“That a National Government Ought to Be Established”
The Federal Convention did not ease into its work of creating a new government for the young nation; it simply plunged in without preamble or hesitation. After weeks of preplanning and informal discussions, the proponents of a strong national government, led by delegates from Virginia and Pennsylvania, chose directness over circumlocution and boldness over restraint as they launched their opening salvo in a high-stakes gamble to define a new governing direction for America.
Virginia’s governor, Edmund Randolph—highly respected, his integrity above reproach, a member of one of his state’s most powerful and influential families—rose after Washington recognized him on Tuesday morning, May 29, 1787, and offered remarks that would forever solidify the date as among the most important in American constitutional history.
Randolph, thirty-four years old, tall, self-assured, dignified, and a far more polished orator than Madison, would put forth most of Madison’s and the other Virginians’ ideas and proposals in what would soon become known as “the Virginia Plan” to govern the country. He outlined the weaknesses in the Articles of Confederation, but was careful to praise the authors—some of whom were in attendance—for “having done all that patriots could do, in the then infancy of the science of constitutions and of confederacies.” At the time, the myriad problems America now faced had yet to bubble to the surface: since then, however, “commercial discord” had arisen among many states; treaties had been violated; foreign debts had grown; and the economic crisis had led to controversy and dissonance.
The danger from all of these weaknesses was the real threat of anarchy and the dissolution of the new country a mere eleven years after the United States had declared its independence and only six years after it had defeated the British on the battlefield.
In presenting the new plan, largely the brainchild of James Madison, Randolph offered fifteen resolutions that went far beyond “correcting or enlarging” the Articles of Confederation, but effectively called for supplanting them altogether. Randolph called for establishment of a new form of national government, one consisting of a bicameral legislature, with the “first” house elected by the people and the “second” house elected by the first, both based on a state’s population—the current Articles of Confederation called for a single house with members appointed equally by the states, which made their representatives mostly beholden to them rather than broader national priorities. Randolph’s resolutions also called for a national executive—the Articles established no such position—a clear signal that he was proposing a stronger central government; and a national judiciary to consist of “one or more supreme tribunals, and of inferior tribunals to be chosen by the National Legislature.”
Those representatives who had come to Philadelphia to amend the Articles of Confederation rather than replace them were likely shocked by Randolph’s opening resolutions, but there was no strong protest when he had finished. Members apparently understood that they needed some plan upon which to debate and also recognized that Randolph’s proposals were recommendations only. Nonetheless, the Virginia Plan would come to frame the discussions and the vociferous disagreements inside the statehouse and, eventually, form the basis for the U.S. Constitution, a plan, in the words of one historian that would “be debated clause by clause in Committee of the Whole, with every resolve reconsidered, reargued, passed or discarded.”
For now, as day one drew to a close, the convention agreed to adjourn and, the following day, organize itself into a committee of the whole to consider Randolph’s propositions and “the state of the American union.”
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ANY AMBIGUITY ABOUT THE intentions of the Virginia Plan’s supporters, any misplaced nuance that softened the clarity of their message, any misconstrued inference by other delegates—all these were washed away when the delegates reconvened at 10:00 a.m. on Wednesday, May 30, the day after Randolph’s opening resolutions.
Did supporters of the Virginia Plan huddle overnight or at breakfast? No one knows, but it is clear they spoke at some point after Randolph’s long monologue on Tuesday and concluded that his initial resolution did not articulate their message either clearly or forcefully enough. Wasting no time, on Wednesday, Pennsylvania’s Gouverneur Morris jumped to his feet and suggested that Randolph replace his initial resolution from the previous day that called for the Articles of Confederation “to be corrected and enlarged.” As a substitute, Morris resolved, and Randolph agreed, that because a “union of the states merely federal will not accomplish” the goal of providing the nation with “common defense, security of liberty, and general welfare,” and because “no treaty or treaties among … the states as individual sovereignties would be sufficient” to sustain a nation, the convention should debate the following:
That a national government ought to be established consisting of a supreme Legislative, Executive, and Judiciary.
The motion by Morris and Randolph was clear and explicit. For the first time, advocates for the Virginia Plan had resolved to scrap the Articles of Confederation and replace them with a supreme national government.
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THE CONVENTION WAS SILENT—the small-state delegates, especially, were perhaps stunned. A stronger central government was one thing, but a national government that was supreme? What were the implications of such a scheme? What powers would such a government expropriate from the states? Didn’t this language fly in the face of the tenets of the Declaration, which emphasized the preeminence of the individual over the government? Didn’t America revolt against its mother country precisely because its central government had grown too large, too unresponsive, too abusive? The delegates certainly were not prepared to pass the resolution, not without further debate and clarification.
South Carolina’s Pierce Butler said he definitely had not made up his mind on the subject and said it was incumbent upon Randolph to show that a national government was necessary for the existence of states. His colleague, Charles Pinckney, was more pointed: did Randolph mean to “abolish state governments altogether?” Indeed, if the convention were proceeding down such a path, Pinckney believed “that their business was at an end.” Connecticut’s Roger Sherman, who had just arrived in Philadelphia and was attending his first convention session, also believed events were moving too fast and urged that Randolph’s resolutions be postponed. Delaware’s George Read also expressed dismay about the speed at which the convention was moving.
As debate raged, confusion reigned. How was the Virginia Plan so different from the king and parliamentary councils that had subjugated the colonies just a decade earlier? State sovereignty was a bedrock principle of federalism, of self-government, a bulwark against the excessive concentration and abuse of power.
Would not states become irrelevant under the Virginia resolutions?
No, Randolph responded vigorously, the protestors had it all wrong: there was no intention of overthrowing state governments, but rather to strengthen the national government by giving it the power to “defend and protect itself … and to take from the legislatures or states no more sovereignty than is competent to this end.”
For certain, states would not wield the same power in the newly proposed government that they possessed currently. Pennsylvania’s Gouverneur Morris attempted to clarify the resolution and the terms that delegates were tossing around during debate, and to draw the distinctions between these new and, in some ways, difficult concepts. A federal government, he explained—the current formation of the country’s governmental structure operating under a confederation of states—was a “mere compact resting on the good faith of the parties.” A supreme national government had a “complete and compulsive operation,” and only the establishment of such would be capable of providing for “the common defense, security of liberty, and general welfare.” And while he, too, agreed that the state governments should retain some sovereignty, there was no doubt that the national government he and his colleagues were proposing would wield preeminent power.
Morris could not conceive of a government in which “two supremes” could coexist—in America and “in all communities there must be one supreme power, and one only.”
He also warned his fellow delegates that failure to establish a supreme national government would only lead to further chaos and abuses of power by factions or ill-meaning individuals in the future. “We had better take a supreme government now, than a despot twenty years hence—for come he must,” Morris said.
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OF THE EIGHT STATES represented at the convention on May 30, six of them voted in favor of the Virginia Plan resolution. Only Connecticut voted no outright, and New York’s two delegates in attendance were divided—fervent nationalist Alexander Hamilton in favor and states-rights advocate Robert Yates opposed. Those delegates who had objected most strenuously about the notion of a supreme national government believed a reluctant vote in favor was superior to blatant inaction; perhaps amendments and details could be hammered out in future discussions.
Without question, the vote was a victory for Madison and the other Virginia and Pennsylvania delegates who had labored prior to the convention to craft the “supreme” resolutions. Madison, especially, had demonstrated yeoman-like determination and intellectual leadership on the need for a strong central government, and then he and his allies engaged in deft political maneuverings to change the debate among delegates from merely modifying and patching the Articles of Confederation to repudiating them altogether and considering the construction of a whole new government.
And they had managed to coax an affirmative vote on only the third full day of the convention’s business.
In many ways, considering from whence the young nation had come in such a short time, considering the delegates’ frame of reference and collective memories, the May 30 vote was an astounding one—in the words of historian Richard Beeman, delegates had, within a matter of hours, approved the concept of a government that “was closer to that of the imperial British government against which the colonies had rebelled than to the confederation of sovereign states they had created in the aftermath of the Revolution.” The deficiencies of the current confederation, the strain its shortcomings had placed on the young nation, anarchistic events such as Shays’ Rebellion and the fear of more civil unrest—or worse—had generated support for a strong national government that would have been impossible just a few years earlier.
But no sooner had a gratified James Madison claimed his first victory than things begin to disintegrate. Just minutes after delegates had approved the Virginia resolution, the vote and the convention itself were in jeopardy.
* * *
THE TROUBLE BEGAN THAT afternoon, shortly after the Virginia Plan was approved, when delegates took up the matter of how representatives would be chosen for the bicameral legislature.
Almost all the delegates—Benjamin Franklin was a notable exception—agreed that the legislature should consist of two houses. George Mason would say later that “the mind of the people of America was unsettled as to some points,” but on two basic principles they agreed: “in an attachment to republican government and in an attachment to more than one branch in the Legislature.” Most delegates recognized the value of a deliberative second chamber, or “upper house,” somewhat insulated from the daily influences of the electorate, to consider bills and policies with more detachment than a “first” chamber, the “popular house,” whose more direct ties to the people would subject it to the passions and emotions of the moment.
George Washington apparently explained the concept in simple terms two years after the convention during a reported breakfast with Thomas Jefferson, who recently had returned from Paris. Though historians debate whether the discussion actually took place, the story goes that the Declaration’s author reportedly complained about the establishment of two houses in the national legislature, in particular the second house, which was referred to as the Senate. The model was far too similar for Jefferson’s tastes to the Houses of Parliament, and in any case, the Senate was also too removed from the people. To a man who had spent time navigating the corridors of power in a country ruled by Louis XVI, Jefferson feared any form of government that diluted the power of citizens. Washington assured him that the sole purpose of the Senate was to act as a more sober, deliberative body: “Why did you pour that coffee into your saucer?” Jefferson replied: “To cool it.” Washington responded: “We pour legislation into the senatorial saucer to cool it.”
While the notion of a bicameral legislature produced harmony among delegates, the manner in which representatives would be selected caused acrimony and bitterness, perhaps the most rancorous of the convention.
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FOR MADISON AND THE other staunch supporters of a supreme national government, there was no doubt that representation in both houses, directly or indirectly, should be apportioned according to a state’s “free” population—larger states would have a greater number of representatives in the legislature than smaller states. This was the only way to assure that the people, rather than the states, held power and sovereignty. It was a dramatic departure from the current confederacy, in which each state held an equal vote, and Madison was not subtle about his intentions.
The precept of proportional representation provided the philosophical foundation of Madison’s thinking. He and the other supporters of a strong national government, who would come to be known as the Federalists—ironically a term they cleverly adopted and turned on its head, since it derived from the “confederation” of states outlined in the articles—believed that power should reside in the people, not in the state legislatures. Remove the concept of proportional representation, the Federalists argued, and you once again put too much power in the hands of individual states to derail the national government. After all, Madison argued, under what reasoning could anyone justify Delaware and Virginia wielding equal power in a national government when Virginia’s population was ten times greater?
Delaware’s George Read was unconvinced. He favored a stronger central government but not to the detriment of the small states. He warned the assembly that if such a change “should be fixed on,” Delaware delegates would have little choice but to “retire from the Convention.”
There it was—a threat to walk out.
Read demanded that the vote be postponed until additional small states arrived at the convention; perhaps fearful of his threat to “retire,” delegates approved his motion.
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READ’S REACTION TO THE issue of proportional representation had established a tone that would carry throughout the next several weeks of debate and beyond. His threat to withdraw Delaware’s delegates had sent a message to all members that it was appropriate and acceptable to raise dissent that might be bubbling beneath the surface. Battle lines would be drawn on issues that were rooted in, and in some cases transcended, the debate between proportional representation and state sovereignty.
Over the days and weeks to follow, the walls of the Pennsylvania State House would reverberate with the countervailing arguments between those who feared and despised a strong central authority for the potential abuses it could impose, and those who believed a strong national government—with the appropriate checks and balances—was the most effective way to manage a large, dispersed republic. Within this overarching struggle, divisions would also emerge on many key issues: between those who favored a strong national executive to lead and unify the new nation and those who were terrified of a return to monarchical despotism; between those who ardently advocated for the power of the majority and those who sought concrete protections of minority rights; between those who argued that the interests of the more populous large states were paramount and those who feared the destruction of small-state sovereignty; between free states and slave states; between those who saw America as thirteen states only and those who gazed westward and envisioned its vast expansionist possibilities.
At the core of these debates, notwithstanding the rapid passage of the Virginia Plan, was the philosophical struggle between those delegates who clung to the past and favored a tepid tinkering at the edges as the best way to modify the current government and those who foresaw the need for something radically different to preserve the future.
It would be difficult. It would be messy. The delegates would quarrel and compromise and, in the moments of their greatest struggle, they would draw strength from the two principles that united them from the beginning: the inadequacies of the Articles of Confederation meant that some form of modified government structure was essential; and, regardless of what form that structure took, individual freedom and liberty must be preserved above all else.
At the end of business on May 30, the route they would take was still very much up in the air, made more circuitous by Delaware’s balking. That evening, George Washington wrote to Thomas Jefferson, and—ever mindful of the convention’s secrecy rules—revealed only that “the business of this convention is as yet too much in embryo to form any opinion of the conclusion.”
Washington sensed in the wake of Delaware’s resistance that the road ahead would be difficult. A week later, concerned about the summer crops at his plantation, he wrote to his nephew with instructions on how to proceed at Mount Vernon, making it clear that, “there is not the smallest prospect of my returning home before the harvest, and God knows how long it may be after it.”