Fergus M. Bordewich

History and Character in Time of Trial
August 26th, 2017

As I drove here from Richmond to Hampden-Sydney College, I could scarcely help but feel enfolded in history. I passed close to Tuckahoe on the James River, where Thomas Jefferson lived as a boy. I followed the line of Lee’s retreat and Grant’s march to final victory in the Civil War. Now we’re gathered on this lovely campus whose founders inspirited generations of students with values that are inextricably interwoven with the founding of this nation. This enfolding sense of history reminds me how close we are to our nation’s past. But it also reminds me how far many of us today feel from the ideals that animated our forebears in their effort to craft an enduring and virtuous government.

Increasingly, it seems, Americans are fracturing culturally, economically, politically, and spiritually. Anxiety, discontent, and distrust of our fellow Americans have become the common currency of public discourse. Political speech has shrunk to sound bites and tweets. Our grasp of basic grammar – the architecture of clear expression – has disintegrated. Language once fitted for locker rooms, if even there, sprouts on protest placards and from the mouths of national leaders. Popular culture saturated with coarseness masquerades as creativity. What passes for news on television and online too often trivializes complexity, distorts the truth, inflates personality, and delivers ideological combat instead of penetrating reportage.

As we all know, I think, education in civics and government has foundered over the last half-century. Countless young – and even not so young – Americans no longer know the difference between the Senate and the House of Representatives, how a bill becomes law, or understand the way power is shared between Congress and the president. It increasingly seems that, in presidential elections, many Americans of all political stripes feel they are choosing an autocrat who can do what he wants once he takes office, and they react with fury when the balancing machinery of republican government prevents him from doing so. Ignorance guarantees disappointment with the inevitably messy way that compromise politics actually works. And such disappointment with what the Founding Fathers bequeathed us invites the demagoguery – of whatever persuasion — that the Founders rightly feared. This kind of ignorance and corrosive disappointment is not something that America can long afford.

Contempt for fundamental democratic institutions has become commonplace, and support for Congress and the established press has fallen to an all-time and deeply concerning low. Confidence in the ability of seasoned politicians to make the decisions that are necessary for the nation’s welfare has shriveled. We long for examples of constructive, creative, capable government, but don’t find them. Where, we might wonder, as many Americans do, are our Washingtons, our Madisons, our Hamiltons? Where are we to find great conciliators and compromisers like Henry Clay, and moral giants such as Martin Luther King, when we so sorely need them? We might be forgiven for believing that the nation is at one of the most dire points in its history.

While history may not offer much immediate solace in a time of trial, the past can nonetheless illuminate our path through the wilderness of the political moment by reminding us that our ancestors overcame many challenges even more fraught with danger than those we face today. History also encourages us to remember that the seeming giants of the past were not demigods but men as challenged by the crises of their time as we are today. Charles Francis Adams – the great-grandson of John Adams — once said: “We are beginning to forget that the patriots of former days were men like ourselves, acting and acted upon like the present race, and we are almost irresistibly led to ascribe to them in our imaginations certain gigantic proportions and superhuman qualities, without reflecting that this at once robs their character of consistency and their virtues of all merit.” Those words were written in 1871. They are, if anything, even more apt today.

Take James Madison, one of the charter trustees of this college. He was physically unimpressive, decidedly lacking in charisma, and spoke in a whispery, difficult-to-hear voice. Yet he consistently impressed those who worked with him with his “most ingenious” clarity of mind, his powers of persuasion, his willingness to listen to others, and his determination to make the imperfect machine of government work. No other man contributed more to the intellectual bedrock of our government. Brilliant as he was, he suffered several major defeats at the Constitutional Convention: he had proposed that the president be chosen by the legislative branch, that Congress be given the right to override state laws, and that the membership of both houses of Congress be based on population. On each of these he was defeated. Yet he went on, unbowed, to implement the Constitution on the parliamentary battleground of the First Congress.

The First Congress met only months after the ratification of the Constitution, first in New York and then in Philadelphia, from 1789 to 1791. The challenges facing the nation were immense. The United States was a shaky collection of eleven sovereign states – North Carolina and Rhode Island hadn’t yet joined the union yet. (Congress almost dispatched troops to march on Rhode Island, to carry out “regime change” in Providence.) Opponents of the new Constitution – including Hampden-Sydney charter trustee Patrick Henry — were demanding hundreds of amendments. The government had no reliable source of revenue. More than fifty different currencies were in circulation. (Thomas Jefferson had to change money every time he crossed a state line on his journey from Monticello to New York.) There was no permanent capital. Southerners were suspicious of northerners, westerners of easterners, and New Englanders of everyone else. There were well-founded fears that the trans-Appalachian West would break off into another country, or maybe several. The British threatened the fragile new nation from the north, Indian nations from the West, and the Spanish from the South. Quakers were demanding an end to slavery, while southerners threatened secession if government dared to tamper with their “peculiar institution.” Even many members of Congress doubted that the government would survive its birth. It’s worth remembering that when Gorge Washington took the oath of office at his first inauguration, onlookers could see that his hands were shaking. It wasn’t because of age: he feared that he wasn’t up to the task he faced. As Madison, who dominated the first crucial session of the First Congress, put it, “We are in a wilderness without a single footstep to guide us.”

In the teeth of such adversity, the First Congress achieved the most prodigious output of any single Congress in American history. It established the executive departments, the federal court system, the first revenue streams for the national government, approved the first amendments to the Constitution, adopted a program for paying the country’s debts and embraced the principles of capitalism as the underpinning of government financial policy. It also founded the first National Bank, established the national capital on the Potomac River, enacted the first patent and copyright laws, founded the United States Coast Guard, and much more.

How did they achieve all this? It wasn’t with a group hug. They did it largely through contentious debate and pragmatic, occasionally shameless, deal-making. Perhaps the best known compromise – now famous thanks to a certain well-known musical – took place at Thomas Jefferson’s home on Maiden Lane, in the heart of today’s financial district, in New York. There, in June 1790, Madison agreed to supply a certain number of very grudging votes from his friends in Maryland and Virginia in order to enact Alexander Hamilton’s far-reaching financial plan. In return, Hamilton a proto-abolitionist who favored a free-state capital, agreed to trade votes from his supporters in the North for the establishment of the seat of government securely in the slave states of Maryland and Virginia. It was, in essence, the first “backroom deal” in American history.

By today’s unrealistic standards, such swapping of votes at the expense of principle might seem reprehensible. But it required both character and courage on the part of the men involved. And the nation was the better for it.

Most of the members of that First Congress were not so different from the men and women who populate Capitol Hill today. Most were professional politicians, a majority were lawyers, and there was a good deal of chaff along with the human grain. They differed deeply from each other on many issues – slavery, centralized government, financial policy, regional interests, taxation. But every one of them wanted the government to succeed. They also believed in politics as a tool for national survival. After all, the right to be political was what they had fought the Revolutionary War for. The usually astute French ambassador, Louis-Guillaume Otto, rather cynically remarked in 1790: “The intrigues, the cabals, the underhanded and insidious dealings of a factious and turbulent spirit are even much more frequent in this republic than in the most absolute monarchy.” But the turbulence he was describing was just republican government at work.

The urgencies of transactional politics aside, Madison and his colleagues also believed in persuasion over power-driven argument, in accommodating divergent views, and in a willingness to make painful compromises for the greater good. Put another way, they relied on their own character, on their trust in the character of their fellow men, and on the kind of humane values that are deeply rooted here at Hampden-Sydney.

Americans today bemoan political partisanship, not entirely without reason. But partisan battles in the early republic could be savage, too. Take the struggle for the first amendments. We rightly think of the Bill of Rights as one of the most majestic components of our constitutional system. But many members of the First Congress didn’t want them at all. Federalists complained that tampering with the new Constitution would “throw everything into confusion.” Others argued that if the Constitution was treated as something “sacred” and untouchable what was the point of permitting amendments at all? Madison took on the responsibility of compressing the more than two hundred proposed amendments down to twelve, of which ten would ultimately be ratified as the Bill of Rights, although it was never called that then. No one at the time was happy with the result. South Carolina Congressman Aedanus Burke complained that the amendments that were finally enacted were “little better than whip-syllabub, frothy and full of wind, formed only to please the palate.”

We sell the founders short when we imagine that today’s messy political battlefields cannot also produce results that may also be of lasting value. And we sell ourselves short when we imagine that the men and women like us who represent us today are somehow made of lesser human material than our ancestors.

No one opposed the new government, the Constitution, and Madison more vigorously than Patrick Henry, the governor of Virginia, and the country’s paramount advocate for the rights of states against strong central government. Frankly, he hated the Constitution. “The principles of this system are extremely pernicious, impolitic, and dangerous,” he declared in 1788, predicting that the new government it created would “oppress and ruin the people.” The following year, he did everything he could to sabotage Madison’s election to Congress. But even Henry resigned himself to results that he had fiercely resisted. “Altho’ the Form of Government into which my Countrymen determined to place themselves had my Enmity, yet as we are one & all embarked, it is natural to care for the crazy Machine, at least so long as we are ought of Sight of a Port to refit,” he wrote to his protégé James Monroe after the close of the First Congress.

Both Madison and Henry were of course gentlemen of their time. But as Henry Adams implied, our ancestors had no monopoly on virtue. One of the most virtuous public men I have ever known lived not far from here, in Lunenberg County. His name was Nathaniel Lee Hawthorne. He was a World War II veteran who served in a racially segregated unit and was badly wounded in the Italian campaign. When I met him in 1967, he was the county chairman of the NAACP. I was a college kid helping him to register disenfranchised African-American voters. He was threatened, harassed, shot at, and accused of crimes he never committed. His rectitude was quiet but unbreachable. He also possessed extraordinary physical courage. One day, he walked into the middle of a Ku Klux Klan rally on the steps of the county court house to prove that African Americans weren’t afraid of them. (I know all this because I was with him that day.) If ever a man had reason to despair of his country it was Hawthorne. But he believed fiercely in it, and – like Madison and Henry – he also believed in the moral fortitude of his fellow men. He was, in every respect, a gentleman. And his battle for fairness in Lunenberg County was not so very different in its essentials from the one that Madison and his colleagues waged in New York two hundred and twenty-seven years ago.

In government, times are always tough, and the future always uncertain. We may wish to return to a kinder and gentler, more inspiring, more honorable, or more enlightened time. But every age has been as fraught with anxiety and dread as our own. In a sense, we are always, in Patrick Henry’s words, “ought of Sight of a Port.” History can’t guarantee us that our future will be bright, or ensure that when the political wheel turns, as it must, it will restore our world as it was before. Rather, history tell us that our political reality was never trouble-free to begin with.

Times of trial are not something for us to fear: crisis also reveals the essential character of a man. We will continue to struggle for the ideals and policies that we believe in. But lasting victory can never be achieved without compromise, and compromise can never be achieved without respect for one’s adversaries. Madison knew it. So did Patrick Henry. So did Nathaniel Lee Hawthorne. When we despair, we would do well to turn to Madison and Washington, Henry Clay and Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, and others like them who brought common values of fairness and tolerance to the political world that we live in. All of them faced crises that tried their souls. Times of crisis also give birth to creative solutions. Just because we cannot see them at the moment does not mean that they don’t exist.

For almost two hundred and fifty years Hampton-Sydney has been committed to shaping character that will endure, and not falter amidst the turbulence of the moment. Its mission to form good men and good citizens is today more urgently needed than ever, as we navigate the personal and public challenges that will inescapably emerge to confront us as our lived history unfolds. Its commitment to teaching and embodying the values of mutual respect, open-mindedness, clear reasoning, and clear language are the blood and sinews of our society. Civility will never become obsolete. Honor need not grow feeble with age. These benchmarks of Hampden-Sydney’s purpose will remain forever vital not just to the molding of its graduates’ character, but to that of the nation.

YES, Slaves Did Build the White House and the United States Capitol
July 29th, 2016

Irate conservatives this week dismissed Michelle Obama’s assertion at the Democratic Convention that enslaved workers built the President’s mansion. They’re dead wrong, and Mrs. Obama is precisely right. Here’s the real story, which I explored at length in my book “Washington: The Making of the American Capital” (Amistad/HarperCollins, 2008), a history of how the politics of slavery helped to determine the location of the nation’s capital, and the role that slaves played in the construction of the city.
In the early 1790s, when construction on the federal buildings began, in theory it should have been possible to hire enough free white workers to undertake the jobs that needed to be done. But most local whites shunned what they harshly called “n—-r work.” Moreover, the commissioners appointed by George Washington to oversee the construction of the city were all slave owners, and deeply suspicious of independent white labor. Free men were liable to complain, agitate, disobey their superiors, and walk off the job. As one observer put it, the free white worker “becomes the greatest puppy imaginable, and much unpleasanter even than the Negro.”
There was of course a solution to the commissioners’ labor anxieties readily to hand: slaves in abundance. Masters could lease their slaves to the commissioners for a handsome profit, which might range as high as 23 percent of their market value for one year’s work. They could generally be hired locally for about three-fifths the cost of the cheapest unskilled free labor. Moreover, as early as 1793, the federal commissioners deliberately undercut white workers’ demands for higher wages by making it clear that they could always be replaced by slaves, who “have proven a very useful check and kept our affairs cool.”
White workers made up about one-third of the workforce in the capital at any given time, mostly as skilled stone-carvers and at certain other specialized trades. In 1795, about 300 slaves were working in the city-to-be, including the White House and the Capitol Building, half of them for the federal commissioners and the rest for private contractors. The white workforce then numbered about 150.
Slaves generally were assigned the roughest and least-skilled tasks: hauling timber, dragging sledges, digging foundations, stirring mortar, toting baskets of stone, and the like. Some were highly skilled, however, such as White House architect James Hoban’s private team of five enslaved carpenters. Hoban earned $60 a month from the commissioners for the work of his carpenters, one of whom was so superior in his workmanship that he — or rather Hoban — was paid more than free white workers on the same job.
Who were these enslaved men? The federal commissioners’ yellowing records tell us nothing personal about them. But their names can be found, along with the jobs they did, and the amount that their masters were paid for their work, in box after box stored at the National Archives’ facility in College Park, Maryland. Many hundreds of the chits for their work survive on scraps of old paper, there for anyone to read. There you’ll find Commissioner Gustavus Scott’s two slaves, Kitt and Bob; William Somerwell’s Charles; Susannah Johnson’s Peter, Nace, Basil, and Will; George Fenwick’s Auston, and many, many more.
Thanks to Michelle Obama for reminding us of them, and that slavery was embedded in our country from the founding, just as it was in the erection of our most important symbolic national buildings.

King Donald The First: What Would Washington And Madison Think?
July 28th, 2016

The extraordinary rise of Donald Trump is forcing Americans, whether they like it or not, to consider just what they want a president to be. Mr. Trump certainly isn’t what the nation’s Founders had in mind. George Washington and James Madison aren’t here to offer their opinion on the New York developer and showman. But they can tell us something about the kind of person they thought should lead the republic.
In 1789, the First Congress spent weeks debating what to call the nation’s new chief executive. Vice President John Adams considered “His Most Benign Highness” or at least “His Highness” as the barest acceptable forms of address, although he preferred “His High Mightiness,” and dismissed “President” as fit for nothing more than the leader of “fire companies or a cricket club.” Others proposed that the name “Washington” should itself become a title, like “Caesar” or “Augustus” in ancient Rome, to be bestowed on future presidents.
Fortunately, George Washington, would have none of it. He rejected all grandiose titles as offensive to the leveling American spirit. Although he was a patrician slave owner, and a military man accustomed to command, he was republican to his bones, and regarded Congress, not himself, as the leading organ of government. Underpinning his republicanism was unbreachable self-restraint, modesty, and respect for the dignity of his fellow political men, including those he disagreed with. As far as he was concerned, the humble title of “President” was just fine.
Washington would doubtless be shocked at the openly authoritarian – he would have said “monarchical” – tendencies of the presidential candidate of today’s Republican Party. Perhaps it’s a little unfair to Mr. Trump, but had he been alive in 1789, he would probably have called Washington a wuss and a loser. He almost lost his army at Valley Forge, and he lost more battles than he won, didn’t he? It’s easy to imagine that Mr. Trump would have enthusiastically embraced the most pompous title possible.
Increasingly, it appears that millions of Americans, whether they admit it to themselves or not, no longer want a president at all. They seem to want a leader, who although he may wear a business suit and speak the lingo of a construction site, wields power uninhibited by the niceties of our democratic process or constitutional restraint. In other words, they want a king.
The political soil was tilled for demagogy long before Mr. Trump appeared on the scene. It was cultivated by decades of feral right-wing attacks on the federal government, by the metastasizing culture of celebrity, by media obsessed with horserace campaign coverage and incessant polling, and – perhaps more than anything else – by countless ill-educated citizens lacking real understanding of how government actually works. Cynicism thrives in a vacuum of knowledge. It’s a good bet that few Americans today fully understand what it takes to pass legislation, the relationship between the executive and legislative branches of government, or the need for compromise even on matters of principle in order to make progress. These are facts that any schoolchild could explain until courses in social studies and government began to disappear from schools in the 1960s.
Many Americans seem to think that presidents have the power to wave a magic scepter in order to enact and enforce the promises they make during their campaigns. This applies to many of Sen. Bernie Sanders’s supporters too, who share Mr. Trump’s delusional notion of presidential power, as if merely declaring a “revolution” were the same thing as actually governing in the face of a Congress that might be opposed to his will.
In today’s America, if presidents haven’t done what we want in their first hundred days, we’re all too ready to dismiss them as failures – as if such a breathtakingly short span of time were a valid measure for political accomplishment. This failure seems proof not of the difficulty of governing in a democracy, or of the complexity of the issues involved, but of the president’s own hypocrisy, corruption, incompetence, or moral “betrayal” of the voters. Citizens of Weimar Germany—the republic formed after World War I and the predecessor of Hitler’s Third Reich—would recognize this facile contempt for the messiness of constitutional government, and the desire for a forceful new figure to step in and clean it up.
Democracy is clumsy by nature. Anyone who thinks differently doesn’t understand the government that Washington, Madison, and their 18th century compatriots and his allies bequeathed to us. They deliberately created an obstacle course for legislation that made it difficult for either a demagogic president or a tyrannical faction of Congress to exert too much power on their own. It is precisely this diffusion of power that Mr. Trump would like to undo with his disdain for both political and constitutional restraints, whether applied to the capricious abrogation of trade treaties, the abolition of gun-free zones in schools, or the torture of captured foes.
If we truly want our government to work, we seek principled but pragmatic leaders not zealots, ideologues, or demagogues with imperial delusions, who will further undermine public trust in government. The founders knew that demagogy, in particular, was a recipe for disaster. In this year of Donald Trump, we ought to take their fears seriously.
Madison was more worried about legislative than executive tyranny at a time when the presidency was frail and untried. But we would do well to remember his cautionary words as the November election approaches: “What is government itself but the greatest of all reflections on human nature? If men were angels, no government would be necessary.” Mr. Trump, it hardly needs to be said, is no angel.
Originally published at The Huffington Post.

We’re Hostages of a Misunderstood Second Amendment
July 1st, 2016

Yet another set of bodies has been laid to rest, this time in Orlando, Florida, slaughtered by yet another gun-wielding maniac. The National Rifle Association issued its usual irresponsible platitudes. Many Republicans – and some Democrats — in thrall to the gun lobby continue to refuse to take action against the nation’s plague of gun violence. It’s a show we’ve seen before, like a summer rerun that was depressing the first time we saw it, and only gets worse with age.
Remarkably, neither side in the debate over gun control has paid much attention to what the members of the First Congress, who created the Second Amendment, were really thinking. In the course of researching my new book “The First Congress: How James How James Madison, George Washington, and a Group of Extraordinary Men Invented the Government”, I was astonished to discover how perfunctory the debate was over the Second Amendment. Indeed, it was the least discussed of all the amendments that formed the Bill of Rights. This might seem strange, given that the First Congress was very contentious on most of the issues that came before it. But the members knew exactly what the amendment meant: a national militia organization under the aegis of the federal government that would serve as the nation’s first line of defense. It certainly did not mean a free-for-all of unorganized citizens armed to the teeth in a Hobbesian world of fear.
In 1789, James Madison did propose an absolute individual right to bear arms. But Congress decisively altered his proposal, making it clear that the amendment applied specifically to an officially sanctioned force. The first version of the amendment stated: “A well-regulated militia, composed of the body of the people, being the best security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” The Senate further underscored the legislators’ intention by deleting the elastic phrase “composed of the body of the people,” thus making it even clearer that this did not mean a force composed of everybody and anybody.
That’s not all. Members of Congress were well aware that Secretary of War Henry Knox – a former Boston bookseller who served as Washington’s chief of artillery during the Revolution –was writing a comprehensive plan that laid out just how the national militia would be organized. Americans were fiercely opposed to the establishment of a standing army: what that evoked was bullying Redcoats billeted in your home, eating your food, and insulting your wife and daughter. But the nation had to defend itself somehow against the British to the north, Spanish to the south, and powerful Indian nations along its frontiers. Knox proposed that able-bodied white men be organized into several “grand corps” that would include males from eighteen to forty-five, with a reserve corps of men up to the age of sixty. Controversy centered not on the abstract “right to bear arms” but on fears that too many men might be called away from their work for militia duty, and that young draftees would “acquire a habit of Idelness.” Although the Militia Acts, passed in 1792 by the Second Congress, did not fully bring Knox’s plan to fruition, they laid the foundation for today’s state-based National Guard system.
The gun lobby is fond of citing the language of the Second Amendment as if it existed in a historical vacuum, twisting it to justify a supposed right of anyone – including potential terrorists who are not allowed to board airplanes – to buy and publicly brandish any kind of murderous battlefield weapon. The Second Amendment’s “originalists” wouldn’t be cheering them on. More likely, they’d be sitting in with Democrats on the floor of the House of Representatives, in hope of bringing the insanity of rampant gun violence to an end.

Brookings’ Philip Wallach Reviews The First Congress
May 28th, 2016

The following review of The First Congress: How James Madison, George Washington, and a Group of Extraordinary Men Invented the Government was published by The Brookings Institution’s Philip Wallach on May 16, 2016.

Founding Workhorses: Review of ‘The First Congress’

By Philip A. Wallach
Editor’s note: This post is a review of Fergus Bordewich, The First Congress: How James Madison, George Washington, and a Group of Extraordinary Men Invented the Government (Simon & Schuster, 2016).
In his 2004 biography of Alexander Hamilton, lately of even greater renown, Ron Chernow writes, “If Washington is the father of the country and Madison the father of the Constitution, then Alexander Hamilton was surely the father of the American government.” Hamilton (everyone now knows) got a lot farther by working a lot harder—and one of the many great accomplishments of Chernow’s book was to show us what that meant, in terms of mundane, toiling administrative work.
The achievement of Fergus Bordewich’s new book, The First Congress, is to show us that, Hamilton’s lately much-sung labors notwithstanding, the work of creating an effective federal government in America was shouldered as much by legislators—including some workhorses whose contributions in the first Congress are often forgotten.
To be sure, much of Bordewich’s story is spent with familiar characters who themselves possessed legendary work ethics: James Madison, the constitutional architect who as a member of the House became Congress’s informal leader; President George Washington, the towering figure whose willingness to treat Congress as “the paramount branch of government” was indispensable; and Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson, and Henry Knox, each of whom played formative roles as the first heads of the original federal executive departments. But each of those departments had to be created by Congress. Washington could not be sworn in until members of Congress assembled to count electors’ ballots. And while Madison took the lead, his lesser known colleagues would be the ones to concretize his sometimes-theoretical constitutional vision and ensure it survived first contact with reality.
The need to do so quickly was pressing. “Confidence in government was abysmally low…contempt for politicians was rife, … [and] many political men held an equally low opinion of the voting public.” There was anything but widespread confidence that the United States were destined for survival, let alone greatness. At the same time, expectations were very high: if the new nation, until then hobbled by its feeble government under the Articles of Confederation, was to find its legs, this was the time.
Congress began its work in the temporary capital of New York City, then a fast-growing and chaotic shipping hub of 30,000, and its first days were hardly auspicious. When shots were fired on March 4, 1789, to signify the beginning of the new government, there was nowhere near the majority quorum needed to do business in either house. Bordewich vividly paints the predicament that most members then faced, making journeys through an almost unimaginably harsh and untamed landscape; to make the journey from Boston to New York required “a six-day journey by sleigh tumbling from one rock to another riding over the Ice for miles down a river & pushed in a wherry across another.” What little there was of the holdover government had the humblest of trappings: John Jay “ran the Confederation’s Department of Foreign Affairs from his law office, and Henry Knox…presided over the War Department from rented rooms at a Water Street tavern.”
Finally the House achieved a quorum of twenty-nine members on April 1 and the Senate followed on April 5, and both chambers got down to the work of considering the legislation that would give the new government its shape. Proceedings in these Federalist-dominated chambers were far less structured and rule-bound than our familiar image of a legislature, which is perhaps unsurprising considering the relative smallness of these bodies (by the end of the first Congress, 65 Representatives and 26 Senators, none of whom had professional staffs).
But if they started haltingly, they managed to work their way through a remarkable number of issues, both prosaic and explosive. In spite of a complex interplay of competing interests, especially the manufacturing-heavy north and agricultural, slavery-dependent south, they worked through a tariff that would provide the federal government’s main source of revenue, a Coasting Act to register ships in coastal waters, and a Collection Act that established the system of customs collectors and port officials who would enforce the tariffs. After a difficult debate about presidential removal authority, they created the first three executive departments (Foreign Affairs, Treasury, and War).
With the leadership of “the prodigiously hardworking Senator Oliver Ellsworth” of Connecticut, they gave birth to a powerful federal judiciary, structured along entirely novel lines, and later provided work for that system by establishing the first federal crimes and passing a copyright act. The Senate staked out its power of “advice and consent” over appointments and treaties (including one with the Creek nation) as a substantive one by refusing to simply ratify Washington’s choices without debate, even when he came to the Senate chamber in person to press his case. Bordewich also nicely covers their rancorous debates over the future of slavery instigated by Quaker abolitionist petitioners, which ultimately failed to budge the status quo, in large part because of fears that the new constitutional union could still easily fall to pieces over the issue.
Bordewich’s telling of the debates around what we think of as the Bill of Rights is especially illuminating. He makes it clear that Federalist legislators thought of them not as a legislative priority, but rather as an “amendment problem” pressed by the small Anti-Federalist minority to be expediently managed and minimized. When Madison first broached the subject of amendments in June of 1789, he was rebuffed. As Representative John Vining (Federalist – Del.) put it, “The people are waiting with anxiety for the operation of the Government. Have they passed a revenue law? Is not the daily revenue escaping us? Let us not perplex ourselves by introducing one weighty and important question after another, till some decisions are made.” Eventually, in September 1789, 39 amendments did receive meaningful, if rather brisk, debate. As important as passing the 10 that were ratified (plus the wandering 27thAmendment) was the rejection of others that would have imperiled a strong and independent federal government, including endowing voters with a right to give legislators binding instructions and a limitation of federal powers to those “expressly” provided by the Constitution. Bordewich brings these debates to life with fascinating and sympathetic portraits of men who mostly found themselves on the losing side of these early congressional debates, including Anti-Federalist Representatives Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts, James Jackson of Georgia, and Aedanus Burke of South Carolina.
Perhaps the narrative center of the book is the maneuvering that surrounded two debates that became entangled: where the nation’s capital should be permanently situated and whether the federal government should follow Alexander Hamilton’s plan to assume state debts (which Madison opposed). What is passing into the current collective memory as a behind-closed-doors bargain between Hamilton and Madison and Jefferson, Bordewich ably illuminates as the culmination of a series of intricate congressional offers, counter-offers, and betrayals, in which the young country’s different regions felt each other out and embraced the need for horse-trading as a way forward. Philadelphians beat out advocates of a capital on the Susquehanna or in Baltimore for the government’s immediate future, and southerners were enticed to consent to assumption of state debts with the promise of a permanent capital on the Potomac. As Bordewich puts it, “An American tradition of bare-knuckle compromise had been born.”
The third session of the First Congress, which convened in the new temporary capital of Philadelphia in December 1790, took up “a small mountain of legislation” it only partially worked through before permanently recessing in March 1791. It passed laws to adopt Hamilton’s plan for a national bank (again over Madison’s opposition), set up the structure for payment of executive branch officials, recruit a new regiment to fight Indians on the northwest border, reduce the public debt, and collect duties on tea, among others. As Bordewich puts it in summation, “From a piece of paper, the members of the First Congress had made a government.”
That is an achievement worth dwelling on more often than we do, and one with some obvious lessons for the present moment. Our first Congress was filled with members who perceived their own principles and their constituents’ interests to be sharply at odds with those of their colleagues, but they “shared a common fear of failure and a determination to make government work even if it meant compromising on matters of deep principle.” Today, the stakes are no doubt somewhat lower—we have a vast federal government that keeps on going, for better or for worse, whether our representatives in Congress compromise or not. But Congress is the first branch for a reason, and the prospects for our government’s legitimacy are poor if our legislators are mired in a pattern of reactive sniping rather than constructively compromising on the dominant questions of the day. Let us hope that current legislators will be inspired by Bordewich’s chronicle of their forbears, who made Congress the essential institution to forging a strong nation.
Philip Wallach is a senior fellow in Governance Studies at The Brookings Institution. He writes on a wide variety of domestic policy topics, including climate change, regulatory reform, the debt ceiling, and marijuana legalization.
Originally published at www.brookings.edu.

Washington Monthly Review: Next to a Miracle
May 23rd, 2016

The following review of The First Congress: How James Madison, George Washington, and a Group of Extraordinary Men Invented the Government was published in the Washington Monthly March/April/May 2016 edition.

Next to a Miracle


The first session of the U.S. Congress was as bitter and riven by divisions—over ideology, taxes, federal versus state power, the role of “big money,” flexible versus strict interpretation of the Constitution—as the 114th Congress. The difference is, we can be proud of the first.

By Allen Guelzo
We have never lacked for a wealth of books explaining the federal Constitution, or laying out the dramatic motion-by-motion forging of the document in the 1789 Philadelphia Convention. David O. Stewart’s The Summer of 1787 (2007), Rick Beeman’s Plain, Honest Men: The Making of the Constitution(2009), and Pauline Maier’s Ratification: The People Debate the Constitution, 1787-1788 (2010) are only the most recent entrants in a prosperously crowded field. What came after the Constitutional Convention, though, drops sadly out of historical view, even though the First Congress, which was the most important creation of the Constitution, was understood on all hands to be the real arena in which the Constitution would be judged a failure or a success.
This is a little like devoting most of one’s attention to building a ship without inquiring whether it ever afterward actually floated. The story of the First Congress, as a Congress, has usually been shouldered aside in favor of biographies of the individual players or the internal struggles of George Washington’s administration. In fact, were it not for the work of George Washington University’s Kenneth Bowling’s books on Politics in the First Congress, 1789-1791 (1990), Inventing Congress: Origins and Establishment of the First Federal Congress (1999), andNeither Separate nor Equal: Congress in the 1790s (2000), we might not have anything to guide us at all through a Congress that Washington described as “next to a Miracle.”
Fergus Bordewich’s The First Congress: How James Madison, George Washington, and a Group of Extraordinary Men Invented the Government gives us, finally, a popular and finely paced account of the Congress that could have easily unmade the new American republic in the course of a few months. A good deal of the betting money, especially among the handful of European diplomats who represented the United States’s minuscule number of allies in the world, was on failure. The French minister, Élie de Moustier, was certain that the new Congress would fare no better than the Confederation Congress it succeeded, and when at last it would be clear, after two tries, that Americans were incapable of governing themselves, France could step in to offer what Moustier glibly called “guidance” to the American yokels.
Instead, the First Congress surprised even its own members by the marvelous scope of its accomplishments. Sitting in three sessions (from April of 1789 to March 3, 1791) in two different capitals (New York for the first two sessions, Philadelphia for the third), the First Congress managed to adopt the first ten amendments, create a fully developed federal judiciary, pass revenue legislation that would give the national government its first reliable income, set up a national bank and adopt a sophisticated fiscal policy, bring a presidential cabinet into being, give life to the separation of powers described in the Constitution, debate slavery, ratify the first Indian treaties, identify the location of a new national capital, and (hardly among the least of its deeds) pass the first American copyright legislation. “In no nation, by no Legislature,” wrote John Trumbull, “was ever so much done in so short a period for the establishment of Government, order, public Credit and general tranquility.”
Not that any of this came easily. The new Congress was to assemble for its first session on March 4, 1789—only to prove shy of a quorum in both houses. Only eight senators (from New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, and Georgia) were in attendance, and so they “adjourned from day to day,” waiting for more of their colleagues to show up. When no other senators appeared after a week, the “same members” resolved to send “a circular letter … to the absent members, requesting their immediate attendance.” Even more humiliating, when no one responded, they were forced to send a second letter, on March 18. The stragglers finally began to appear on March 19, beginning with William Paterson of New Jersey, and finally, on April 6, a quorum was declared—all of twelve senators.
The members of the new House of Representatives were just as difficult to summon. Only thirteen were on hand on March 4; James Madison, who had played so outsized a role in the Constitutional Convention, was kept away from New York by the miserable weather until March 14. George Washington was even further behind schedule. Not until the electoral votes had actually been counted on April 7 and Washington declared the president did the Father of His Country bestir himself to join the new government.
The entire business might have collapsed on itself if Washington had delivered the inaugural address he had prepared for his swearing-in. The handwritten draft ran to seventy-three pages, and, even worse, lobbed one attack after another on “the Adversaries to this Constitution,” on “the rotten” Articles of Confederation, and on his “personal enemies if I am so unfortunate as to have deserved such a return from any one of my countrymen.” A horrified James Madison had prevailed on Washington to trim this jeremiad down to 1,400 words, couched in a much blander tone. Even so, Washington took the constitutionally prescribed oath on the balcony of New York’s Federal Hall on April 30, “agitated and embarrassed more than ever he was by the leveled cannon or pointed musket.” He was all too conscious of what every other member of Congress was surely agonizing over—that every step, every glance would “hereafter be drawn into precedent,” and one mistake now would mean a heritage of political misery thereafter.
On the other hand, the First Congress had Madison, representing one of Virginia’s ten districts in the House of Representatives, who was a host in himself. Madison, said the Massachusetts political wunderkind Fisher Ames, was “a man of sense, reading, address, and integrity” who “speaks low” and “decently, as to manner, and no more. His language is very pure, perspicuous, and to the point.” It was Madison who, on April 7, introduced the first bills to establish a national revenue, through tariffs and tonnage fees, and to create a workable system for tax collections and a registration process for American merchant ships. It was also Madison’s task to redeem the pledge he had made during the Virginia ratification struggle to introduce a series of amendments to the new Constitution that would reassure the political unbelievers in the republic that the new federal government would not turn into a dictatorial monstrosity. And it was Madison, along with Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton, who brokered the deal that established the Potomac River as the site for the new capital.
However, as Bordewich candidly illustrates, Madison was not a magician. The amendments he had promised to introduce—and which we sanctify today as the Bill of Rights—were not greeted with enthusiasm, much less unanimity, in the First Congress. Madison wanted nineteen amendments inserted into the body of the Constitution at various relevant places; Roger Sherman objected that this would mutilate the Constitution he had signed in Philadelphia, and proposed to attach them at the end. Madison wanted swift action; the House voted to send the amendments to a committee, which whittled them down to seventeen and sent them to the Senate, which cut them down to twelve. Even then, two of the twelve amendments fell short of ratification; one of them, dealing with pay raises for members of Congress, would finally be ratified as the 27th Amendment to the Constitution only in 1992.
More influential in Bordewich’s telling even than Madison is Alexander Hamilton, for it was Hamilton, installed in the first cabinet office created by the new Congress, who devised the two great reports on public finance and a national bank that determined “what kind of nation the United States was going to be, one in which capitalism would be embraced as a driving engine of federal policy.” Hamilton was the rare soul in the new republic who had more than an elementary grasp of European finance, and it took every ounce of persuasion he could muster to convince Congress that “debt could … be translated into political power.”
Certainly, there was no shortage of debt for the first Congress to contemplate. Bordewich estimates that the face value of the combined state and national borrowing since the Revolution amounted to $74 million, with interest in arrears, and multiplying. To keep this wolf from the door, Hamilton could count on a revenue from federal tariffs and excise taxes of a little over $4.4 million per annum. Undaunted, Hamilton not only outlined the process for monetizing the national debt, but even suggested adding to that responsibility the burden of the state debts—a proposal that aroused the fierce opposition of a number of states, not because they enjoyed bankruptcy but because they dreaded that this assumption of state debt would establish for once and all the economic supremacy of the federal government over the states.
Oddly, a far more urgent role in resisting Hamilton’s proposals emerged from slavery. Hamilton is one of the few people in Bordewich’s cast of early republican solons who washes himself clean of the taint of black slavery in the new republic; and much of the opposition to Hamilton’s funding plans comes from the representatives of the slaveholding states, who saw in any form of federal supremacy a future threat to slaveholding. “A debt-compelling government is no remedy to men who have lands and negroes, and debts and luxury,” Fisher Ames shrewdly observed, “but neither trade nor credit, nor cash, nor the habits of industry, or of submission to a rigid execution of law.”
The Constitutional Convention had twice wrestled with the incompatibility of slavery and American liberty during its deliberations, until, prompted by southern threats of withdrawal and northern assurances that slavery was an institution on the economic way out, the Convention concluded to say nothing. But, in what Bordewich describes as the first congressional lobbying campaign, antislavery activists—chiefly Philadelphia and New York Quakers and the Pennsylvania Abolition Society—forced antislavery petitions onto the floor of the House, and generated a fury that should have made clear that slaveholders had no intention of letting slavery disappear quietly.
Bordewich, in his 2009 book, Washington: The Making of the American Capital, revealed how much the determination of Madison and Jefferson to plant the new capital on the Potomac was driven by the fear and resentment of southern members of Congress that Philadelphia was a nest of abolitionist vipers who would entice their domestics to run away. He returns to that theme here, describing it as “the beast in the garden,” making the debate over the location of a capital not only the most convoluted of all the First Congress’s debates but the moment when “the fissure between south and north … finally cracked open.” From the First Congress, a bright line reaches toward Fort Sumter.
No one should underestimate the difficulty of the task Bordewich has undertaken here. Like the Constitutional Convention, the First Congress moved crabwise on issues, visiting and then revisiting them in no particular order. Bordewich strikes an unusual and successful balance between treating the First Congress chronologically and explaining it thematically. He does not hesitate to admire Hamilton, Madison, and Washington; neither does he hesitate to scoff at John Adams, Washington’s self-important vice president, as the man who “established a lasting template for vice-presidential inconsequence.” And anyone, as Bordewich says, who imagined that the First Congress would behave like a “solemn conclave of classical philosophers rather than politicians” would soon be disabused by the roaring tirades of Georgia’s James Jackson, by the pointless truculence of Elbridge Gerry, or by George Washington’s coldly furious determination, when the Senate refused to endorse his negotiations with the Creeks, that “he would be damned if ever he went there again.” (And he never did—nor has any president since.)
As distant as they appear to us in their knee breeches and cocked hats, the members of the First Congress fell to the same horse trading, pork barreling, foot dragging, committee referring, and interest peddling as the members of the 114th Congress are reviled for indulging in today. Yet, as Bordewich adds, “despite their competing interests and personalities, they would perform a feat of collaborative creativity that has rarely been rivaled.” And, Bordewich cannily observes, the issues they wrestled with in 1790 still have resonance today: “sectional rivalry, literal versus flexible interpretations of the Constitution, conflict between federal power and states’ rights, tensions among the three branches of government, the protection of individual rights, the challenge of achieving compromise across wide ideological chasms, suspicion of ‘big money’ and financial manipulators, hostility to taxation, the nature of a military establishment, and widespread suspicion of strong government.”
You might think 1790 was only yesterday.
Allen Guelzo is Henry R. Luce III Professor of the Civil War Era at Gettysburg College, where he serves as director of the Civil War Era Studies Program.
Originally published at: www.washingtonmonthly.com.

Political Rhetoric Over SCOTUS Nominee Is Historically Unhinged
May 3rd, 2016

Republican rhetoric over the appointment of a new justice to the Supreme Court to replace Antonin Scalia is not only transparently partisan, it’s historically baseless.
In rejecting President Obama’s efforts to name a candidate, Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell has repeatedly said, “Let the American people decide.” Meanwhile, Senator Pat Roberts of Kansas bizarrely declared, “You gotta go back to Jim Madison, when the Founding Fathers sat around. It used to be 67, and now it’s down to 60,” to defeat a presumed filibuster.
The Republican Party has long proclaimed its devotion to founding principles and celebrated “originalism” as the only authentic way to interpret the Constitution. However, McConnell’s and Roberts’ assertions epitomize exactly the kind of historical “revisionism” that Republicans usually decry, not to mention a travesty of both the Founders’ intent and the Constitution’s explicit meaning.
The Constitution stipulates that the president, not “the people,” name new justices, and that the Senate approves them. The Founders never intended Supreme Court appointments to be a political popularity contest. Nor, Sen. Roberts should know, did James Madison advocate that a filibuster be applied to Supreme Court nominees, or any other nominees, for that matter. Filibusters did not even exist in Madison’s day.
The members of the First Congress who essentially created our national government, were not “originalists.” None of them thought the Constitution was untouchable and unalterable. If its text was so sacred, as Congressman Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts put it, what was the point of permitting amendments at all? Rather, the Founders saw the Constitution as a flexible instrument that could be adapted to future needs as the country grew. As Madison, who saw the new government as a bold experiment, put it, “We are in a wilderness without a single footstep to guide us.”
A Supreme Court and a federal judiciary system were called for by the Constitution. But they were actually created by the First Federal Congress, which met from 1789 to 1791, first in New York and then in Philadelphia. Although debate over the powers of the federal judiciary was sometimes intense, members of the First Congress never contemplated the kind of political trench warfare that often surrounds Supreme Court appointments today. Indeed, they hoped and expected that the court would rise above politics.
The members of the First Congress certainly never imagined that politicians would use the court as a pawn in an ideologically-driven attempt to deny a president’s constitutionally prescribed right to nominate his choice for the court. Much of the debate in the First Congress concerning the federal judiciary, as well as other issues, emphasized the need to strengthen the power of the new presidency, not weaken it.
Significantly, the sharpest debate over the creation of the federal judiciary focused essentially on what we now call states’ rights. Southerners in particular worried that a strong judiciary might someday tamper with slavery. Senator Pierce Butler of South Carolina, for one, charged that the judiciary bill would be able to “destroy, to cut up at the root the state judiciaries, to annihilate their whose system of jurisprudence and finally swallow up every distinguishing mark of a distinct government.” But the bill passed overwhelmingly.
The Supreme Court’s beginnings were modest. Its first meeting took place on February 2, 1790, in New York City. Symbolically, the moment was pregnant with promise for the republic—this birth of a new national institution whose future power, admittedly, still existed only in the mind’s eye of a few farsighted Americans. Bewigged and swathed in their robes of office, Chief Justice John Jay and his three associate justices sat before a throng of spectators and waited for something to happen, but nothing did. They had no cases to consider. After a week of inactivity, they adjourned and went home.
It would take time for the Supreme Court and the rest of the federal court system to grow into the third great pillar of American government. Its full impact would not be felt for generations to come. But combined with the rights that were being codified in the first amendments to the Constitution, it would one day become a great and dynamic engine that would carry justice into every community and transform American society to its roots.
Madison and his Federalist allies believed that a strong executive was imperative, and they feared the consequences if the Senate someday attempted to encroach on presidential power. They knew that one of the most crucial aspects of that strength was the power of appointment. During earlier debate over the establishment of the executive departments, Madison had argued that once Congress created an office and the president filled it, “the legislative power ceases.” Of course, the Senate has the right to reject a nominee. But Madison believed that a president dependent on the Senate to control his appointments would soon be left helpless. Unfortunately, this seems to be precisely what today’s Senate Republicans intend.

What Today’s Congress Can Learn From the First Congress
April 16th, 2016

‘Public faith in our democratic institutions is more important than any single issue’
The deepening standoff between Congress and the president over the replacement of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, who died in February, threatens to damage yet another key part of what Patrick Henry once called the “crazy machine” of government. Some might imagine that the nation’s founders would be appalled if they saw government so paralyzed. In fact, it might seem to them more like deja vu.
Even in its earliest years, Congress faced seemingly intractable problems that might have crippled our new government before it got underway. But unlike the majority of our present Congress, the members of the First Congress were determined to make government work—they were afraid of the consequences if it didn’t.
Today’s Congress might find a way out of the weeds by taking a few lessons from the First Congress, which met first in New York and later in Philadelphia, from 1789 to 1791 in an atmosphere hardly less conflicted than the present-day, and was charged with the daunting task of turning the parchment plan of the Constitution into a working government. Many Americans—including members of Congress—feared that it couldn’t be done.
The nascent United States was still less a reality than an idea. As James Madison, who dominated much of the First Congress debate, put it: “We are in a wilderness without a single footstep to guide us.” The country was a shaky collection of sovereign states. The government had no reliable source of revenue. More than 50 different currencies were in circulation. There was no permanent capital. The British threatened the nation’s security from the north, and bellicose Indians did so from the west. Southerners were suspicious of northerners, westerners of easterners, New Englanders of everyone else. Quakers and others were demanding an end to slavery, while southerners threatened secession if government dared to tamper with their “peculiar institution.”
Astonishingly enough, however, the First Congress produced the most successful record of accomplishment by any single Congress in American history. It established the executive departments, the first revenue streams for the national government, approved the first amendments to the Constitution, adopted a program for paying the country’s debts, embraced the principles of capitalism as the underpinning of government financial policy, founded the first National Bank, established the national capital on the Potomac River, and enacted the first patent and copyright laws. Not least, it also established the Federal Court System and the Supreme Court, with John Jay as its first Chief Justice. They didn’t accomplish all this with a group hug; they did it through shameless deal-making, the kind of flip-flopping that is ritually decried by modern pundits, and the suspension of personal principles in order to get things done.
Present-day Americans might well wonder if today’s congressmen would have been up to the tasks faced by the First Congress. But we miss the point if we think that they were made of a different caliber, or that the problems that they faced were so different in kind. The members of the First Congress were not demigods. “We are beginning to forget that the patriots of former days were men like ourselves,” as Charles Francis Adams put it, in 1871. Along with Madison and other exceptional men such as Roger Sherman and Oliver Ellsworth, their ranks were filled mostly with men of average ability. What they had in common was that the great majority of them were professional politicians, mostly lawyers. Few were amateurs, and almost none were ideological zealots. They were men experienced in government, they understood the need for compromise, even on matters of deeply held principle, and they had the experience to do it. Although they differed deeply on many issues—on slavery, centralized government, regional interests, taxation—they wanted the government to succeed. They also believed in politics as a tool for national survival. After all, the right to be political was what they had fought the Revolutionary War for: It was the engine that made republican government work.
So what lessons might members of Congress draw from their predecessors in order to break today’s gridlock? Public faith in our democratic institutions is more important than any single issue. Attacks on the government in order to advance a partisan agenda undermine American values and betray both the spirit and the intent of the founders. In tough times it takes experienced professional politicians to shape the compromises that will always be necessary to keep the country together and move it forward. And that doesn’t just mean compromise on the small stuff: It sometimes means sacrificing deeply-held principles in hope of prevailing another day.
That there is politics involved in Supreme Court appointments is nothing new. But if ever there has been a moment when legislators are called upon to rise above the ideological fashions of the moment in order to preserve public respect for the court, and indeed for government itself, it is now. To attempt to sabotage the president’s clear constitutional power to appoint new members to the court would indeed make the founders cry.
This piece was originally authored by Fergus M. Bordewich for Time.com and published on April 7, 2016.

Review of Manisha Sinha’s The Slave’s Cause
March 10th, 2016

I recently reviewed Manisha Sinha’s revelatory history of American abolitionism in her new book “The Slave’s Cause” for The Wall Street Journal. Beginning in the 1960s, a new generation of scholars recovered many aspects of abolitionism from oblivion, but until now none has attempted the kind of sweeping account that Ms. Sinha, a professor at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, has achieved. Below are some excerpts from my review titled, “The Righteous of Our Nation.” It can be read in full at WSJ.com.

“Lucidly written, compellingly argued and based on exhaustive scholarship, “The Slave’s Cause” captures the myriad aspects of this diverse and far-ranging movement and will deservedly take its place alongside the equally magisterial works of Ira Berlin on slavery and Eric Foner on the Reconstruction Era. Ms. Sinha seems to have read just about everything ever written on the subject of antislavery, including sermons, diaries, broadsides, speeches and legal arguments by the famous and the obscure alike. It is a measure of her command of the material that even as she leads us through the deepest thickets of antebellum polemics she is rarely dull.”
“The first voices to oppose slavery were often lonely ones, but they were not negligible. At the end of the 17th century, the influential Puritan preacher Cotton Mather forcefully rejected arguments for racial inferiority based on skin color. Soon afterward, Mather’s contemporary Samuel Sewall, who had served as a judge during the Salem witch trials, challenged the widely held belief that Africans had been condemned to everlasting slavery by the Bible. Organized antislavery activity began with the Quakers, who held that every human being possessed a godly inner light that made enslavement a sin against God himself.”


“Even at its peak on the eve of the Civil War, the abolitionist movement was never the monolith that pro-slavery Southerners thought it to be. It always comprised an array of rivalrous groups that diverged over such matters as the public participation of women, collaboration with mainstream political parties, financial compensation for slaveholders and the use of physical force. Ms. Sinha deftly elucidates these fissures, which became especially evident when Garrisonians, who rejected the Constitution as a pro-slavery document and shunned mainstream politics, squared off against Smith and his allies, who hoped that an abolition-influenced party might triumph at the polls and who sometimes allied themselves with the Whig Party, which included slave owners in its ranks.”


“Abolitionists for the most part challenged rather than shored up the status quo,” Ms. Sinha writes. Thus they contributed to a variety of causes, not only women’s rights but also temperance, the campaign against capital punishment, and immigrants’ and workingmen’s rights. But the “enduring heritage of the abolition movement is even broader,” Ms. Sinha observes as she closes this watershed account of one of America’s most transformative movements. Its heritage of “unyielding commitment to human rights and a call to action,” she says, remain embedded in Americans’ stubborn desire to better society, even against long odds.”


Fergus and George ready to cross the Delaware
February 27th, 2016

Fergus and Washington

Fergus standing with His Excellency at Washington’s Crossing.

Thanks to the folks at Washington Crossing Historic Park in PA, Washington Crossing Park Assoc in NJ, Labyrinth Books of Princeton, Farley’s Bookshop of New Hope, and Frank and Patty Lyons of Yardley, PA’s Continental Tavern for hosting me and sharing these photos. The event was a great success and we had a fine dinner at the Continental Tavern.




Fergus and The First Congress

Fergus discussing The First Congress.

Fergus speaks at Washington's Crossing

Fergus speaking about The First Congress at Washington's Crossing.