by Ron Carter
Edmund Randolph of Virginia startled them all. None could forget that on May twenty-fifth, it had been Randolph who had introduced the Virginia Plan, which had served as the framework for the entire convention, and the Constitution as it now existed. And now it was Randolph who exclaimed, “Am I to promote the establishment of a plan which I verily believe will end in tyranny? I will sign it only if this convention now approves a plan for a second convention, to give the people time to study this proposed constitution and to suggest amendments.”
At Randolph’s outburst, James Madison did not change expression, but the thought came to his mind, he’s shifted again—unstable thought processes.
George Mason, a fellow Virginian, rose and shocked every man in the room. “I agree with Mr. Randolph.” The delegates were remembering this same George Mason was the one who in July had declared he would rather bury his bones in Philadelphia than leave without a constitution. They were scarcely breathing as Mason explained. “This constitution has been formed without the knowledge or idea of the people. It is improper to say to the people, take this or nothing. It does not provide a means of stopping the heinous institution of slave trade, nor does it include a bill of rights! I would rather cut off my right hand than sign a constitution that could lead to a despotic government!”
The third dissenter was the grumbletonian, Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts. In a ten-minute narrative he laid out his exceptions to the constitution, which included deep concerns about the sweeping powers granted to all three of the branches of the new government, the gray areas that left doubt as to intent and limits, and the shift of power from the states to the new national government. He could not in good conscience sign the instrument as it then stood.
The business of the day was finished, and Washington adjourned until the next business day.
Monday, September seventeenth, 1787, they met for the last time as colleagues in the convention that changed the world.
Washington called them to order and turned to the secretary. “Mr. Jackson will read the constitution as amended.”
Silence held while Jackson read the four pages, slowly, steadily. He finished, turned to nod to Washington, and sat down.
Alexander Hamilton, the only delegate from New York who had returned to the convention to represent his state in the signing of the new constitution, stood.
“No man’s ideas are known to be further from the plan than mine are known to be. Nonetheless, I rise to urge all to sign this instrument, as I will. I am convinced that if the public mind is properly instructed, it will rise to the challenge of nationhood and adopt such a solid plan.” A thoughtful silence settled in the room as the brilliant Hamilton sat down.
The sound of Benjamin Franklin struggling to his feet brought every eye in the room to watch him stand, leaning on his cane. “Mr. President, respectfully I seek permission to address the convention.” He held up a paper. “Mr. James Wilson who has been so accommodating in reading my remarks throughout the convention has kindly consented to read this one.”
For a moment Washington studied the eighty-one year old man, famous the world over, among the wisest to be found. “Mr. Wilson may read the document.”
For the last time, James Wilson pushed his spectacles back up his nose, took the paper from Franklin, and read.
“I confess that there are several parts of this constitution which I do not at present approve, but I am not sure I shall never approve them. For having lived long, I have experienced many instances of being obliged by better information, or fuller consideration, to change opinions even on important subjects, which I once thought right, but found to be otherwise. It is, therefore, that the older I grow, the more apt I am to doubt my own judgment, and to pay more respect to the judgment of others. Thus, I consent, sir, to this constitution, because I expect no better, and because I am not sure, that it is not the best. On the whole, sir, I cannot help expressing a wish that every member of the convention who may still have objections to it, would, with me, on this occasion doubt a little of his own infallibility, and to make manifest our unanimity, put his name to this instrument.”
For a time the delegates remained silent, aware that Franklin had given his last great effort to persuade Randolph, Mason, and Gerry to add their signatures to the new constitution. None of the three would raise their eyes to Franklin, and it was clear they would not change their minds. It was Franklin who turned to Washington and broke the awkward silence.
“Mr. President, I recommend that it would be in proper form to affix the words, ‘Done in convention by the unanimous consent of the states present.’”
The subtlety of the wise old leader was apparent. If he could not persuade Randolph, Mason, and Gerry to sign the document and show the world the unanimity of all the delegates, at least he could add the prefix that would show the unanimity of all the states. Washington replied, “The prefix shall be added.”
There was but one matter of business yet to be concluded. Nathaniel Gorham rose to his feet, and Washington recognized him.
“I move that the figure of 40,000 citizens per one representative in the House of Representatives is too high,” Gorham exclaimed. “I request that figure be reduced to 30,000, to obtain a more acceptable representation per state in the House.”
Washington surprised the entire convention by rising to his feet on the dais. No one moved as he spoke.
“I hesitate to seek a favor from this convention, but I believe Mr. Gorham to be correct. In my view, the figure of 40,000 citizens per one representative in the House of Representatives is too high. I concur that it ought to be reduced to 30,000 to give all states a more balanced representation. I ask for your consideration.”
Washington had never made such request. Without one word of debate, Gorham’s motion was passed by a unanimous vote, and the amendment was inserted.
Franklin stood once more. “I move that the constitution now be signed by the delegates.”
The vote was unanimous in favor of the motion.
Each delegate approached the secretary’s desk in geographical order, took the quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and signed for his state. All states present signed. Randolph, Mason, and Gerry did not.
It was while the last of the delegates were at the desk that Franklin uttered his last remarks. Peering at the chair in which Washington sat on the dais, he gestured toward the small, delicate painting of the sun that capped the back of the chair, and spoke.
“I have often in course of this session, and the vicissitudes of my hopes and fears as to its issue, looked at that image behind the President, without being able to tell whether it is rising or setting. But now, at length, I have the happiness to know that it is a rising, and not a setting, sun.”
The signing was completed, and the signers were standing grouped about the table on which the new constitution lay. Washington looked at the clock, and Jackson noted it was four o’clock in the afternoon when Washington resumed his place on the dais. The delegates quieted, and the tall man performed his final function as president of the convention.
“All matters properly before us having been concluded, I hereby dissolve this constitutional convention, sine die.”
It was finished. For a time the delegates gathered papers and personal things from their desks, and stood about in small groups, talking, not quite knowing what to do or say as they struggled to accept the fact their summer in the heat of a closed room in the Statehouse in Philadelphia was over. The battles and the tempers and the compromises were finished. Slowly they began to say their good-byes and walk out into the great hallway and into the streets, while their thoughts were of home and wives and families and other affairs too long neglected.
Among the last to leave was Benjamin Franklin, who made his way slowly, cane in hand, tapping on the hard floor as he moved down the long hallway toward the door out of the building. A woman whom he did not recognize stopped him and looked him in the eye.
“Dr. Franklin, what have you given us?
A republic, or a monarchy?”
For a moment Franklin reflected, and then he spoke. “A republic. If you can keep it.”
He smiled, nodded his farewell, and walked on out the door.
Behind him, a very thoughtful woman watched him leave, as she pondered his words. A republic. If you can keep it. A republic. Controlled by the voice of the people. Can the people lose a republic? How? How can the people lose a republic?
Notes
The events, dates, persons, times, places, and speeches appearing in this chapter are taken from the following sources.
Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? pp. 170–90.
Moyers, Report from Philadelphia, pages styled Monday August 6, 1787– Monday, September 17, 1787.
Warren, The Making of the Constitution, pp. 384–730.
Berkin, A Brilliant Solution, pp. 130–68.
Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 200–273.
Farrand, The Framing of the Constitution of the United States, pp. 124–95.
Farrand, The Records of the Federal Convention, Vol. 2, pp. 129–650.
Where possible, the speeches or comments of the various delegates as herein set out are verbatim, however, in many cases they have been abbreviated or the language has been changed slightly to make them more understandable today. Such abbreviations or changes, and any errors, are the sole responsibility of this writer.
The speech of Benjamin Franklin, which was read by James Wilson on the last day of the constitutional convention, wherein Franklin attempted to persuade the three delegates who refused to sign the finished instrument—Randolph, Mason, and Gerry—to change their position and add their names to the new constitution was much longer than reported herein. The portion appearing in this chapter is an abstract, which is hoped reaches the core of Franklin’s remarkable address. For the entire speech, see Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 234–35. For the condensed version, see Warren, The Making of the Constitution, p. 709.
The remarks made by Franklin as the last signers affixed their signatures to the constitution, regarding his conclusion that the sun painted on the back of Washington’s chair was a rising sun, not a setting sun, are found in Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, p. 237. For a photograph of the chair, see the page facing page 318.
John Adams once referred to God as “the Great Legislator of the Universe.” Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? p. 63.
Again, much of the original thought in this chapter is an outgrowth of the work of Clinton Rossiter as it appears in his work, 1787: The Grand Convention.
Boston
September 21, 1787
CHAPTER XXVII
* * *
The punishing heat of summer had mellowed into the warm days and cool nights of early fall. The patchwork of grainfields on the Boston peninsula and the mainland were changing from yellow to white, preparing for harvest, and the cornstalks were turning from green to brittle tan. Beady-eyed squirrels, wearing the beginnings of their long-haired winter coats, scolded all who invaded their world as they darted about seizing the acorns and seeds to test them for full maturity before stuffing them into their cheeks and then disappearing into the hollow trunks of oak trees to organize and store them against need in the approaching winter. Leaves on the trees that lined the streets and yards in Boston, and in the forests, were showing the first hint of their magic change from green to every color known to mankind. Summer was past, and winter was coming, but between the two seasons was the soul-satisfying time of reaping what had been sown, gathering into barns, filling root cellars, turning apples into barrels of cider, filling smokehouses with hams and bacons and strips of beef and fish, all the while watching the green world transform itself into a new fairyland, painted with hues so vivid they dazzled the beholder.
There was a spring in the stride of Adam Dunson as he pushed through the front gate of his mother’s home into the crooked street and turned east toward Fruit Street and on to the office of Dunson & Weems. He made his way among farm carts with their two gigantic wheels, and the wagons, overloaded with the produce and cheeses and meat for the Boston markets that the sweat and faith of the farmers had wrested from mother earth. He watched the draft horses lean into their collars, their heads rising and falling with each plodding stride, and he tipped his hat to the ladies and called greetings to acquaintances with the exuberance of one whose world was good and right, at least for the moment. He was home. The mortal threat of dying in a British prison in Port Royal on the island of Jamaica was behind him. The family was safe, sound, strong. The shipping company was succeeding. With the harvest would come contracts for their ships to carry Massachusetts wheat and oats and cider and maple sugar south, and southern cotton and indigo on the return. Troubles would come as they always did, but for the moment, for this morning, the world was good.
He pushed through the front door of the Rose Inn with its engraved rose sign hanging from an arm above the door, and nodded to guests and acquaintances seated at tables, eating breakfasts of thick porridge, or eggs and ham, and steaming hot chocolate. He made his way through the buzz of talk and the rich aroma to the desk where Agnes Merryfield kept her ledgers of guests, bills, and business, and sorted and held the mail for the waterfront.
“’Morning, Agnes,” Adam greeted.
Large, aproned, face as round as a melon, hair slightly awry, Agnes grinned back at him. Her two front teeth were noticeably gapped.
“’Morning.” She pointed to a small bundle of mail set on a large package. “Got something there. From Philadelphia. A package. By special messenger.”
A shadow of question flickered across Adam’s face. “Philadelphia?”
“From James Madison.”
For a moment a hush fell among those seated nearby and heads turned to peer at Adam as he reached for the package. It was addressed to Mr. Matthew Dunson, Esq., and in the upper left corner, in beautiful small scroll, was the name, James Madison.
Adam seized the few envelopes that were with the package, bobbed his head in thanks to Agnes, and hurried back onto the street. He broke into a trot as he followed Fruit Street to the waterfront, and he was breathing heavily when he burst through the office door of the shipping company. Matthew and Billy both jumped at the sound, and raised their heads from the work at their desks to peer at him as he strode down the aisle. He stopped at Matthew’s desk and thrust the package forward as Billy came to his side, waiting.
“James Madison. Philadelphia,” Adam blurted.
Matthew seized the package, used a scissor to cut the cord, and peeled back the wrapping. Inside was a three-page letter written in the small cursive of James Madison, and ten copies of the new, four-page constitution. For a moment Matthew sat frozen, staring, and then he exclaimed, “I’d heard they’d finished it, but this is the first time I’ve seen it!”
He snatched up the letter and closed out the world as he read. Billy and Adam each picked up a copy of the constitution and began to silently read while they walked to their own desks. Matthew read the letter a second time, then seized a copy of the constitution and for a time the three men remained in silence, each caught up in the profound simplicity of the document that had been born of the inspired genius of fifty-five men, who had shared a sweltering room for one hundred fifteen days through a scorching Philadelphia summer. The men were startled by the sound of the front door opening, and Tom Covington entering the room, eyes wide as they adjusted from the bright sunlight that flooded the waterfront. Round-shouldered, slightly stooped, Tom slowed at the sight of the three men seated at their desks all reading identical documents.
“Something happen?” Tom asked.
Matthew pointed. “A letter from James Madison, and copies of the new constitution.”
Tom stopped short. “Madison? They got it printed?”
“Read it,” Matthew said, and Tom took a copy to his desk, smoothed it, and started through it, silently mouthing each word. For a time the only sound in the office was the occasional whisper of
pages being turned, and the unrelenting rumble of men handling freight and ships on the docks and wharves.
After a time, Tom straightened, wide-eyed, and tapped his copy with an index finger. “Never read anything like this in my life.”
Matthew turned to look at him. “I thought they were sent to amend the old Articles of Confederation. This doesn’t even mention them! This is a plan for a national government like none I’ve ever heard of, or dreamed! I feared they would give the ultimate power to someone who would soon look like a king, and we’d be back where we started in 1775. But they haven’t! They’ve given the power to the people! The ordinary people! Farmers and merchants and mechanics, and those men out there on the docks. Think about it! The people are responsible for their own government—good or bad—they’re responsible. They can vote corrupt men, or incompetent men, out of office. I can’t believe it!”
Billy spoke quietly. “It’s all there. Two governments. State and national. Freedoms spelled out. Powers defined and divided. I wonder how it will feel, being a citizen of two governments. Sounds odd when you say it.”
Adam said, “I’ve read it twice, and it’s too new, too radical. I can’t yet grasp it. There are some in Massachusetts who will disgree with it, but still, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. How did they do it? How did they get their minds to conceive of it, and write it?”
Matthew said, “If I understand it right, nine states have to ratify this before it becomes the law of the land. If that’s true, we’d better take a little time and think it through. The first thing we need to do is be sure we understand the fundamentals of what this new constitution says. The second thing, we better digest that letter from James Madison. He identifies some states that he expects will ratify quickly, but there are others he fears will be trouble, and asks for help. I have contacts in all thirteen states, and it appears that now is the time we make use of them.”