by Glenn Beck
We have been assured, Sir, in the sacred writings, that “except the Lord build the House they labour 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 bye word down to future ages. And what is worse, mankind may hereafter from this unfortunate instance, despair of establishing Governments be Human Wisdom and leave it to chance, war and conquest.
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 the City be requested to officiate in that service.
George Washington, now the presiding officer of this convention, beamed—but Alexander Hamilton did not. He told the delegates that he believed asking for this kind of “foreign aid,” as he so condescendingly put it, could reveal to the world just how poorly things were going.
Washington was not pleased at all by his protégé’s words. In some ways, he thought, young Hamilton still had much to learn. But in the end, it was not Hamilton’s objections that ruled the day; it was same dreadful finances that had plagued the old Confederation Congress: there was not a silver dime available for such purposes. Franklin’s motion failed.
Virginia governor Edmund Randolph quickly rose to propose that a “sermon be preached at the request of the convention on the 4th of July, the anniversary of Independence, and thence forward prayers be used in ye Convention every morning.” And that was done, with George Washington leading delegates to church on Race Street that Independence Day.
Prayer was now a part of this great constitutional enterprise. However, Washington also knew that prayer without action was a losing proposition.
So, he decided to give the convention a boost of his own.
Saturday, June 30, 1787
North of Philadelphia
It was not yet July, but Philadelphia was already hot as blazes. George Washington had asked Alexander Hamilton to set off with him on an early morning ride into the countryside to escape the heat and Hamilton had readily agreed.
But, perhaps to young Hamilton’s surprise, the weather was simply an excuse; what Washington was really looking for that day was a private place to speak with him.
“What a muddle this has become!” Hamilton exclaimed. “We are getting nowhere. We are a debating society that settles nothing. Big states at small states’ necks—and no one willing to give an inch! We made a good start, agreeing to junk those damned Articles—but now this! I might as well go home!”
“Why don’t you?” Washington responded, in a manner that seemed a little too matter-of-fact.
Hamilton knew his commander too well not to suspect something. He also knew better than to ask anything more than the basic questions. He simply nodded.
“When should I leave, General?”
“Immediately!” Washington replied. He pulled a packet from his satchel and handed it to Hamilton. “Don’t return to Philadelphia. Instead, ride to New York and present this to the secretary of the Continental Congress. Wait for his response—and return with it to me immediately.”
Hamilton just stared at him.
“Does that sound crazy, Colonel?”
“About as crazy as Trenton on Christmas Night, General.” With one hand on the reins and one on the whip, Hamilton galloped north toward New York City.
Sunday, July 1, 1787
City Tavern
Philadelphia
“General Washington, what are you doing here on the Sabbath?”
“Just running an errand, Colonel Few,” Washington answered, handing him a packet. “This arrived for you and Major Pierce. Odd that it was delivered to me, and not to you gentlemen directly.”
William Few, one of Georgia’s two delegates, tore the packet open. As he did, his fellow Georgia delegate, Major William Pierce, could not but help notice that Alexander Hamilton had accompanied Washington on this visit. This was not unusual by itself, but Hamilton’s dust-covered appearance certainly was. The unshaven Hamilton, who usually looked liked he had spent his Saturday nights with the ladies, instead appeared to have not bathed or slept for days.
“Well,” Few said after reading the letter he’d pulled from the packet, “it seems they demand that myself and Major Pierce be in New York. They need a quorum in the Confederation Congress—to do what, I don’t know, but they claim it will be some business affecting Georgia that we will be quite interested in.” Georgia, it seemed, took duties of both the Constitutional Convention and the Confederation Congress lightly, and to save on expenses, had appointed Few and Pierce to serve on both.
“Don’t worry, gentlemen, nothing will happen here in your absence,” Washington assured the Georgians. “Nothing ever does … By the way, I think there’s a coach bound for New York still waiting at the Indian Queen Tavern. Perhaps, if you hurry, you can still make it!
“In fact, Mr. Hamilton, why don’t you ride there right now and ensure the coach is held for them.”
Sunday, July 1, 1787, Afternoon
Home of Robert Morris
Philadelphia
George Washington sat at his friend’s desk and stared blankly into space. The previous day, Gunning Bedford from Delaware had offended nearly everyone in the room with an inexcusable tirade over the Virginia Plan, which would allow for national representation based on state population.
“The small states,” Bedford had exclaimed, “can never agree to the Virginia Plan because the small states will end in ruin. And if we are to be ruined, I’d rather let a foreign power take us by the hand. The little states have been told, with a dictatorial air, that this is our last chance to build a good government. The large states dare not dissolve this confederation. If they do, the small ones will find a foreign ally, one with honor and good faith!
“Let me be clear. It’s treason to annihilate our duly established government. Treason! Gentlemen, I do not trust you! The sword may decide this controversy.”
Bedford’s words were still weighing on Washington’s mind. He knew that things were becoming perilous. The delegates would not last much longer without a breakthrough.
Washington dipped Morris’s quill pen and composed a letter to a friend.
Incompatibility in the laws of different States, and disrespect to those of the general government, must render the situation of this great country weak, inefficient, and disgraceful. It has already done so, almost to the final dissolution of it. Weak at home and disregarded abroad is our present condition, and contemptible enough it is.
To please all is impossible, and to attempt it would be vain.
A great compromise was the only possible solution.
He waited at the Morris home the rest of the afternoon, half expecting news to come that the convention had been dissolved. He could barely eat, and sleep was out of the question—but he did continue to think.
Monday, July 2, 1787, Mid-morning
Pennsylvania State House
Philadelphia
It continued just as Hamilton had described—debate after debate, nothing settled, acrimony growing, not diminishing. The large states kept winning votes, but their victories only prevented any real progress from being made. The small states felt pushed aside. They would never agree to trade Britain’s power for that of Virginia or Pennsylvania. Something had to be done to grab the large states by their collars and haul them to the bargaining table—to hammer out a new government that every state, no matter its size, could agree to.
George Washington slid into his Windsor chair and, with no further direction, the delegates quit their gossiping and hastily took their own seats at their baize-covered tables. The mid-morning air was already hot, stale, and infested with blackflies. The blistering Philadelphia summer had been made worse by
the secrecy of these meeting. Windows were nailed shut. Guards patrolled outside. Inside, tempers flared.
Washington knew the convention was about to blow apart, but he kept his face stoic. He could not show weakness. So much was at stake.
A vote on Connecticut’s proposal to provide each state with equal representation in the Senate would be the first order of business. Washington stood and addressed the convention.
“It is,” he began, his voice unwavering, “probable that no plan we propose will be adopted. Perhaps another dreadful conflict is to be sustained. If, to please the people, we offer what we ourselves disapprove, how can we afterwards defend our work? Let us raise a standard to which the wise and the honest can repair.”
The room was silent. Dozens of eyes stared at him and he seemed to make contact with each of them.
“Gentlemen,” he continued, “the event is in the hand of God.”
Connecticut’s proposal had been around for weeks, but the large states had always easily defeated it, demanding representation only on the basis of population. Washington remained unsure regarding which was the better plan but he knew this: if the convention was to succeed, compromise was essential.
Today’s vote, which would be taken among the eleven states represented, should have broken down this way: Rhode Island, unwilling to bow to any national government that would limit its right to print worthless fiat currency, simply hadn’t shown up—and never would. New Hampshire’s delegates were taking their sweet time to arrive and still hadn’t gotten there. That left the “large state” bloc (Virginia, Massachusetts, Georgia, Pennsylvania, Maryland, North Carolina, and South Carolina) in a position to easily defeat the small states alliance (Connecticut, Delaware, New Jersey, and New York—which had joined the small state voting bloc because their governor had grander plans than to cede power to a national government).
With such a sizable majority, the large states would never agree to even talk of compromise—and that was a major problem. The small states, realizing their lack of leverage, had threatened to walk out of the convention if the Virginia Plan were to pass. That would spell disaster for both the convention and the country.
A compromise was needed, but without something dramatic to shake the entrenched confidence of the delegates, it looked unlikely. Without it, the small states would never agree to union and an ungovernable country was just as bad as having no country at all.
Washington rapped his gavel and requested a roll call. States voted from north to south, and everything proceeded as anticipated, until …
“Maryland?”
Despite his self-discipline, Washington felt his back stiffen. He gazed out over the assembly, but the mood was still the same. Very few people were paying attention. That, he knew, was about to change.
“Maryland aye.”
Washington saw a few heads lift, and a couple of delegates nudging elbows, but most remained buried in their notes or conversations. Maryland usually voted with the large states or stalemated when Washington’s longtime friend, Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer, canceled out his fellow delegate Luther Martin’s vote. Today, however, Jenifer was inexplicably absent. This should have raised more eyebrows, Washington thought. Being absent on such an important day was, to put it mildly, uncommon.
One delegate did realize that something was off kilter: James Madison. Washington caught his inquiring look out of the corner of his eye, but avoided looking at him directly.
Again, all moved forward normally and Washington still saw only disinterest throughout the chamber. Most of the delegates were probably more concerned about how much vitriol they would have to endure after the small states lost yet again.
The secretary barked. “Georgia?”
After a theatrical pause, Harvard-educated Abraham Baldwin responded in a steady voice, “Georgia is divided.”
The chamber went still. Every head turned toward Georgia’s table. Colonel Few and Major Pierce were missing. It was no secret that they had suddenly departed for New York City to take their seats in the Confederation Congress, but no one had expected their absence to matter. The vote should’ve remained the same “yes” it always had. Yet somehow, inexplicably, Georgia’s two remaining delegates had split their ballots.
Washington gave a single rap with his gavel. “Mr. Secretary?”
“The vote is a tie, five to five with one state divided. The motion fails.”
The Connecticut motion had failed once again. That was not a surprise—but how it failed certainly was. The large state coalition had not won; they had merely not lost. The distinction was not minor.
The room erupted. Chairs scraped against the floor. Heads bent conspiratorially close. Voices rose in anger or wonderment. Washington saw the same question on every face: How could this have happened?
They would soon find out.
Into this uproar sauntered George Washington’s longtime friend, Maryland’s Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer. The delegates stared at him as he casually took his seat beside Luther Martin, then their gaze shifted toward Washington.
The youthful but balding Massachusetts delegate Rufus King stood.
“Mr. President, Mr. Jenifer appears to have been unavoidably detained. I make a motion for a new vote.”
Washington rapped with more force than usual. “Denied. The rules do not allow a second vote on the same motion in a single day.” Washington laid the gavel on the table and moved his hand away from it. The finality of the gesture was not lost on the delegates.
Washington recognized South Carolina’s General Charles Cotesworth Pinckney.
“Mr. President, some compromise seems to be necessary. The states are exactly divided on the question for equality of votes in the second branch. I propose a committee consisting of a member from each state be appointed to devise a compromise.”
James Madison jumped up to object to Pinckney’s scheme. He wanted no part of compromise.
But his objection did not stand—Madison lost, and a committee was to be formed. For the first time since the convention started, compromise had a real chance.
Monday, July 2, 1787, Late Afternoon
Indian Queen Tavern
Philadelphia
“You manipulated the vote,” Madison fumed. “I don’t know how you did it—but you did it!”
Madison was as angry as Washington had ever seen him. Washington uncharacteristically put his hand on his shoulder and led him to a corner. Over Madeira, Washington tried to calm him. “Jemmy, you ardently believe that both houses should be proportional to population, and I agree that the national government has to be strengthened beyond the Articles—but I don’t wish to subjugate my beloved Virginia to oppression from an unchecked national government.”
Washington held up two fingers to halt Madison’s objection. “Two houses. A Senate with equal state representation. A House based on population.”
“With all due respect, sir, you are mistaken. The balancing and checks must reside within the national system itself. The states can add little but corruption to the mix.”
Washington admired Madison’s intellect and knowledge of classical thought, but he was uncomfortable with his inflexibility. The Virginia Plan was undoubtedly superior to the Articles, but it could not possibly be the only good design. Many feared the increased authority of the national government. Who would check a runaway national government if not the states? One would have to rely on a perfectly balanced system, and Washington knew enough of men to never believe in perfection. And besides, Washington thought, how could Madison argue so vehemently for states’ rights on the one hand and call the states so corrupt on the other?
“Jemmy, you need to be open to the ideas of others. Giving the states a voice at the national level will help control the new government, appeal to our citizens, and facilitate ratification.”
Washington would’ve expected Madison to soften his stance as their conversation continued, but, on this day, his manner was as black as the wardrobe he normally spor
ted. “Sir, I cannot step away from my principles.”
“Jemmy,” Washington responded, “don’t worry—you will come around to defending this way of government.”
He wasn’t sure, however, if that was really true or not.
Dusk, Monday, July 2, 1787
State House Yard
Philadelphia
Washington was alone. And in more ways than one.
He paced the State House Yard’s circular footpath. No delegates had joined him when he left the Indian Queen. No member of the public could get past the yard’s guardhouse. Tonight, this space was the quietest spot in the city.
As Washington contemplated the work ahead, he grew more confident. His pace quickened. He had finally come to peace with this compromise—now he must bring it to fruition.
A light breeze had cooled the night air. He lifted his gaze to the buildings across the street. He loved Mount Vernon, but there was one brief moment of the day when he preferred Philadelphia. At dusk, when there was still enough natural light to see, and lamps began to illuminate windows, he imagined contented families inside feeling safe and free to go about their business. This is what he wanted to bequeath to his nation.
Last year, he had written to a friend, “No morn ever dawned more favorable than ours did; and no day was more clouded than the present! Wisdom, and good examples are necessary at this time to rescue the political machine from the impending storm.”
Washington turned his face to the sky. It appeared the storm was finally subsiding.
Monday, September 17, 1787, Mid-morning
Pennsylvania State House
Philadelphia
It was finally done. Today the new Constitution of the United States of America would be signed.
Washington touched the edge of the document before him as he listened to Benjamin Franklin’s final appeal for all to sign. Franklin ended his speech by moving that the document be signed “Done in Convention by the unanimous consent of the States present the 17th of September.”