He also saw the value of a Virginian winning this affection and admiration from New Englanders. Too often, the Yankees had manifested a sense of moral superiority to the rest of the nation, at times bordering on alienation.

  Washington’s diary revealed his interest in the physical condition of the country. He noted the quality of the roads (mostly bad) and the inns (mostly mediocre). He jotted down sites where a canal or an improved road would be valuable. He was especially interested in seeing examples of American manufacturing. Already, the energetic New Englanders were in the textile business. In Hartford, he explored a woolen mill and demonstrated his approval of their product by buying a dark blue suit for himself and breeches for his servants.

  The President’s Virginia eye noted the differences between this society and the Old Dominion. He told his diary there was a remarkable prevalence of small farms, few larger than one hundred acres, a striking contrast to the master of Mount Vernon’s three thousand acres, and the equally large domains of his Potomac neighbors. Also absent in the crowds that greeted him were well-dressed gentlemen. But there was also no sign of the ragged poverty that marked poor whites in the South. The “great equality” of the people, especially in western Massachusetts, surprised and pleased the President.

  Boston was
by far the most important stop on the President’s itinerary. Frequently called the capital of both New England and Massachusetts, the city was aware that they had never thanked General Washington for liberating them from a humiliating British occupation in 1775–76. They looked forward with great excitement to his arrival. John Hancock was still the governor of the state. The lieutenant governor was Samuel Adams, who did most, if not all, of Hancock’s thinking for him.

  While the President was still on the road, he received an invitation to stay at Hancock’s mansion. Washington explained that he had made it a rule not to visit any private homes on his trip, lest it arouse an unpleasant competition among would-be hosts. But he politely informed the governor that he would be happy to dine with him, when Mr. Hancock called on him at his inn.

  That casual remark was weighted with political significance, Washington was telling the Governor that the presidency was the preeminent office and Hancock must make the first call. The President had not forgotten that Hancock and Adams had expressed severe doubts about the Constitution in their state’s ratifying convention in 1788. Washington undoubtedly also knew that in 1775, several delegates to the Continental Congress had noted the chagrin visible on Mr. Hancock’s face when John Adams nominated Colonel Washington to head the Continental Army. Hancock’s military experience was close to zero, but he was the wealthiest man in Boston—a fact he apparently thought entitled him to consideration for the post.

  As Washington was settling into his quarters on the upper floor of a Boston tavern, a note arrived from Governor Hancock, explaining he was much too crippled by an attack of gout to venture from his house. Back went a note from the President, expressing his sympathy and informing the governor that he would dine at his “lodgings” that evening with Vice President Adams.