One Nation, Under Gods

by Manseau, Peter

  Mr. Jefferson’s Library

  A resolution has been proposed in congress authorizing a purchase of the Library of the Sage of Monticello. It no doubt contains a plentiful stock of the works of Tom Paine, Rousseau, Voltaire, Condorcet, &c. &c. in which that great statesman so successfully studied, and if purchased for Congress will afford members an excellent opportunity of improving their heads and hearts by the study of those fathers of French philosophy.

  A week later, the Salem Gazette also reported: “Congress are about purchasing Mr. Jefferson’s library. It is judged the following works will be held so high that the national treasury, exhausted as it is, will not command them.” There followed a list of the collection’s most egregious and useless titles, in the estimation of the unnamed editorial writer. Among those with scorn heaped upon them were titles “in the original French” (even then a supposed marker of un-American ideas), which were “much worn” (presumably from Jefferson’s constant immoral use). The most suspect tomes were those by Voltaire and Diderot, and a manuscript copy of “Instructions, religious and political” addressed to King James I, a fanatical but secret Catholic. The implication of highlighting these titles was clear: Jefferson’s brand of religiosity was foreign at best, outright blasphemous at worst. “It is understood that altho’ the above have been much used, they are very fair, outside.” Much used but well cared for, these books were presented not only as Jefferson’s treasures but as windows into his questionable character.

  An article first published in Connecticut but then republished throughout the states took issue with the sheer variety of the collection. The italics are in the original, and serve to underscore the sneering attitude some took to Jefferson’s offer from the start:

  “We understand that Mr. Jefferson’s invaluable collection of Books contains, among others, more than 40 Romances in French, Spanish, and Italian—12 different treatises on music—playing the violin, fingering the harp, &c.—rising of 50 works on architecture—together with a very extense collection of Deistical writers, from Chubb, Voltaire, Spinoza, and Condorcet, down to Ethan Allen and J Palmer. We have no doubt that Mr. Jefferson has not only some, but an extensive ‘knowledge of the bibliography of these subjects,’ particularly infidelity and architecture. With respect to the latter, it is said he is so great an adept as to posses a complete assortment of Joiner’s tools, and with regard to the former, he is considered still more accomplished—being a master-workman.”

  A master-workman of infidelity is not likely the title Jefferson hoped to earn through his offer of the library he had spent a lifetime assembling, but his eclectic religious interests had become the crux of the issue.

  Whether or not its opponents truly had such sensitive spiritual sensibilities as to take umbrage at the well-known writings of Voltaire or Spinoza, the fight over the library quickly became the culture war of its day. And as with more recent squabbles over federal funding for arts that may challenge traditional mores, partisan publications fanned the flames of sectarian outrage in hope of gathering religious ground troops to a largely political cause. Jefferson’s longtime antagonists at the Federal Republican stated most plainly the position of the opposition. Should the former president’s offer be accepted, the Congress of the United States would purchase a library that “abounded with productions of atheistical, irreligious, and immoral character” at a time when the national debt already seemed out of control.

  Much of the response in the press consisted of earnest concern over the library’s cost, but it seems that the closer to Washington a newspaper was printed, the more likely it was to take genuine pleasure in hoisting Jefferson on the petard of his own heterodoxy. Playing with the notion that the books contained heretical ideas, the Alexandria Gazette suggested that if the purchase must occur, then a committee suggestive of an Inquisition should divide the books into those that were useful, those that were harmless, and a third group (“which bye the bye would be the largest”) that should be consigned to the pyre. Only this, an unnamed correspondent suggests, would “make the most of the bad bargain.”

  Similarly, a merciless parody of Jefferson’s letter to Congress was published in Georgetown on October 18, 1814. Framing the letter as if addressing Jefferson himself, the writer wonders how he might likewise “turn his books into cash.”

  To Thomas Jefferson, esquire, late President of the United States—

  Dear Sir:—I have a library of books which I should be glad to sell. It consists of about 5000 volumes, selected with care and caution. Various projects had occurred to me to effect this object, but none had appeared free of objection. One feels awkwardly to be hawking his commodities about the streets, and to send such a quantity of books to auction… seems not quite consistent with those delicate feelings which should govern high-minded men…

  Observing that you have, in one of your lucky moments, (and I never knew a man who had more such moments), hit upon a project entirely new, and seeing that it is very popular, I wish to know if you cannot, in a second application to Congress, through some Republican friend, aid me…

  Many of my books are rare, most of them elegant and all inestimable. A considerable part of the works are in Sanscrit, Coptic, Celtic, and Arabic tongues. These can be translated, if it is thought proper, at little expense, though I should prefer that they should remain as written, and would respectfully recommend that Congress should immediately employ a competent number of professors to teach the members of that honorable body those languages…

  Being now nearly eighty years of age, and having no children, to whom my estate can descend, and not finding much time for reading, I should be much pleased to turn these books into cash… I intended to have furnished you with an elegant catalogue of my library, that it might have been open to inspection; but am now wholly occupied in furnishing a drawing of the Capitol and President’s House, while on fire… I will, however, mention a few of the great number of books, and give you a sketch of the character of the whole.

  There are entire sets of all the works of all the atheistical writers in every age and nation and tongue, superbly bound and lettered. Forty different editions of the Bible, thirty-nine of which are in the Arabic, and one in the Hebrew idiom; these are as good as when they came from the hands of the book-binder. A very learned treatise in ten volumes quarto, on the nature, properties, and uses of the animal called tad-pole, stiled vulgarly, Polly-wangs, with an appendix, in three volumes, on the toad of Caffraria. The whole of these, I have caused to be translated into six different languages. There is also, an elaborate and voluminous account of the terrapin, sometimes called mud-turtle, written by the author of sundry ingenius disquisitions on gun-boats and dry-docks, in modern French… Also, a new edition in several volumes folio, on the Russian climate, and its effects on Frenchmen, French horses and American politics… A work of great worth, written in Persian, on the grass-hopper of the east, delineating, with entire accuracy, the size of his legs in different regions of that extensive country, with a copious appendix, containing the whole learning on the subject of that highly curious animal called the weasel. A complete system of ornithology, giving an account of every flying creature, from the insect of a day to the whip-poor-will, the night-hawk and the crane, in blank verse, by Inchiquin, translated from the Italian into the Sclavonic, by a learned foreigner, comprized in thirteen volumes folio.

  The books are in excellent order, many of them truly elegant. Not a syllable could be taken from them without prejudice to the rest, as all the arts and sciences have a certain natural connection. I cannot consent to see my library gerry-mandered… I must sell the whole or none… If it should be objected, that four-fifths of this library are in foreign languages, and of course, unintelligible by nine-tenths of the members of Congress, I would reply that such an objection can come only from short-sighted men…

  Accept the assurance of my high consideration.

  Johannes Vonderpuff

  Missouri, October 1st, 1814

  As m
uch fun as some journalists seem to have had at Jefferson’s expense, this was no mere tabloid dispute. The editorial writers of the nation’s newspapers were taking their leads from the politicians who were arguing these same points on the floor of Congress. While the Senate unanimously passed a resolution to purchase the library in October 1814, the debate dragged on for months in the House of Representatives. Divided along party lines, factions rose up for and against the acquisition of the library. Tempers flared over Jefferson’s books and the supposed threat posed by the ideas within. The rhetoric was largely religious, concerned—as the Spanish had once been about Muslim influence in the new world—with the supposed contamination Jefferson’s eclectic religious ideas would bring.

  Within a week of the Senate’s resolution, just six weeks after the original library had been destroyed, the House erupted in debate over the nature of Jefferson’s interests and inclinations, with particular concern voiced over the works by French infidels like Voltaire and Rousseau, as well as “English works of progress and speculative freedom.”

  The final showdown came on January 26, 1815. The day’s first order of business involved hearing a petition from a man asking Congress to remunerate him for “a number of negroes, horses, and cattle” that he claimed Cherokee Indians had stolen from his father almost forty years before. Citing treaties requiring Indians to return any property taken from Americans, the petitioner held the U.S. government responsible. The House in its wisdom ruled that the petitioner “neither shows himself to be the heir of the person, whose property is said to have been taken, nor does he show, satisfactorily, the value of the property taken, or that any was taken.”

  With such weighty questions behind them, the representatives turned to the matter that had so inflamed the press of late. Of the catalogue of titles that had been sent by Jefferson, Representative Cyrus King of Massachusetts remarked that given the character of the man who had acquired the library, and the place where he had so readily admitted he had done so—France—it was likely that the library contained “many books of irreligious and immoral tendency.” Moreover, he feared that by welcoming such a library, the Congress would be allowing into their presence the spirit of “French infidel philosophers” who had ignited “the volcano of the French revolution” and whose “fatal and destructive effects” the library would bring “to our once happy country.” King strongly opposed accepting the entirety of Jefferson’s collection “to prevent a general dissemination of this infidel philosophy.”

  After first suggesting that a selection of books be taken and that the rest be disposed of “at public sale,” King then proposed another solution that put a finer point on his objections. As it would certainly not be appropriate to have such dangerous material made available as government surplus, he advised sending it back to a place where it would do no further damage to unsuspecting citizens.

  “As soon as said Library shall be received at Washington,” King said, “the joint library committee be required, and they are hereby authorised and directed, to select therefrom, all books, if any there be, of an atheistical, irreligious, and immoral tendency, and to send the same back to Mr. Jefferson, without expense to him.”

  This motion was attacked first by a member of the very library committee King had just enlisted in the culling of the collection, Dr. Adam Seybert of Pennsylvania. Seybert thanked King for his confidence that he and other committee members were deemed worthy of such a lofty project, but he insisted that in this indexing of forbidden books, King alone should be regarded as the sole “Inquisitor.”

  Nor was King’s zeal shared by his fellow Massachusetts congressman, John Hulbert, who openly mocked his colleague by observing that sending the books back to Monticello would not remove their supposed danger from the world. As had so often been the case in the history of challenging religious ideas on this continent, Hulbert described fear at work in a manner usually reserved for disease: “The motive of his colleague was to prevent the contagion which might spread from them; that if he was sincerely desirous of preventing this evil, he ought to amend the section by introducing a provision for the burning of such books.”

  In what must have been an entertaining exchange, King informed his fellow congressmen that he “would accept with pleasure of the modification proposed by my colleague.” On reconsideration, destroying the books did not sound so bad, he mused, and it would save in shipping costs. “Indeed, I had at first drawn my amendment with a provision that these books should be burnt by the library committee,” he said, “but it afterwards appeared to me, to comport better with the dignity of the house, to send them back, especially as said committee might be unwilling to perform a task usually allotted to the common hangman.”

  Addressing Hulbert directly, King told his fellow Massachusetts representative that he need not worry about Jefferson or his friends being further contaminated by the books, as they were “certainly secured therefrom by their own depravity.”

  James Fisk of Vermont next joined the fray. He observed that it was formerly the practice in Massachusetts to hang witches, and asked if King intended to revive this form of theocratic punishment. King replied that Fisk was a native of Massachusetts, and wondered if he had run off for fear of being hanged as a wizard himself.

  As the Congressional Record sums up this rollicking session: When called upon to answer the broad and zealous attacks against it, “the friends of the bill replied with fact, wit, and argument” to show that the purchase of the library would harm neither the fiscal nor the spiritual well-being of the United States. And moreover, they argued that, in keeping with a justification Jefferson himself had suggested in his letter, “there is in fact no subject to which a member of Congress may not have occasion to refer.”

  The House eventually voted in favor of acquiring “Mr. Jefferson’s Library,” but not by a very wide margin. With eighty-one congressmen in favor and seventy-one opposed, their disagreement set the stage for culture wars for centuries to come. In every case, the question has been much the same: To what end should the nation’s resources be put? One newspaper editorial captured the mood of the victors in this particular skirmish: “The next generation will, we confidently predict, blush at the objections made in Congress to the purchase of Mr. Jefferson’s library.”

  Despite coming under scathing personal attack, Jefferson sat out the battle over his library’s supposedly heretical content. This should come as no surprise. He was, after all, retired from public life by then, and less willing or able, as he grew older, to engage with critics and political rivals as he once had. Moreover, he had surely grown tired of fighting this particular battle again and again.

  He was no stranger to religious conflict. The presidential election of 1800 had been in many ways a referendum on his faith—or lack thereof, according to his detractors. His opponent in the contest, the incumbent John Adams, had not shied away from exploiting the widespread suspicion of Jefferson’s beliefs for his own benefit. As one slogan of the time put it, the choice between the sitting president and his challenger was clear: “God and a religious president, or… Jefferson and no god.” Jefferson was no more popular in the press, where one editor warned that under Jefferson, “Murder, robbery, rape, adultery, and incest will be openly taught and practiced, the air will be rent with the cries of distress, the soil will be soaked with blood, and the nation black with crimes.”

  As with his library, the problem Jefferson presented was not atheism per se but deism. To orthodox Christianity in the early nineteenth century, to refer to the divine as “nature’s God,” as deists did, was as good as saying that there was no God at all. God, to Christians, was simply and unquestionably the divinity made manifest in the revelation of the Gospels and in the person of Jesus Christ. Appeals to a god of nature who was somehow independent of salvation history were regarded—justifiably, within the Christian worldview—as theological doubletalk. As with the anti-Jefferson slogan mentioned above, one was either with God or against him, and a deist was
certainly regarded as against, no matter the vague philosophical defense he might make.

  Jefferson liked to think he was “of a sect by myself,” but in these beliefs he was in good company. His desire to have it both ways in terms of acknowledging the cultural significance of religion while distancing himself from specific revelation was as standard in his day as well-meaning agnosticism may be today; it was an expression of doubt designed to avoid the arguments (and the political suicide) that were the likely outcome of staunchly stated unbelief.

  Like many in public life, however, Jefferson seems to have had some distance between his own privately professed feelings on faith and his official positions. The former are perhaps captured most poignantly in a letter he wrote to his nephew in 1787. In it, he encourages the young man to do as he had done—to consider reason his “only oracle”—but not to be disdainful of beliefs held by many simply because they are held by many: “Divest yourself of all bias in favour of novelty and singularity of opinion,” he wrote. “Indulge them in any other subject rather than that of religion.”

  At the same time, he stressed, one must not be so swayed by tradition or the crowd as to lose sight of one’s individual responsibility to seek truth for oneself:

  Shake off all the fears and servile prejudices, under which weak minds are servilely crouched. Fix reason firmly in her seat, and call to her tribunal every fact, every opinion. Do not be frightened from this inquiry by any fear of its consequences. If it ends in a belief that there is no God, you will find incitements to virtue in the comfort and pleasantness you feel in its exercise, and the love of others which it will procure you. If you find reason to believe there is a God, a consciousness that you are acting under His eye, and that He approves you, will be a vast additional incitement; if that there be a future state, the hope of a happy existence in that increases the appetite to deserve it; if that Jesus was also a God, you will be comforted by a belief of His aid and love. In fine, I repeat, you must lay aside all prejudice on both sides, and neither believe nor reject anything because any other persons, or description of persons, have rejected or believed it. Your own reason is the only oracle given you by heaven.