by Ron Carter
As for the Virginia plan, already approved by the committee of the whole seventeen days earlier, but not by the convention, his position was simple:
“I would not trust a government organized on the Virginia plan for all the slaves of Carolina or the horses and oxen of Massachusetts!”
He emerged from it all as a wildly radical spokesman for the small states, committed to the principle that all states, small and large, must have equal voting power in the new congress.
When Martin finally sat down, Benjamin Franklin stirred in his chair, opened his eyes, rubbed his legs, and looked about, watching intently, waiting, knowing that the convention was about to be plunged into the vortex. Madison, his jaw set, blue eyes narrowed, sat as tall as he could, studying the faces of the delegates who supported his beloved Virginia plan, and those who opposed it. Washington straightened in his large, straight-backed chair on the dais, scanned the room, and waited for someone to make the motion that would bring the entire convention face-to-face with the deadly question.
John Lansing of New York stood. “I move that this convention reverse the action taken by the committee of the whole as regards accepting the Virginia plan.”
Jonathan Dayton of New Jersey quickly called, “I second the motion.”
The time had arrived. The issue that threatened the union of the United States was squarely before the men who must decide, and there was none among them who misunderstood the pivotal moment history had placed on their shoulders. Were the small states to have equal voting power with the large states? Each had made it clear that they would likely walk out of the convention if their position were not adopted.
Dayton continued, “I am greatly anxious that the question might not be put until tomorrow, since Mr. Livingston of New Jersey has been kept away on necessary business, not to return until tomorrow. Lacking his presence, the New Jersey representation is suspended for the day. It would be desirable to wait until we can have the benefit of the New Jersey vote.”
Hugh Williamson of North Carolina rose. “If the states are equally sovereign now, and each parts with equal proportions of such sovereignty, they will remain equally sovereign. I see no harm in that for the small states, and wish someone would arrive at a solution for it. May I also remind this convention that new states will soon be forming to the west of us, and they will be small states, poor, unable to meet their financial obligations. And they will be joining the small states in congress.”
Madison could remain seated no longer. He rose, was recognized by Washington, and delivered once again, with power and reason, the essence of his prior lengthy, masterful discourse in support of the Virginia plan. The representation of the individual states in the new congress must be on the basis of population. No need to fear the three large states—Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts—whose combined populations could control Congress. Their interests lay in their commerce, and with Massachusetts based on fish, Pennsylvania on flour, and Virginia on tobacco, their various interests would prevent any thoughts of any political collusion to control the other states.
Madison sat down, and James Wilson rose to give a resounding endorsement to Madison’s position, together with his own observations that the fears of the small states ran in the face of the history of small boroughs in England, which never suffered at the hands of the larger ones.
The tension in the hall was becoming charged. No one had changed his position, nor had any even hinted at a willingness to hunt for a compromise. Worse, none could see that a compromise was possible. It was much to be compared with a compass: could north ever be compromised with south, without destroying both?
Roger Sherman, the accomplished politician, rose and slowly, emphatically, with clipped words and phrases that concealed his anger, laid it out:
“The question is not what rights naturally belong to men, but how they may be most equally and effectually guarded in society. And if some give up more than others in order to obtain this end, there can be no room for complaint. To do otherwise, to require an equal concession from all, if it would create danger to the rights of some, would be sacrificing the end to the means. The rich man who enters into society along with the poor man, gives up more than the poor man. Yet with an equal vote he is equally safe. Were he to have more votes than the poor man in proportion to his superior stake, the rights of the poor man would immediately cease to be secure.”
He paused to scan the faces of the other delegates as they digested the plain logic of his argument, then, with a raised fist and a voice that rang, finished:
“This consideration prevailed when the Articles of Confederation were formed and ought to prevail now!”
It was as though the air in the sweltering East Room were charged with electricity. Every man sat tense, focused, silent, waiting, unsure what to do, fearful they were watching the convention preparing to fracture and disband, and with it the unraveling of the dream of America. William Few of Georgia trembled at the realization that the rupture of the union was taking place before their eyes.
The sound of a chair sliding on the floor brought their heads around, and every eye in the room widened at the sight of Benjamin Franklin struggling to rise on his crippled, eighty-one-year-old legs. Silence gripped the room as Franklin straightened, lifting first one supporting hand, then the other, from his desk, and he stood tall, facing Washington.
Washington’s voice sounded too loud in the dead quiet. “Mr. Franklin?”
Franklin’s jowls moved for a moment as he pursed his mouth, and then the old man began:
“Mr. President. The small progress we have made after four or five weeks close attendance and continual reasonings with each other—our different sentiments on almost every question, several of the last producing as many noes as ayes, is methinks a melancholy proof of the imperfection of the human understanding. We indeed seem to feel our own want of political wisdom, since we have been running about in search of it. We have gone back to ancient history for models of government and examined the different forms of those republics which having been formed with the seeds of their own dissolution now no longer exist. And we have viewed modern states all round Europe, but find none of their constitutions suitable to our circumstances.”
He paused to order his thoughts, then went on, his voice steady:
“In this situation of 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? In the beginning of the contest with Great Britain, when we were sensible of danger, we had daily prayer in this room for the divine protection. Our prayers, sir, were heard, and they were graciously answered. All of us who were engaged in the struggle must have observed frequent instances of a superintending providence in our favor. To that kind of providence we owe this happy opportunity of consulting in peace on the means of establishing our future national felicity. And have we now forgotten that powerful Friend? Or do we imagine that we no longer need his assistance? I have lived, sir, a long time, and the longer I live, the more convincing proofs I see of this truth.”
The old man leaned forward, and with every fiber of his being declared, “That God governs in the affairs of men. And if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without his notice, is it probable that an empire can rise without his aid?”
No one dared move.
“We have been assured, sir, in the sacred writings, that ‘except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it.’ I firmly believe this; and I also believe that without his concurring aid we shall succeed in this political building no better than the builders of Babel. We shall be divided by our little partial local interests; our projects will be confounded; and we ourselves shall become a reproach and a bye word down to future ages. And what is worse, mankind may hereafter from this unfortunate instance, despair of establishing governments by human wisdom and leave it
to chance, war, and conquest.”
The entire convention sat mesmerized, humbled.
Franklin finished. “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, and that one or more of the clergy of this city be requested in that service.”
With simple dignity the old man pulled his chair forward, and slowly, painfully settled his ailing body onto it, then raised his face to Washington, and for the first time, other delegates dared look about.
Never had they seen the expression they saw now in George Washington. The dignity remained, but shining through it was a joy and a radiance that held men staring. With feelings akin to fear they glanced about the room. Strong men with strong opinions on both sides of the issue that were ripping the convention apart sat staring, humbled, chastened, diminished. No one knew or cared how long they sat thus, struggling to understand how they had forgotten the true roots of their country, while the words “endowed by our creator” pounded through their minds like a chant.
Finally Roger Sherman said, “I second the motion.”
Time passed before some suggested concern that the motion had come too late in the convention, that such a practice might cause some citizens to worry that conditions inside the East Room had reached desperation. Others said it was a mistake they had not begun the entire convention with the rule of daily prayer, and that it is never too late to correct an error. Hugh Williamson of North Carolina raised the hard fact that the convention did not have one penny to pay a clergyman for such services.
Then Edmund Randolph of Virginia stood. “I move that a sermon be preached at the request of the convention on the fourth of July, the anniversary of our independence, and thenceforward prayers be used in the convention every morning.”
Benjamin Franklin raised a hand but did not stand. “I second the motion.” Efforts were made to postpone the vote, and the session was adjourned without the vote being taken. Some were anguished, but others understood that taking the vote would have been desired, but not necessary. The good had already been accomplished by the elder statesman. The simplicity and power and rightness of his words had seized every man in the room by the nape of his neck, as it were, and hauled him involuntarily from the tangle of human debate and frailty back to face the basic truths on which the United States had been conceived and born. None would ever forget the feeling that surged in their hearts and spread to fill the room as Washington brought the business of the day to adjournment.
Talk among the delegates was subdued as they filed out of the room into the hallway and made their way to their separate quarters. None pretended the rupture between the small and large states was healed. To the contrary, they knew the final clash was yet coming, and few expected the union to survive. Still, as they sat at their supper tables, and paced in their rooms past midnight, running hands through rumpled hair, mumbling to themselves, desperately inventing and discarding ways to avoid the horrors of disunion, the words of their elder statesman, and the awesome power that had filled the East Room for those few moments, rose in their minds and breasts to fill them, mellow them, soften them. It occurred only to a few of the thoughtful ones that somehow a subtle shift was in the making. Some who had sworn they would never concede to the opposition were now searching for a way to give a little, take a little—to compromise. They struggled on through the night, and it rode them like a cruel master as they made their way to the Statehouse and silently gathered in the East Room the sultry morning of Friday, June 29, 1787.
In charged silence, Washington called the convention to order. “We return to the pending issue of how shall the House of Representatives be selected? By one vote in each of the states, or by the vote of the people?”
William Samuel Johnson of Connecticut rose immediately. “The controversy must be endless whilst gentlemen differ in the grounds of their arguments. Those on one side consider the states as districts of people composing one political society. Those on the other consider them as so many political societies, with no reference to the people. The fact is, that the states do exist as political societies, and a government is to be formed for them in their political capacity, as well as for the individuals composing them.”
Eyes narrowed in thought at the notion that the states served a dual role—one for the state, the other for the people.
Nathaniel Gorham rose. “The states as now confederated have no doubt a right to refuse to be consolidated, or to be formed into any new system. I wish the small states, which seem most ready to object to any system which deprives them of equality with the large ones, would consider which are to give up most, they or the larger ones.”
He paused and calculated his next words before he uttered them. “A rupture of the union would be an event unhappy for all, but surely the large states would be able to take care of themselves and make connections with one another should such a rupture occur. The small states would be the ones that would suffer, and therefore should be most interested in establishing some general system for maintaining order. Consider the condition Delaware would face should a separation of the states occur. Would she not lie at the mercy of Pennsylvania? Consider that Massachusetts was once three colonies—Old Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Mayne. Those three small provinces found their salvation in merging into one—Massachusetts as we know it. The situation was repeated when Connecticut and Newhaven merged to become Connecticut. Should not the smaller states represented in this convention find the resolution of their problem in the same principle? Combine and merge to achieve equality with the larger ones?”
The faces of the delegates from the small states did not change, nor did their resolve. Oliver Ellsworth of Connecticut sensed the firming of positions and rose to state simply, “I do not despair. I yet trust that a good plan of government will be devised and adopted.”
Again, neither faction changed.
Elbridge Gerry, the Grumbletonian from Massachusetts, stood, the expression on his face suggesting his breakfast had consisted of six sour pickles.
“We never were independent states—not now, and never can be, even on the principles of the confederation. The states are intoxicated with the idea of sovereignty. I was a member of Congress at the time the federal articles were framed, and I was all too keenly aware then of the injustice of allowing each state, large or small, an equal vote. I approved it then under the pressure of public danger and the obstinacy of the smaller states, but my approval was much against my own better judgment.” His voice rose in angry emotion. “The present confederation is dissolving. The fate of the union will be decided by this convention! I lament that instead of coming here like a band of brothers, belonging to the same family, we seem to have brought with us the spirit of political negotiators.”
Satisfied he had delivered his dire predictions and roundly chastised the entire convention, he seated his sparse frame on his chair, lower lip thrust out defiantly.
Luther Martin stood. The expression on his flushed face suggested his breakfast had consisted of a quart of strong Madeira wine at the Indian Queen Hotel. Low groans were heard from other delegates who feared that he was embarking on another two-day odyssey through the history of the world and a rehearsal of political thought reaching back to Moses in the Book of Exodus in the Old Testament.
To their profound amazement and gratitude, Martin was brief. “The language of the states being sovereign and independent was once familiar and understood. Now it seems strange and obscure. May I remind us all of the simple language in the Articles of Confederation.” He raised a document and read the pertinent sections of the Articles, looked about, and sat down amid sighs of relief.
Washington waited a few moments, the room became still, and he put the question. “On the motion that the House of Representatives shall be elected by popular vote of the people and not by rule of one vote for each state, Mr. Jackson, proceed.”
Jackso
n nodded and took the votes.
Ayes. Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia.
Nays. Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Delaware.
Maryland. Divided, no vote.
Six in favor, four against. One divided. The Virginia plan had won the battle in favor of the large states on election of members to the new House of Representatives. In the charged silence, heads swiveled as the large state delegates guardedly glanced at the faces of those from the small states, apprehensive, fearful of what might become their exodus from the East Room. Almost nothing was said, and no one moved. Then Oliver Ellsworth of the small state of Connecticut stood, and the entire room silenced. Washington recognized him, and Ellsworth’s voice was firm and steady.
“I move that the rule of suffrage in the Senate be the same as that established by the Articles of Confederation. That is, one vote for each state. I am not sorry that the vote just passed has determined against this rule in the House of Representatives, but since we are partly national and partly federal, it is consistent that if the House is to be elected by popular vote of the people, then the Senate ought to be elected on the basis of one vote for each state.”
It caught the delegates by surprise, and they leaned back, collecting their thoughts. Washington sensed the mood, and the timing, and declared, “The motion of Mr. Ellsworth is noted and will be taken up tomorrow morning, Saturday, June thirtieth. We stand adjourned for the day.”
A somber delegation rose and walked out of the East Room into the big corridor, then out of the building into the heat of the late afternoon sun, conflicted, torn, mentally and emotionally exhausted from two weeks of intense, fruitless searching for an answer to the single issue they had feared most from the beginning. Every man knew that Ellsworth’s closing motion was the last desperate stand of the small states to save themselves from the large ones. Further, they knew that the three delegates from Connecticut had put the same motion before the convention again and again, first by Sherman on June eleventh, and again on June twentieth, then by Johnson on June twenty-ninth, and now by Ellsworth. And each time the patient efforts of the Connecticut men had fallen to the power of the larger states.