Madison and Jefferson

by Nancy Isenberg;Andrew Burstein

  Biography is a tricky thing. Privileging one source over another inevitably alters conclusions. The particular problems among biographers of Madison and Jefferson are those caused by too much license being taken with too little information. As Benjamin Rush said so incisively in 1808, believing in the “great man” theory of history makes as much sense as believing in “witches and conjurors.” The celebratory biographer exists because nostalgia adheres to every generation.

  “L’Amour Propre Blessé”

  There is rarely a single moment in historical research, a smoking gun, that immediately and irreparably changes our knowledge of the past. The Madison-Jefferson relationship is too complex to be understood in that way. No one vignette encapsulates all the political twists and turns as two Virginians—two from the rural central counties of Virginia—sought to influence the domestic balance of power. For most of their careers, Madison and Jefferson were intent on rescuing the people of the United States of America from oppressive government. But they were not heroic. In the prime of their lives they acted out of an attachment to Virginia as much as a desire to defend the Union.

  It was Jefferson’s particular habit to personify his political enemies, to give them a physical form through corporeal metaphors. For him, the “monocrat” Federalist’s ailment had its own unique pathology: it was a feminine disorder, embodied in a “timid” nervous constitution and a parasitic desire to worship the strong. These pseudo-aristocrats were backward in their thinking and out of step with the times, both dysfunctional and doomed. Like the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park, Jefferson’s effete monocrat was a monstrous re-creation, at once a poison introduced into a natural environment and an unnatural entity unable to progress, unable to adapt. “Doctor” Jefferson aimed to create new, healthy cells so that the body would heal completely once the diseased and anachronistic minority died off naturally. Or in the case of African Americans, unloved offspring of the institution of slavery, he preferred to purge the body of them, to expel them altogether, and to replace them by transfusion—new blood in the form of white European peasants or laborers.

  Madison did not ignore personal flaws, such as Patrick Henry’s demagoguery and John Adams’s vanity. But he was less likely to blame policies on inherent defects or psychological failings. He focused instead on social forces, errors in reason, and balances of power that demanded structural solutions. He would reorganize the political dynamics of the national environment through reeducation. This was how, early in his congressional career, he could envision a homeland for former slaves in Sierra Leone or Liberia; for him, a concerted experiment in recolonization and economic uplift stood a better chance of changing white racist attitudes than any other solution he could imagine. Later, growing from his conviction during the Constitutional Convention that the absolute negative made the most sense for an immature political society, he embraced a paternalistic model for the American republic: the invisible hand of educated public opinion. He was perfectly willing to confront enemies who violated the law of nations or constitutional principles—these were Madison’s sacred rules—but he lacked Jefferson’s need for visceral release in the process.

  So Jefferson saw politics as an experimental physician recommending a healthy lifestyle, and Madison saw politics as an accomplished chess master with his steady eye on the moves of the most valued pieces and with the people as so many pawns. Regardless of the metaphor we select, though, theirs was a cutthroat business. Consequently, their often devious political strategizing does not have to diminish the achievements of either Madison or Jefferson. In writing the story of their rise to power, we have tried to shift emphasis from the less tangible (judgments of their private character) to the culture of competition amid a nationwide struggle to define how a republic should constitute itself.

  The most extraordinary misjudgment in the historical record is, of course, the portrayal of the cerebral Madison as the perennial dullard among the founders. While it is true that he was opaque to many observers, he was not unemotional by any stretch of the imagination. Those who saw him up close over time, particularly in the context of political performance, knew that he could become flustered, frazzled, and, every so often, quarrelsome.

  Like his friend from Albemarle, he did not admit wrong easily, and he held grudges. His misgivings toward John Adams and his instinctive mistrust of others serve as only the most obvious examples. In 1802, on returning from his eighteen years in France and the Netherlands, William Short was at Monticello enjoying a reunion with his patron Jefferson in the company of then Secretary of State Madison. They fell into a discussion about French Revolutionary politics. Short straightened Madison out on a matter concerning the personalities in charge at the time of the XYZ Affair and Quasi-War. Madison, who never saw Europe, still believed the French leaders of that time to have been “a quintette of good honest souls”—or so Short reminded Jefferson a decade and a half after the 1802 incident. “I discounted the vision and assured him they were really and bona fide most consummate villains,” the former diplomat said. As Short saw it, “Mad’s idea was to me … so absurd and fell on me so abruptly that I probably betrayed some kind of ridiculing sneer, without intending one. But l’amour propre blessé [wounded self-esteem] seldom forgets and never forgives.” Since then, Madison had never again exhibited any warmth toward Short.7

  Thin skin attaches to portraits of Jefferson in some historical accounts, but never before to Madison. In this context, the Madison-Monroe relationship is a highly interesting one. Beyond their occasionally clashing ambitions, and unprovoked hurt feelings generated by Monroe, Madison may have breathed an air of entitlement in advance of the 1808 election. Madison’s greater intellectual reach did not have to diminish Monroe’s political prospects, but there was clearly a Republican hierarchy as well as an inherited Virginia notion of deference.

  Jefferson felt that Madison should be next in line to succeed. In all likelihood, it was not just Monroe who felt himself subject to a hierarchical classification of political talent that Linnaeus might have understood. Jefferson never considered Monroe ill suited for the office. But while his ambitious protégé must have thought himself ready, Jefferson may simply have considered Monroe not quite ripe—still in training—for the Virginia-bred presidency. This makes sense if we consider that Jefferson described himself as John Adams’s “junior” in rationalizing the denial of the presidency to him in 1796; and it seems probable that Madison stepped aside that year for the same reason, when Jefferson suggested that his younger friend accept a draft and run against Adams. It may not be entirely by coincidence that none of the first five presidents was younger than fifty-seven when he assumed office; and all retired from public life when they were either sixty-five or sixty-six.

  It was not just wounded self-esteem that these political actors were occasionally subject to. Both Madison and Jefferson were men of intensity. They were inner-directed, exacting, and self-demanding. Madison’s early “epileptoid hysteria” (convulsive fits) and frequent “bilious complaints,” and Jefferson’s “periodical headaches” (which ended when his presidency ended) and abdominal upset that worsened with age, all suggest that public life exposed both to such stress as put pressure on the body. When we think of Madison’s humanity or Jefferson’s psychology, such factors as these do matter, though they are less obvious in the historic record.8

  “The Impulse to Unmask”

  As communicators, Madison and Jefferson were both highly effective, despite the obvious difference in their styles. They circulated their ideas eagerly—this was what made them national figures in the first place—and they took care to adhere to principles of rhetoric in order to achieve elegance of thought and presentation. From the time they were children, they were steeped in the spectacle of classical oratory and taught to be clever by reading the Spectator essays of Oxford-educated Joseph Addison and Richard Steele. Written in the 1710s and still read with zeal a century later when Madison heartily recommended them to his young nephew, Spec
tator observed and critiqued the practices of daily life, at once symbolizing refined taste, good humor, and public commitment. Spectator taught young men how to live in society, how to describe pleasure, and how to befriend. We have seen how one Spectator essay on “party-spirit” became the preoccupation of political writers in the 1790s.

  Beyond the power of the partisan press, a variety of texts shaped formal argumentation in the world Madison and Jefferson inhabited: the republic of letters. Madison, though less known for his literary skill, relished the study of eloquence and persuasion. While Jefferson’s pathos was finely balanced, and his rhythmic arrangement of words and phrases was a gift no other political writer of his day could equal, Madison’s control of language was exemplary, which was one of the reasons Jefferson turned over so much of the responsibility for newspaper essay writing to him.

  Jefferson reached for beauty as he expressed his ideals. He enriched his prose with metaphor and hyperbole, none of which really interested his partner. Jefferson’s use of hyperbole both intrigued and annoyed his contemporaries; it makes him endlessly fascinating for us moderns as well. Madison has always been harder to read, and harder to love or hate, because he shunned all extravagance. His blend of eloquence and wisdom was quieter. He had had to compete against the unparalleled eloquence, absent of wisdom, that attached to Patrick Henry. If not eloquent, James Madison became competitive through long deliberation, precision, and application.9

  Jefferson has been so painstakingly analyzed by serious researchers and polemicists alike that it is nearly impossible to address the multiple personalities attributed to him across the generations. Henry Randall set the tone for all Jefferson hagiography in his portrait of the people’s hero, proclaiming: “There was a sympathy between his heart and the great popular heart, which nothing ever did, ever can, shake.” In the early twentieth century Charles Beard associated Jefferson’s political thinking with economic naïveté, an unreasonable fear of banking and government involvement in capitalist development. His Jefferson lacked the prescience to lay the groundwork for modern capitalism, just as today’s Jefferson fails to adopt enlightened ideas about social equality for African Americans, Native Americans, and women. While these criticisms are valid, we must acknowledge that it is easier in hindsight to identify shortcomings in historical figures. What we need to do is to question what caused their blind spots and narrowed their thinking.10

  The Jefferson image remains a contested site for sensitive cultural issues. Each time America reawakens to issues of social justice, more people ask how Jefferson is to be evaluated. As University of Virginia historian Peter Onuf has noted of the most recent generation of scholars and pundits: “Jefferson’s fitness as a national icon has been cast as a question of character … The impulse to unmask Jefferson, to make sense out of his complex career, is a mark of his continuing significance in our public culture.” It seems Jefferson is always on trial.11

  Those who prefer the headstrong John Adams or the unrelenting Alexander Hamilton as solid, no-nonsense characters principally see Thomas Jefferson as an extravagant, unmanly, secretive, insincere being. Other students of the Revolutionary generation see Aaron Burr as a “rogue founder”: a lovable scoundrel or a cold-blooded murderer. And nearly all who have formed any opinion about James Madison have chosen to accept him as a Jeffersonian cipher, all brain, no emotion. We can no longer accept these time-saving devices as legitimate determinations.12

  Generations have combined to make the American founding appear timeless. In this nebulous chronicle, Madison’s personality is frozen at the time of the Constitutional Convention. Since constitution writing is seen as his greatest contribution, everything afterward becomes irrelevant. His growth as a politician is stunted, just as his physical size seems to suggest of him. The shriveled-up figure, Washington Irving’s “Poor Jemmy … a withered little apple-John,” becomes the standard pose for Madison. In metaphysical terms, he is Jefferson’s pale shadow. The dynamic force of Jefferson is the shining sun, while Madison appears cold and desolate, a lonely minor planet. He is frozen in the historical imagination in 1790, at the moment Jefferson reheats.

  A related problem is the historian’s need to label. Must we choose between “Jeffersonian democracy” and “Madisonian democracy”? Must we have one brilliant, commanding mind at the center, one master architect of what was, in fact, a complex political movement?

  In writing a book about a partnership, we have discovered that Madison’s and Jefferson’s contributions to history have an essential equality. We have also weighed their differences and come across significant disagreements. More purposefully, perhaps, we have encompassed the larger cast of characters who mattered to the course of human events. When Americans look for their favorite founders and judge them based on personality, they lose sight of the real dynamic of history: relationships of power.

  In these pages, Madison and Jefferson exist as political thinkers and tacticians rather than as symbols. Jefferson strikes us as an exacting natural philosopher who, though he dreamed incessantly, simultaneously cultivated a stern moralism that yielded a binary outlook on many subjects. Yet he was not a purist. Purists reject history. Jefferson’s celebrated appeal to “harmony and affection” in his first inaugural address reflected his desire to forge a history in common. Similarly, his desire to reform Virginia’s laws shows that he believed it was possible to engineer change over time.

  He was invested in the cause of education, and in encouraging freedom of conscience. But what makes the freethinking “Father of the University of Virginia” less admirable is his capacity for loathing. Jefferson’s primal fear of regal government conditioned much of his partisanship. He was afraid, perhaps rightly so, of the marriage of money power and the secret management of government. But the lengths to which he took his fears resulted in his applying a political litmus test of a most rigid kind. Purging the Supreme Court of Federalists is extreme (and unrepublican) behavior.

  On the other hand, at the most charged moment of partisan contention in mid-1798, he told arch-Republican John Taylor of Caroline that New England Federalism actually kept the southern states from fighting among themselves. In Jefferson’s view, political society naturally led to passionate bickering: “Seeing that we must have somebody to quarrel with, I had rather keep our New-England associates for that purpose.” Later in the same paragraph, he adopted an aphoristic tone: “If the game runs sometimes against us at home, we must have patience, till luck turns.” This statement suggests that while he was preoccupied with the need to defang and declaw the enemy, he also gave ample evidence of a philosophical fortitude. It is a curious combination: Jefferson understood the psychology of needing an enemy and he was able to rhetorically heighten or de-emphasize the threat almost at will.13

  Thomas Jefferson’s master plan thought small and remained provincial: every man the master of his own domain, every understood right protected. He visualized an American future that acknowledged regional differences and did not threaten his Virginia pastorale. As long as the federal government was relatively weak, his people could expand west without restrictions, and Virginia would remain strong. Madison was different. He never tried to create an ideal environment. Though he supported Virginia’s political interests every step of the way during his long career, he felt less impelled to protect Virginia as a “culture” distinct from others. He came to believe that national unity relied on circulating information, and he wanted to develop an infrastructure that allowed for more exchange of news and culture. Whereas Jefferson wanted to establish boundaries, fearing contamination, Madison resisted isolationist tendencies. In several different instances, he spoke in favor of establishing a national university, hoping for opportunities to create and sustain public opinion nationwide.

  “Which Do You Prefer?”

  In 1789–90, when Jefferson was first back from France, Hamilton still felt that Madison and he envisioned a similar role for the federal government. Could Madison and Jefferson have ma
de a more concerted effort to work with Hamilton? Probably they could have, though only in a limited way.

  The “Hamilton problem” remains fascinating. Jefferson’s strong antipathy to him is understandable. Hamilton had a lifelong habit of spreading vicious gossip (something Jefferson did too, though less uncontrollably). It was Jefferson’s opinion that Hamilton sucked all the air out of the room when the Washington cabinet met; he had a pile of ideas and plans ready for implementation that undercut everything Jefferson believed in.

  But what does it tell us about George Washington that, as president, he allowed his senior minister to feed his fear of declining popularity? The historian of the Revolution John Ferling points to Hamilton’s deviousness from as early as the Newburgh Conspiracy episode in 1783, when the young officer helped promote a protest among the officer corps only to control its outcome. Hamilton essentially played Iago to General Horatio Gates’s Othello, prompting Gates to place himself on the wrong side of history when the ostensible threat to civilian authority was removed. Ferling concludes that Washington, no innocent himself, was aware of Hamilton’s handiwork and overlooked his aide’s willingness to sacrifice the army’s interest to serve personal ends.

  Washington was a clever politician; as such, he probably caught on to Hamilton’s repressed dislike of him. The “First of Men” may not have minded Hamilton’s envy of the general’s (later, president’s) power, just as he did not mind Hamilton’s arrogance. So long as the aide did his work effectively and shielded his hypersensitive commander by bottling up all potential political competition among the general officers, Washington was happy. Theirs was a relationship built on expedience. They used each other equally.14