Mr. President

by Ray Raphael

  Hamilton’s governour would possess the absolute negative over all laws passed by the legislature, a power that had been resoundingly rejected two weeks earlier by a vote of ten states to none. He would also possess powers not specified under the Virginia Plan:

  to have the direction of war when authorized or begun; to have with the advice and approbation of the Senate the power of making all treaties; to have the sole appointment of the heads or chief officers of the departments of Finance, War and Foreign Affairs; to have the nomination of all other officers (ambassadors to foreign nations included) subject to the approbation or rejection of the Senate; to have the power of pardoning all offences except treason; which he shall not pardon without the approbation of the Senate.

  Senators, who also served for life, were the only check on the governour. They had the “sole power of declaring war,” and their consent was required for treaties and all appointments not allocated specifically to the governour. Hamilton gave no special powers to the lower house, undeniably the stepchild in his plan.

  Hamilton’s extreme concentration of power at the top was not the only shocking feature of his scheme. While other delegates were arguing over what role to reserve for the states, Hamilton stripped the states of any vestige of power. The national government, not the people of Virginia or Massachusetts or New York, would select the “Governour or president” of each state. This, he said, would help ensure state compliance with national laws, and just in case that failed, all state acts conflicting with national ones were automatically declared “utterly void.” Equally heretical, by the standards of Revolutionary-era Americans, was the placement of state militias “under the sole and exclusive direction of the United States.” At the time, simply calling up state militias to meet a national emergency remained controversial. For a powerful central government to commission all officers and take over militias entirely would produce outrage, if revealed to public view.

  How did delegates receive Hamilton’s plan?

  Nobody spoke when he at long last finished his speech—perhaps because they were stunned, and certainly because Hamilton had worn them out. They were done for the day.

  The following morning, June 19, a Tuesday, delegates said nothing of Hamilton’s plan. It was Paterson’s they discussed and Randolph’s, which they reprinted, as revised thus far, so they might compare the two. James Wilson did make one oblique reference to Hamilton’s dismissal of the states, causing Hamilton to respond that he “had not been understood yesterday.” Virginia and Massachusetts would remain as “subordinate jurisdictions,” he explained, but “as States, he thought they ought to be abolished.”

  In truth, other delegates had understood him perfectly well, and they also understood that following his lead would not only doom their entire undertaking but also end their political careers. Not surprisingly, they continued to disregard Hamilton and his ideas. At day’s end, they reaffirmed their commitment to Randolph over Paterson by seven states to three, with one divided.

  Although Hamilton’s plan was not addressed, it did produce a potent backlash. On Wednesday, Oliver Ellsworth of Connecticut moved that the term “national government” in the opening resolution of the Randolph plan be changed to the more neutral “government of the United States.” The motion passed by unanimous vote. Three weeks earlier, Gouverneur Morris had engineered a nationalist revolution within chambers; now, after seeing how far one man at least would take the concept of “national,” the delegates, running scared, backed off. George Mason followed the vote on Ellsworth’s motion with a diatribe against national usurpations, stating “he would never agree to abolish the State Governments or render them absolutely insignificant.” Maryland’s Luther Martin followed in kind, and Roger Sherman piled on.

  On Thursday, June 21, three days after Hamilton’s speech, William Samuel Johnson of Connecticut, in his opening remarks about the fundamental differences between the New Jersey and the Virginia Plans, included this passing comment: “A gentleman from New-York, with boldness and decision, proposed a system totally different from both; and though he has been praised by every body, he has been supported by none.” (Yates’s account.) Historians over the years have vested this parenthetical aside with momentous import. Radicals, attempting to demonstrate the reactionary thrust of the convention, have assumed “praised by every body” meant that other delegates shared Hamilton’s extreme views, including his espousal of monarchy, while “supported by none” meant they were embarrassed to admit it. Hamiltonians, similarly, have used this passage to suggest that their man was not such an outlier after all, but in the mainstream. If others failed to spring to his defense, that was only for political reasons, not because they didn’t admire the man and his ideas.4

  These readings misinterpret Johnson’s ironic intent. Johnson was juxtaposing Hamilton’s ideas, particularly the annihilation of state power, which were “supported by none,” with his performance, which was “praised by every body.” This is clear from the other firsthand accounts of the proceedings. From Madison:

  Docr. Johnson…. One Gentleman alone (Col. Hamilton) in his animadversions on the plan of N. Jersey, boldly and decisively contended for an abolition of the State Govts. Mr. Wilson & the gentlemen from Virga. who also were adversaries of the plan of N. Jersey held a different language. They wished to leave the States in possession of a considerable, tho’ a subordinate jurisdiction.

  And from Rufus King:

  Johnson—The Gentleman from NYk is praised by every gentleman, but supported by no gentleman—He goes directly to ye abolition of the State Governts. and the erection of a Genl. Govt.—All other Gentlemen agree that the national or Genl. Govt. shd. be more powerful—& the State Govts. less so.

  “One Gentleman alone,” in Madison’s rendering of Johnson, advocated the abolition of state governments. “All other Gentlemen,” according to King, disagreed with Hamilton’s scheme. Even Gouverneur Morris, also an outspoken proponent of an independent executive and a strong national government, thought Hamilton had gone too far. “General Hamilton had little share in forming the Constitution,” Morris later recalled. “He disliked it, believing all Republican government to be radically defective.”5

  Hamilton, at this point in time, was indeed an outlier. If his speech influenced the convention at all, it was by establishing the boundaries of acceptable discourse. When he suggested a monarch for life and the abolition of state power in any form, he lost every other man in the room. Those who were old enough to remember the hated royal governors no doubt recoiled when he suggested they place state governorships in national hands. Not one man present could have shown his face back home if word got out that he favored the total commandeering of local militias, the last resort of free men, by a distant national government. Hamilton had gone where they dare not tread. True, some of his particular suggestions were more acceptable, and several of the powers he outlined for the presidency found their way into the final document, but at that moment no delegate wished to discuss even these, lest he be seen as supporting the rest. Delegates must have deemed these features reasonable since they later incorporated them, but any suggestion Hamilton made at that time had to be tabled, tainted as it was by his overarching philosophy.

  Yet Hamilton was “praised by every body.” To understand why, we need to appreciate the importance of oratory at the time. Giving speeches, arguing points, offering and debating resolutions—these were sport, and contestants were judged by style as well as content. William Pierce, who in his thumbnail sketches often commented on the delegates’ oratorical skills, noted that despite Hamilton’s “feeble” voice, “he enquires into every part of his subject with the searchings of phylosophy, and when he comes forward he comes highly charged with interesting matter, there is no skimming over the surface of a subject with him, he must sink to the bottom to see what foundation it rests on.” Pierce was a tough critic, and Hamilton in this account fared much better than most. He dazzled his audience not only with his brilliant mind b
ut also with his stamina. From personal experience, they all knew how difficult it was to go on as Hamilton did, always cogent, connecting thought after thought, always on target—even if the target was his, not theirs.6

  So they marveled—and then continued with their business. In the following week, they considered the terms for legislators in the lower branch (one, two, and three years were the options) and the upper branch (four, five, six, seven, and nine years were placed on the table). They argued too over who, if anybody, should pay these public servants—the states (which would make them subservient to local interests) or Congress (which meant they would be paying themselves)—and of course they returned, time and again, to the potentially disastrous matter of proportional versus state representation. Day after day, issue after issue, they continued, and on June 28, late in the afternoon, Benjamin Franklin, not prone to religious excess, called upon a higher power to settle their differences:

  In this Assembly, groping as it were in the dark to find political truth, and scarce able to distinguish it when presented to us, how has it happened, Sir, that we have not hitherto once thought of humbly applying to the Father of lights to illuminate our understandings? … I therefore beg leave to move that henceforth prayers imploring the assistance of Heaven, and its blessings on our deliberations, be held in this Assembly every morning before we proceed to business.

  But the delegates couldn’t even agree on that. Without voting on God’s assistance, they adjourned.

  All this round-and-about was anathema to Alexander Hamilton, the very proof that democratic ways lead to chaos. In the days following his speech, he reaffirmed his commitment to his extreme views time and time again. June 21: the states should indeed be abolished. June 22, in support of monarchy: people undervalued the true worth of royal corruption, “an essential part of the weight which maintained the equilibrium of the Constitution.” June 26, as recorded by Madison: “He [Hamilton] acknowledged himself not to think favorably of Republican Government; but addressed his remarks to those who did think favorably of it, in order to prevail on them to tone their Government as high as possible.” His ideas, though, were not receiving serious consideration. Even his vote had become meaningless, effectively overridden in the three-man New York delegation by John Lansing and Robert Yates, who remained opposed to the very idea of a central government and voted against all attempts to strengthen it.

  So why stay? On June 29, frustrated and restless, Alexander Hamilton took his leave and headed back to New York. With his departure, the convention lost its most unapologetic advocate of executive power. Whatever the chief executive was to become in later years, this group of statesmen did not wish him to be an almost king, as Hamilton would have preferred.

  On July 17, a month after Hamilton had proposed an elective monarch, delegates resumed their discussion of the executive. By then, six weeks had elapsed since they had settled on the outlines of the new executive branch of government. It was a good time to revisit that first draft, evaluate it in light of later decisions, and see if it still looked sound. One by one, they took up the resolutions they had already passed.

  Should they stick with a single executive? Yes, by acclamation of the state delegations. This did not mean that certain individuals, notably Edmund Randolph, George Mason, and William Paterson, had changed their minds, but they were no longer making a fuss over the matter.

  Should the single executive be charged with executing the national laws? Of course, by definition. No dissent there.

  Make appointments to offices not otherwise provided for? That too was just fine.

  Possess the negative over acts of the legislature, subject to override by a two-thirds vote? Somewhat surprisingly, delegates had made their peace with a limited veto. There was no opposition to this either.

  Should the single executive be chosen by the national legislature? Here was a point of contention. Gouverneur Morris predicted this would render the choice of the executive “the work of intrigue, of cabal, and of faction.” James Wilson argued it would destroy the executive’s independence and make it impossible for him “to stand the mediator,” but the alternative—selection by the people—still seemed frightening. “It would be as unnatural to refer the choice of a proper character for chief Magistrate to the people,” George Mason pronounced, “as it would, to refer a trial of colours to a blind man.” Morris’s motion to have the executive chosen by “citizens of the United States,” instead of the “National Legislature,” failed, receiving only the single vote of Pennsylvania, Morris’s and Wilson’s state. In some manner yet to be determined, Congress would choose the chief executive.

  Should the executive be ineligible for a second term? This too was back in play. Gouverneur Morris offered a simple but strong argument against ineligibility: “It was saying to him, make hay while the sun shines.” After some debate, six states voted to allow more than one term, while four stood firm—hardly a convincing result, but at least for the time being, the chief executive could be reelected.

  If the executive could be returned to office, however, was seven years still an appropriate term? Many delegates thought not. A few, like Morris and Dr. James McClurg of Virginia, reasoned that reelection eliminated the need for any specified term; the legislature that appointed him could also remove him whenever it wished. The executive would therefore serve “during good behavior”—nothing more need be stated. Yet “not more than three or four” delegates saw it that way, according to Madison’s notes. A stronger challenge to seven-year terms came from those now wanting shorter spans, but these differed as to the preferred length, and no specific number garnered enough votes to unseat “seven.”

  That was the confused state of affairs when Gouverneur Morris, the first speaker on the morning of July 19, took charge. Like Hamilton, Morris was an extremely effective debater—so gifted, in fact, that William Pierce gave him five stars in that regard:

  Mr. Governeur Morris is one of those genius’s in whom every species of talents combine to render him conspicuous and flourishing in public debate. He winds through all the mazes of rhetoric, and throws around him such a glare that he charms, captivates, and leads away the senses of all who hear him. With an infinite stretch of fancy he brings to view things when he is engaged in deep argumentation, that render all the labor of reasoning easy and pleasing…. No man has more wit, nor can any one engage the attention more than Mr. Morris.7

  Unlike Hamilton, however, Morris could not only capture the attention of this assembly but also change its direction.

  Morris tended to play large, and he certainly did so now. “It is necessary to take into one view all that relates to the establishment of the Executive,” he commenced, “on the due formation of which must depend the efficacy & utility of the Union among the present and future States.” Prior debates had focused on particular aspects, he said, but the enormity of the task required they all be considered together. “Our Country is an extensive one. We must either then renounce the blessings of the Union, or provide an Executive with sufficient vigor to pervade every part of it”—and vigor, at the very least, required independence. Although all delegates gave lip service to an “independent” executive, they would be contradicting that principle if they gave the power of his appointment, and worse yet the power of his impeachment, to the legislature. Morris had been arguing this point all along, but now that the chief executive could repeat in office, his dependence on the legislature was more apparent than ever. To gain reelection, he would have to court legislators—the exact reverse of how it should be. “One great object of the Executive is to control the Legislature,” Morris pronounced, as both he and Wilson had done before, but this time he went a step further. The executive must be “guardian of the people, even of the lower classes, against Legislative tyranny, against the great and the wealthy who in the course of things will necessarily compose the Legislative body.”

  Was Gouverneur Morris, son of a lord, really crying out against “the great and the wealthy,”
his own class? Back in 1774, during the height of popular resistance to imperial authority, Morris happened to be watching a large meeting in front of New York’s Fraunces Tavern: “I stood on the balcony, and on my right hand were ranged all the people of property, with some few poor dependants, and on the other all the tradesmen … who thought it worth their while to leave daily labor for the good of the country.” Identifying with the men of property, he had expressed his feelings about those beneath him:

  These sheep, simple as they are, cannot be gulled as heretofore. In short, there is no ruling them; and now, to leave the metaphor, the heads of the mobility grow dangerous to the gentry; and how to keep them down is the question…. The mob begin to think and to reason. Poor reptiles: it is with them a vernal morning, they are struggling to cast off their winter’s slough, they bask in the sunshine, and ere noon they will bite, depend on it. The gentry begin to fear this.8

  Yet now he vowed to create an executive strong enough to protect those “poor reptiles” from men like himself.

  This was part of Morris’s larger scheme, an extreme variant of the “checks and balances” strategy that served as the foundation for much of the discussion at the convention. While most delegates believed that the two branches of the legislature should represent somewhat different interests and serve as checks upon each other, Morris, like Hamilton, thought the branches should be taken to their extremes: a “democratic” branch to represent the masses, offset by a consciously “aristocratic” one to serve the interests of the very top rung of society. Both democratic and aristocratic interests presented grave dangers, but by keeping them separate and distinct, the framers could ensure they curb each other’s “excesses.” “Vices as they exist must be turned against each other,” he had said back on July 2. Yet while he once had seemed most fearful of the lower orders, now he expressed an equal concern that “the rich will strive to establish their dominion & enslave the rest. They always did. They always will…. Wealth tends to corrupt and to nourish its love of power, and to stimulate it to oppression.”