Even in his wildest dreams in 1776 about the importance of his work, even if his estimable friend Thomas Jefferson watched over his shoulder as he engrossed the Declaration of Independence, Timothy Matlack could never have conceived that, more than 200 years later, his work would undergo such scrutiny; that his craftsmanship would be examined and assessed by professional conservators using such instruments as binocular microscopes, electronic imaging, and fiber-optic lighting.
It would have been far beyond Matlack’s ability to comprehend that the National Archives—now the National Archives and Records Administration—had expended $3 million to design a monitoring system employing sophisticated technology “to assess the state of preservation … with specific attention to changes in readability from ink-flaking, ink-fading, off-setting of ink to glass, changes in document dimensions, and enlargement of existing tears and holes.” The Charters Monitoring System, installed in 1985 in a contract with the Jet Propulsion Laboratory at the California Institute of Technology, through the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, used electronic imaging technology similar to that of NASA’s space telescope and computer analysis akin to the type used to interpret data from space probes.
Stephen Pleasonton, who in 1814 had stuffed the Declaration and the Constitution into a coarse linen bag for safekeeping, and Archibald MacLeish, who in 1941 had shipped them in sealed cases to Fort Knox, would have envied the documents’ protective vault beneath the rotunda at the National Archives in the second half of the twentieth century. Twenty-two feet below the floor of the exhibit hall was a fifty-five-ton vault of steel and reinforced concrete, seven feet long, five feet wide, and six feet high. Each night for years, the Declaration, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights were lowered into the vault by electrically operated scissor jacks. Once the documents were safely inside, massive interlocking leaves of metal and concrete closed over the vault.
And all of them—Matlack, Pleasonton, MacLeish, and so many other protectors of these documents—would have been astounded if they could know that at the start of the twenty-first century, the National Archives would team up with scientists and technical experts from the National Institute of Technology to conduct major conservation treatments and design and build state-of-the-art reencasements for the Declaration, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights, thereby hermetically sealing and protecting the documents for years to come.
The Charters of Freedom, the nation’s founding documents with their timeless message of liberty, equality, self-governance, and the rights of the people, are now ready to endure and continue to inspire Americans far into the future.
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GENUINE TECHNOLOGICAL MODERNITY CAME to the National Archives in 1985 with the installation of the Charters Monitoring System, which can detect any loss of readability caused by ink flaking, offsetting of ink to glass, changes in document dimensions, and ink fading.
The impressive system was capable of recording in fine detail one-inch-square areas of the documents, and later retaking the pictures in exactly the same places and under the same conditions of lighting and reflectivity. Essentially, the system was designed to take a “fingerprint” of the exact state of the Charters of Freedom at any given moment and to match the current condition with earlier recordings. In the years that followed, conservators rescanned patches of the parchments and compared them pixel by pixel to the baseline image, looking for changes.
By 1996, after more than 125 scans, the ink on the documents was holding up well; restorers noticed just one “insecure flake of ink” on a raised ridge of the transmittal page of the Constitution—the letter George Washington signed turning the new Constitution over from the Federal Convention to the Congress.
However, the encasements that held the priceless documents, which had first been built in 1951, were problematic. Experts detected crystals and liquid droplets on the glass surfaces, indicating “progressive glass deterioration” and a change of relative humidity inside the encasements that could potentially damage the documents. There was no need for panic, no “imminent danger” from the condition of the encasements, emphasized Norbert S. Baer, a New York University conservationist and head of the archives committee that examined the documents. Still, he concluded, “it is a problem that won’t get better without some level of intervention.”
Baer’s committee recommended changes to the way the documents were displayed and protected. For example, only two of the five leaves of the Constitution were on display—the remaining three leaves remained in the vault beneath the rotunda—because the archives did not have sufficient space in the exhibition hall. Shouldn’t the public be able to view the entire document when they visited Washington? Members were also concerned that the vibrations as the charters were lowered by scissor jack into the vault could cause the documents to rub against the inside pane of glass.
The recommendation of Baer and his team went beyond their original mission: it was not only time to reexamine, reencase, and redisplay the Charters of Freedom but also to redesign the rotunda itself.
In 1995, Norvell M. Jones, the archives’ chief of preservation policy, agreed: “These are virtual icons to the people of the United States and accessibility is a priority for the National Archives. When you come to Washington, it is one of the things you must see.”
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ON THE DAY AFTER the Fourth of July, 2001, the National Archives closed the rotunda and exhibit hall for massive top-to-bottom renovations, and simultaneously began its painstaking reencasement project for the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights.
There was no room for error and no manual that instructed conservators on how to open the cases that had been sealed for fifty years; thus, the experts opened first the encasement that held the transmittal letter of the Constitution. The page signed by Washington was valuable, but if there was any encasement that conservation staff could test and refine their opening and preservation techniques on, this was it; if a mistake occurred, better that it be with the case holding the transmittal letter rather than those holding the four pages of the Constitution, or the Declaration of Independence or Bill of Rights.
According to a National Archives report, conservators made a tiny puncture in the seal to extract and analyze interior gas and determine what percentage of helium remained inside; they were pleased to find that the original encasements had functioned well. They used a sharp blade to enlarge the pinprick hole and allow the insertion of a larger tool that would carefully slice through the soldered lead seal. When that was completed, they lifted away the glass that had covered the parchment for fifty years, taking great care to ensure that the parchment did not adhere to the glass, and also to confirm that no flecks of ink had attached themselves to the inner surface of the glass that had been in direct contact with the parchment. Once removed from the seal, conservators were able to examine, measure, and photograph the document without layers of glass in between, a process that began with the transmittal letter and continued with the other charters.
As they worked, restorers noted that the condition of the documents offered clues to their journey over the years. The Bill of Rights, though it had been stored flat for almost a century, still contained horizontal and vertical creases from being folded. The Declaration had fold lines and horizontal creases that showed evidence of rolling; it also had a band around the edges that confirmed it had been glued to its base in the early twentieth century. The Constitution did not show evidence of folding, but it had adhesive strokes on the backs of the parchments, indicating that the leaves had been glued to a backing. Conservators then began the task of cleaning the documents, introducing humidity to relax the parchment skins fully and making unobtrusive repairs.
Afterward, the charters were placed in larger encasements, constructed of an aluminum base, a titanium frame, and laminated tempered glass. The new encasements accommodated all six pages of the charters for public display (minus the transmittal letter), removed pages from direct vertical placement, and eliminated contact of the parchment with the glass. Each case contained inert gas, was kept at 40 percent relative humidity, and was surrounded with a stable temperature of 67 degrees Fahrenheit. To protect the documents from insects or microbes, the cases were airtight. In addition, the encasement design included a pair of sapphire windows at the top edge that permitted a light beam to travel a path below the document platform, “reflected by precisely positioned mirrors,” in the words of the archives. Using optical instruments that can detect absorption of light in the exiting light beam, conservators could detect any environmental changes that occurred inside the encasements.
It was an amazing technological system designed to protect the documents that Stephen Pleasonton had once hidden in the corner of an abandoned farmhouse and Archibald MacLeish had shipped to Fort Knox. As Pleasonton and MacLeish had taken the initiative to save and protect the documents in 1814 and 1941, their twenty-first-century successors were doing the same.
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THE NATIONAL ARCHIVES FINISHED its renovation project in 2003. Physical, accessibility, lighting, and environmental improvements abounded, but perhaps the most important change was that, for the first time, all four pages of the Constitution could be exhibited and viewed.
Appropriate then, that the rededication and reopening ceremony was held on September 17, 2003, the 216th anniversary of the adoption of the Constitution. “In this Rotunda are the most cherished material possessions of a great and good nation,” President George W. Bush said. “By this rededication, we showed our deep respect for the first principles of our republic, and our lasting gratitude to those first citizens of the United States of America.” Further, President Bush noted that the ideas embodied in the Charters of Freedom are not America’s alone. “America owns the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution,” he said, “but the ideals they proclaim belong to all mankind.”
Then the Archivist of the United States, John W. Carlin, noted that people visited the National Archives and viewed the charters “not just because they are historical documents, but because they are a living part” of American society and traditions. “Every day we celebrate the freedom first declared in the Declaration of Independence,” he said. “Every day our government is an example to the world of democratic government laid out in the Constitution. And every day our people exercise the liberties set down in the Bill of Rights.”
Once again, Carlin noted, Americans could enter the archives and “read the very parchments that our Founding Fathers signed in giving birth to our democracy.”
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CHANGE DID NOT JUST come to the National Archives during the renovation and reencasement project, but to America itself. Less than two months after the Declaration, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights were removed for restoration, the United States suffered the worst terrorist attack in its history.
Like virtually every institution in the country, the National Archives implemented tightened and highly secretive security procedures in the aftermath of September 11, 2001. There are plans and backup plans to protect America’s priceless documents, but archives officials remain understandably tight-lipped about any and all of them. “No discussion about security,” said the current Archivist of the United States, David S. Ferriero. “Part of the security plan is not talking about the security plan.”
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EXACTLY WHY DO MORE than 1 million people each year file through the National Archives rotunda to view the Charters of Freedom?
The answer is probably best embodied in John Carlin’s observations at the 2003 rededication ceremony—these documents are a “living part” of America’s way of life, and have been since their creation. They have stood the test of time and today are as relevant and integral to American democracy as they ever have been. Time and again, the United States and its people find ways to memorialize and enshrine them. George Washington’s copy of the Constitution was on display aboard the Freedom Train that traveled across the country in 1975–1976 to mark the nation’s bicentennial, replicating—and perhaps improving upon—the first Freedom Train’s odyssey. More than 4 million people have visited the National Constitution Center in Philadelphia since it opened its doors—fittingly, on July 4, 2003—just two blocks from Independence Hall: an entire museum devoted to America’s governing document.
Virtually every modern political debate breathes life into our most important documents—every critical issue rests upon the principles they embody. And because Americans are reminded of them at every turn nearly every day, their intrinsic value holds a revered place in the nation’s consciousness.
The concepts of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” and “all men are created equal,” enshrined in the Declaration, are embedded in American law, the American psyche, and American aspirations.
The Constitution’s system of separation of powers and checks and balances are on display every time a newscaster wonders, “Will Congress have the votes to override a presidential veto?” or “Will the Supreme Court find the new law constitutional?” or “Who will gain control of the Senate in the next election?” The powerful three-word introduction to the preamble, “We the People,” defines the very essence of the American way of life—the power to govern is granted only by the governed.
And the Bill of Rights—the first document ever that expressly enumerates the rights that a government is forbidden to usurp—encapsulates the individual freedoms Americans cherish most, guard most zealously, and even debate most vigorously. Indeed, it is this last that makes the Bill of Rights so vibrant and its historical precedents so meaningful: individual liberties often bump up against societal needs and desires, and to settle those arguments—or at least to advance them—professional and amateur advocates and opponents often turn to the intent of the founders and the framers for guidance.
The fact is, the history of the documents is the history of America—and it is a remarkable history, indeed. In an age of cynicism, these documents remind us not only of the promise of America but of the fulfillment of that promise in so many ways.
Moreover, it is the documents themselves that provide the inspiration, the moral underpinnings, and the practical means to right wrongs that do exist. The “more perfect union” that Gouverneur Morris so eloquently describes in his preamble to the Constitution was aspirational in 1787 and continues to be so today. America, like all nations, wrestles with issues of injustice and unfairness—“men are not angels,” as Madison pointed out, so such struggles will never cease—but as it constantly strives to improve, the documents, with their core values and messages of freedom and equality, provide clear directional guideposts. The answers are there if only we look for them.
At his core, Abraham Lincoln knew all of this. On his watch, the nation fought a bloody Civil War to redress its most egregious wrong—slavery—left unaddressed by its founding documents. After reuniting, America continued to function as a nation using the same core documents—albeit with an amended Constitution—as its foundation, its governing blueprint, and its moral compass. It was Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address that provided the inspiring words and philosophical framework that ultimately helped bind the nation’s wounds—the Great Emancipator knew well that a redefinition of the precepts contained in the Declaration, not the document’s destruction, held the key to the nation’s long-term future after slavery; that an amended Constitution, not a scrapped one, would ensure that a government “of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
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AMERICANS TODAY GRASP THESE principles as they file through the National Archives shrine, viewing the founding documents under low light and the watchful gaze of security guards, speaking in low tones, straining to view the faded signatures on the Declaration of Independence and pausing to read the articles of the Constitution. Their innate understanding of the value of the mounted and displayed parchments in the shrine make these Americans one and the same with Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, John and Abigail Adams, James and Dolley Madison, Stephen Pleasonton, Abraham Lincoln, Harry Neal, Archibald MacLeish, and hundreds of others who helped create, protect, and preserve America’s priceless documents for future generations.
The documents are the mirror to our national heritage and the blueprint of our national identity.
For two centuries, others have protected them well. The responsibility to keep them safe, and preserve them always, now falls to us.