by Edward Cline
Jean-Jacques Rousseau — whose profile graced a wall of Kant’s study — author of the controversial Émile and The Social Contract and now at odds with the knowledge-celebrating Encyclopédie, and still on the run from civil and ecclesiastical authorities, was brooding in Bern, Switzerland, from which he would also be expelled. David Hume, who knew of his plight, would later that year invite him to settle under his protection on his estate in Derbyshire, England. Young Antoine Lavoisier, physicist and chemist, was performing astonishing work that would gain him admission to the French Academy of Sciences at the age of twenty-one. Pierre Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais, future author of The Barber of Seville and The Marriage of Figaro, was then a struggling watchmaker tinkering with comedy-writing. Carl Bellman, a Swedish poet and songwriter, and a protégé of Prince Gustavus, future benevolent despot of Sweden, published his Eighty-two Epistles, a compendium of ballads and drinking songs.
In England, churchman Thomas Percy published his Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, a collection of English and Scottish ballads. In Bristol, very young Thomas Chatterton began to fabricate the poetry of Thomas Rowley, a fictive fifteenth-century monk, in a style so epic and convincingly “ancient” that for twelve years, no one suspected that the verses were a fraud. Thomas Reid, a philosopher, like Hume and Smith a product of the Scottish Enlightenment, and an exponent of the “common sense” school, published his Inquiry into the Human Mind, which disputed both Hume and Locke. Reclusive chemist Henry Cavendish, also a Scot, was on the verge of discovering hydrogen, while Joseph Priestly, theologian and scientist, was on the verge of discovering oxygen, though it would remain for Lavoisier to name those elements later in the century. The first Lunar Society was founded in this year by “mechanics” to discuss philosophy and politics; its later members would be Priestly and James Watt, who was then an instrument-maker at the University of Glasgow and a student of steam engines.
In London, women were boldly partaking of the Enlightenment, for the most popular intellectual and literary salons were being hosted by a trio of Elizabeths: Montagu, Vesey, and Carter. Drinking and card-playing were banned from their gatherings. Hume, Smith, Locke, and other thinkers were the subjects of their lively but genteel conversations, as well as the works of the French philosophes. Many of the attendees could read Italian, and so were able to argue the pros and cons of the then-published Essay on Crime and Justice, by Italian economist and jurist Cesare Beccaria.
Elizabeth Robinson Montagu held her liquorless levees on Berkeley Square, attracting the cream of English intelligentsia, and in this year was herself taking notes for what would become a lengthy and patriotic reply to Voltaire’s verdict that Shakespeare was a “drunken savage.” In it, she would incidentally second her grudging admirer Samuel Johnson’s critique of the Bard and likewise defend the latter’s flouting of classicist formulæ and the sacrosanct unities of time and place in the drama. Catherine Sawbridge Macaulay, in the meantime, was preparing her second volume of The History of England from the Accession of James I. Among her own numerous and frequent guests was Benjamin Franklin; she would later champion the American cause through all its intransigent phases.
And William Blackstone, member for Hinden in the Commons and Vinerian Professor of Law at Oxford, in that year argued, in the first volume of his Commentaries on the Laws of England, for not only Parliamentary supremacy over all that Parliament surveyed — which included the colonies — but endorsed the notions of literal as well as “virtual” representation in that body.
While Europe percolated, the American colonies were about to smolder, and later burst into flames. Except to a very few discerning observers among them, the hand that lit the flames was as invisible to the English and the Continentals as was the modest colonial capital from which they rose.
The hand had a name: Patrick Henry.
* * *
The red, white, and blue of the Great Union fluttered lazily on a staff above the bell tower of the Capitol building in Williamsburg, Virginia, presiding over a wide boulevard that was carpeted with the traffic, commerce, and gaiety of the spring Public Time. For a mile that emanated from the imposing steps of the colonial legislature, the straight, sandy Duke of Gloucester Street was noisy with rumbling, shouts, and commotion as stately carriages and nimble riding chairs vied for space with horsemen, produce-laden wagons, and darting pedestrians. On both sides of Duke of Gloucester, old, established shops competed for business with ramshackle stalls erected by traders and farmers from nearby counties and villages. A town of tents had sprung up around the county courthouse on Market Square. Merchants, planters, and ships’ captains did business in the open-air space of the Exchange between the Capitol and the theater. Gentlemen and ladies in their European finery promenaded along the sidewalks and traded discreet appraisals with farming couples in their rough homespuns, while both sets glanced with amazed distaste at scruffy, bearded mountain men in their hunting shirts as they rode into town leading packhorses loaded with mounds of deer and beaver pelts.
The air was also filled with the sounds of the hammering of carpenters repairing damaged English and French furniture brought to town by their owners, of the clinking of blacksmiths shoeing horses or repairing carriage wheels, of the laughter of children watching puppet shows, magicians, and jugglers, of the songs and melodies of traveling minstrels and musicians.
On the fringes of the town on any day during that May, two more somber events took place: a slave auction, and an indenture auction. The slaves were displayed on the bed of a wagon that had brought them here, and examined by prospective buyers, and their virtues and histories narrated by the auctioneer, who was either the owner or the broker. Men, women, and children were sold to the highest bidders, either separately, in parcels, or in families. In the crowd of spectators and buyers were planters great and small, farmers, mistresses of small households, sailors, and black freedmen. In a field across the side street seven-year indentures were sold by the men who owned their time and who were called soul-drivers. These unfortunates — poor men, women, and children from England and the Continent whose passage had been paid for by others — considered the stop in Williamsburg a rest, for their masters walked them from town to town throughout the colony, chained together, until the last person had been sold.
East of the Capitol, and beyond the racetrack where so many sleek Virginia horses proved their superiority over all other colonial stock, was a gallows. Six slaves were hanged there for having robbed their owners, and three white men for “coining” — or counterfeiting — and murdering the under-sheriff who had come to arrest them. All had been tried in the General Court.
But even back among the gaiety and bustle on Duke of Gloucester Street, a somber undercurrent governed the actions and dispositions of the people. Nearly everyone glanced now and then up at the Capitol and the Great Union that floated above it, except children, slaves, and indentures as they hurried through their play, chores, and errands, even though they may have heard their parents, owners, or masters talk among themselves about the Stamp Act. Anyone now in Williamsburg who had any reason to worry about a stamp tax learned of its proposed passage during the Public Time last fall.
This month, residents and visitors alike found nailed to the walls and posts of many shops, taverns, and coffeehouses, and over the clutter of announcements and advertisements on wooden billboards, copies of a finely drawn caricature. The picture elicited a mixture of responses, from anger to humor to bewilderment to despair, among the curious who chose to examine it. In a few instances, it was ripped down by gentlemen who declared it offensive to the Crown or to good taste, or to both, and torn by them to pieces, often to the cheering of a crowd. On one occasion, the gentleman who performed that public service got into a heated argument with the innkeeper who had given the caricature a prominent place on his billboard, and he was banned from entering the establishment.
Hugh Kenrick was responsible for the caricature’s appearance in Williamsburg. On the morning after
their arrival in the capital, he and Edgar Cullis traversed the length of Duke of Gloucester and put it up wherever a proprietor permitted, using the supply of copies sent by Dogmael Jones. Hugh had also wanted to post and distribute printed copies of the Commons text of the Stamp Act, but Wendel Barret of the Courier would not undertake the task. His special printer’s license, granted by a private act in the House and signed by a past governor, prohibited him from broadcasting laws and actions of any nature unless reprinted from the Virginia Gazette or a British periodical. His license could be revoked, his presses seized, and he fined for violating the stricture. He was not allowed to compete with the Gazette in Williamsburg, the colony’s official newspaper, which was controlled by the governor. He agreed, however, to compose a short piece on the Act and print it in the next issue of the Courier as an item he could claim was copied from a London newspaper.
In the upstairs committee room of the House, two days after his arrival with Cullis, Hugh had approached Peyton Randolph, the Attorney-General and a member of the committee that was in correspondence with Edward Montague, the House’s agent in London, and showed him a copy of the Commons text of the Stamp Act. He proposed that the Act be made an early matter of business and opened to discussion and debate, or at least firmly scheduled on the House calendar. Randolph agreed to examine the document, and, after consulting with his colleagues on the committee, Speaker John Robinson and Thomas Nelson, Secretary of State, as well as with George Wythe, Richard Bland, and Edmund Pendleton, the next day, in the same room, handed Hugh back the sheaf of papers. He said, without apology or concern, “We cannot with decency pursue this matter, sir, nor speak to any effect about it at this time, not until this House receives an official copy of the passed act that bears His Majesty’s seal and signature.”
“But,” countered Hugh, “if one arrives after this session has adjourned, the House will not have a chance to discuss it.” He paused. “Mr. Montague may not have procured a copy in time to send us. However, a friend of mine in the Commons is certain to have posted one to me, once he has been assured that His Majesty has signed it. That copy may come before the end of this month. You may admit it as evidence of enactment, and allow it to be discussed.”
The Attorney-General, who did not like being told what could be done in the House, had shrugged, and Hugh thought that he saw a hint of satisfaction in Randolph’s eyes. “Thank you for the offer, sir, and the opportunity to review these documents,” said the man, “but I very much doubt that your friend’s mail packet will be speedier than Mr. Montague’s.” He shook his head. “If a copy does not arrive here in time, then the matter must wait until the next session, in November. That is all there is to say to that.”
Edmund Pendleton sat next to Randolph at the committee room table. On the other side of the Attorney-General sat George Wythe and Richard Bland. The four men studied Hugh with veiled hostility. Pendleton spoke. “We will not introduce the precedent of discussing rumor or hearsay, young sir. It would be improper, not to say illegal, to treat the mere draft of a law as an enacted one.”
Bland volunteered, “And you must know, Mr. Kenrick, that petitions and protests against proposed taxes are not permitted by the Commons. Even though Parliament’s rumored precedent on this matter may seem to require an exception to that rule — a quid pro quo in protest, so to speak — it would seem wiser to wait until we are certain that the act has actually been made law.”
“We would not want to embarrass the ministry and the Commons by seeming to be wiser than they, sir,” remarked Wythe. “Such an embarrassment could provoke more evil.”
Hugh ignored the other men, and studied the round, disinterested face of the Attorney-General and the severe, closed features of Pendleton, and remembered that these two men were among the six who composed the last session’s protests in a special committee. It had taken them a month to complete those protests. Cullis had told him that they pared down the “intemperate” and “rash” language of Richard Lee’s original drafts. Lee, a burgess for Westmoreland, had been the youngest member of that committee, and was resented by the older members for his vitality and family connections. The Lees were also political rivals of the Robinsons and Randolphs.
Hugh decided that further entreaty would be useless. He tucked the sheaf of papers under his arm, and bowed slightly. “Thank you for your advices, gentlemen,” he remarked, “and for the time you devoted to my proposal.” Then he stood straight and added, “This House is but a cameo of the Commons.”
The contempt on his face must have been evident to all four men around the table. Randolph said, with some confusion, “Surely, sir, that was meant as a compliment.”
Hugh’s expression was too innocent. “As you please, sir.” Then he turned and left the committee room.
Randolph grimaced as he watched the retreating figure. “There goes a thoroughbred that wants breaking, gentlemen.”
Bland queried, to no one in particular, “What is to say that, if he could be broken, he would not still wish to throw us?”
Although the Stamp Act was on the minds of most of the one hundred burgesses who had journeyed to Williamsburg, few of them showed any desire to speak of it, either in private or within the walls of the Capitol. Most of these men were resigned to conceding submission to a painful fact. An unwritten rule was in effect during this session, observed Hugh: Since an official copy of the Act was not at hand, it could not be treated as a fact. The Speaker prohibited discussion of it; the Attorney-General would not allow it. They preferred to wait for official notification, or for replies to the address, memorial, and remonstrance of last fall. But Edgar Cullis had informed Hugh that these men knew that no replies would be forthcoming, that the House’s protests had not been accorded serious attention in London. Cullis had been told by George Wythe that Edward Montague and James Abercromby, the Council’s agent, had written as much to Speaker Robinson and Council President John Blair.
In the meantime, the House occupied itself with safe, routine business. Hugh derived some consolation from a writ for a new election in Louisa County that was passed from the House to Lieutenant-Governor Fauquier for his signature; Patrick Henry was certain to arrive later in the session. The House also passed a number of private acts that concerned land, entails, surveyors’s reports, and road improvements. It approved of an address to Fauquier for a reward for the “detection” and arrest of the men who murdered some Cherokees in the Shenandoah Valley. And, a trial of sorts was held in the House: Thomas Prosser, a burgess for Cumberland, was charged with fraud, forgery, and suborning a county jury for the purpose of legalizing his theft of another’s land. The evidence against him, unlike a copy of the Stamp Act, was at hand and overwhelming; the House voted to expel him from that body and bar him from ever sitting in it again. He was not subsequently remanded to the custody of the General Court, however. Hugh thought it ironic that it was one of a burgess’s privileges that, while he was a burgess in attendance at a session, he could not be charged in a civil court for any crime but murder. The House of Burgesses was indeed a cameo of the Commons.
Hugh was not alone in his frustration over the “gentleman’s agreement” on the Stamp Act. After each sitting, he met with other members of the House at Marot’s Coffeehouse near the Capitol to discuss strategy and their concerns. There were John Fleming of Cumberland, whose fellow burgess had just been expelled, and George Johnston of Fairfax, both of them lawyers. They were joined by Colonel Robert Munford of Mecklenburg. “They are willing to let our liberties slip away and be forgotten,” said Hugh one evening to these men the day he was rebuffed by Randolph and the committee. He added, with bitterness, “They do not wish there to be a problem. There is no evidence of a problem at hand. Ergo, there is no problem.”
“Well,” said Fleming, “don’t be so harsh on them. They are in a bad patch of policy here. They know that if they protest what may well be a law, they could be charged with a crime much worse than merely not liking that law or the way it was pas
sed.”
“Also,” remarked Johnston, “consider Mr. Lee’s dilemma. They had the satisfaction of knocking him down to size over the protests last session.” He paused when he saw the quizzical look on Hugh’s face. “Why do you think Mr. Lee is not attending this session?”
Hugh shook his head. He had not met Richard Henry Lee, but knew that he was an enemy of the men who controlled the business of the House. “I had heard that he was ill.”
Johnston glanced at the other older men in silent question, and they nodded. Johnston said, “Not as ill as he might be, had he come to prod Mr. Robinson and the House to protest the Act. You see, shortly after Mr. Robinson informed the House last session — on the first day of November, as I recollect, and you were there — that the Massachusetts Assembly had informed him of Parliament’s intention to pass a Stamp Act, and before the House received information from Mr. Montague in London of the futility of protesting that intention…well…Mr. Lee dispatched a letter to his brother in London asking him to request Mr. Grenville’s naming him for the post of stamp distributor of this colony.”
Hugh fell back in his chair in genuine shock. “That could not be true!”
“You may take it to be,” said Fleming. “Why else would he choose to miss an opportunity to confound and scatter his family’s rivals in the House? Those gentlemen have kept as many Lees out of our politics as they could for almost a generation. Ask yourself, this, young sir: How could he argue with any credibility against this Stamp Act, when Mr. Robinson could rise and query him about his application to be named a stamp distributor? What injury would that do to our cause?” Fleming waved a hand. “Mr. Lee is in as bad a money straits as any of us. But, as a stamp distributor, he could claim a certain percentage of the stamp revenues as his entitled salary. That is stipulated in your text of the act, and is certain to be retained in the official text. The number of stamps he would sell, together with a strenuous enforcement of the law, would put him on a pretty perch.”