Alexander Hamilton (51 page)

As the excruciating demands of
The Federalist
rendered Hamilton’s life even more sedentary than usual, he was a prisoner of his desk. He had no relief from his labors or time for diversion. Reelected to Congress by the New York legislature on January 22, 1788, he didn’t even have a chance to present his credentials until February 25. That spring, swept up in a political whirlwind, he apologized to Gouverneur Morris for having been incommunicado, saying, “The truth is that I have been so overwhelmed in avocations of one kind or another that I have scarcely had a moment to spare to a friend.”
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Amid his manifold labors, Hamilton kept a careful eye on the pregnant Eliza, who gave birth to their fourth child, James Alexander, on April 14. Eliza spent the summer with her family in Albany, attended by an unexpected visitor: Ann Venton Mitchell.

The Federalist
is so renowned as the foremost exposition of the Constitution that it is easy to forget its original aim: ratification in Hamilton’s home state. Printed in only a dozen papers outside of New York, its larger influence was spotty. In places where it did appear, the verbal avalanche of Hamilton, Madison, and Jay overwhelmed hapless readers. In mid-December, one embattled antifederalist in Philadelphia bewailed the never-ending onslaught of words: “Publius has already written 26 numbers, as much as would jade the brains of any poor sinner . . . so that in decency he should now rest on his arms and let the people draw their breath for a little.”
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Another antifederalist complained that Publius had “endeavored to force conviction by a torrent of misplaced words.”
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Supporters, however, had a bottomless appetite for the essays, and the authors’ names began to leak out. When Edward Carrington of Virginia sent the first bound volume to Jefferson in Paris, he added, with suspiciously precise guesswork: “They are written, it is supposed, by Messrs. Madison, Jay and Hamilton.”
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The Philadelphia convention had decided that the Constitution would take effect once it was ratified by nine state conventions. Hamilton had given the rationale for state conventions in
Federalist
number 22: “The fabric of American empire ought to rest on the solid basis of the consent of the people.”
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Delaware, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey approved the document in December 1787, Georgia and Connecticut in January, and Massachusetts by a slim majority in early February.
The Federalist
produced its greatest impact in the later stages of the ratification battle, especially after the first bound volume appeared on March 22. When New York selected convention delegates that April, Hamilton was among them. James Kent recalled that at one nomination meeting “the volumes were there circulated to the best of our judgments....Col. Hamilton was very soon and very generally understood to be the sole or principal author.”
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Madison sent hundreds of copies to Virginia delegates, including John Marshall.
The Federalist
’s influence was to be especially critical in New York and Virginia, two large states indispensable to the union’s long-term viability.

The state conventions were cunningly staggered so that a bandwagon effect might be created in favor of approval. This made the later gatherings scenes of high drama, as the tally of ratifying states approached the magic number nine. Though
The Federalist
was originally intended to sway delegate selection in New York, it failed in that intent. When the results were tabulated, the outlook appeared pretty ghastly for Hamilton and the federalists: they had attained a mere nineteen delegates in New York City and environs versus forty-six for an upstate antifederalist slate headed by Governor Clinton. For all the intellectual firepower marshaled in
The Federalist,
New York had a highly intelligent, well-oiled opposition to the Constitution.

By late May, Maryland and South Carolina had given their blessings to the Constitution, bringing the total of ratifying states to eight, just one shy of the number needed, but victory in some of the remaining states seemed questionable. North Carolina and Rhode Island both scorned the scheme, while New Hampshire vacillated. So the battle for the Constitution seemed to boil down to the contests in Virginia and New York, whose conventions began in June.

Fortunately for supporters, the second volume of
The Federalist
was published on May 28 and contained the eight new essays by Hamilton. These bonus essays appeared in the newspapers between June 14 and August 16, with a new one cropping up every few days as the New York delegates began to deliberate. Hamilton and Madison vowed to stay in touch as their respective conventions progressed. Because Virginia’s started two weeks earlier, Hamilton had instructed Madison to relay to him immediately any favorable news, since passage in Virginia might prod reluctant New Yorkers to follow suit. “It will be of vast importance that an exact communication should be kept up between us at that period,” Hamilton told Madison. “And the moment
any decisive
question is taken, if favourable, I request you to dispatch an express to me with pointed orders to make all possible diligence by changing horses & c.”
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In the same anxious tone, Hamilton arranged for swift riders to race from New Hampshire to New York with any encouraging news. In both cases, Hamilton promised to defray the expenses.

For all the high-toned language of
The Federalist,
Hamilton knew that the New York convention would come down to bare-knuckled politics. A prominent antifederalist had already warned him that “rather than to adopt the Constitution, I would risk a government of Jew, Turk or infidel.”
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Hamilton knew that such zealotry would not be amenable to persuasion, especially with George Clinton at the delegation’s head. “As Clinton is truly the leader of his party and inflexibly obstinate, I count little on overcoming opposition by reason,” Hamilton confided to Madison. “Our only chances will be the previous ratification by nine states, which may shake the firmness of his followers.”
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Though eight states had already ratified, the final leg of the journey was anything but smooth. “The plot thickens fast,” George Washington told the marquis de Lafayette in late May. “A few short weeks will determine the political fate of America.”
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As Hamilton gloomily surveyed the scene, he feared that New York might stall for another year before deciding whether to join the union, and he reiterated to Madison his perpetual fears of “an eventual disunion and civil war.”
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Unlike upstate farmers, New York City merchants heartily supported the Constitution and gave a festive send-off to federalist delegates when they departed for the Poughkeepsie convention on June 14. Crowds waved, and thirteen cannon roared at the Battery as a delegation led by Mayor James Duane embarked on a Hudson River sloop for the seventy-five-mile journey upriver. This illustrious group included Hamilton, Jay, and Robert R. Livingston, and it made up in intelligence what it lacked in numbers. As the one person in Poughkeepsie who had signed the Constitution, Hamilton was to enjoy special prestige, but he knew it would be a tough, protracted struggle against George Clinton’s fearsome political machine.

The convention was held at the Poughkeepsie courthouse, a two-story building with a cupola and gruesome dungeons below for prisoners. Governor Clinton was elected as the chairman. If dignified in mien, he was scarcely a neutral arbiter. In
Federalist
number 77, Hamilton had already blasted him for running “a despicable and dangerous system of personal influence.”
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Clinton feared that Hamilton wanted to obliterate the states, but he was confident he had sufficient votes to squash the Constitution in New York or encumber it with so many conditions as to make its acceptance impossible.

At the outset, Hamilton slipped a technical provision into the convention rules that was a tactical bonanza for the federalists: the Constitution had to be debated clause by clause before a general vote could be taken. It was a masterly stroke. Nobody could vie with Hamilton in close textual analysis, and this step-by-step approach would stall the proceedings, increasing the likelihood that riders from Virginia or New Hampshire would rush in with news that their state had ratified and force New York to follow suit.

Governor Clinton gathered several able antifederalist speakers, of whom the most adroit was Melancton Smith, who had a dry, plainspoken manner and an understated wit. He was a deceptively good debater who knew how to lure opponents into logical traps from which they found it hard to escape. Smith saw Hamilton as the cat’s-paw of an aristocratic clique and told the assembly that he “thanked his God that
he
was a plebeian.”
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He had tremendous respect for Hamilton’s abilities, however, even if he found him wordy and discursive. “Hamilton is the champion,” he admitted to a friend. “He speaks frequently, very long, and very vehemently. He has, like Publius, much to say not very applicable to the subject.”
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Hamilton’s performance at the convention was an exhilarating blend of stamina, passion, and oratorical pyrotechnics. It was a lonely battle—“Our adversaries greatly outnumber us,” he told Madison upon arriving—yet he showed unflagging courage as he stared down a large audience of hostile faces.
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He spoke twenty-six times, far more than any other federalist, and soldiered on for six exhausting weeks. He must have operated on severely depleted reserves of energy. Since late October 1787 he had written fifty-one
Federalist
essays while juggling the considerable demands of his law practice.

Hamilton was implacable in his resolve to win against long odds. When a friend asked him what message he should convey to New York supporters, Hamilton retorted, “Tell them the convention shall never rise until the Constitution is adopted.”
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For spectators jammed into the courthouse galleries, Hamilton made an indelible impression. James Kent attended every session, later telling Eliza that her husband had been “prompt, ardent, energetic, and overflowing with an exuberance of argument and illustration. He generally spoke with much animation and energy and with considerable gesture.” His mind was “filled with all the learning and precedents required for the occasion,” enabling him to make numerous extemporaneous speeches.
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He seduced the listeners with hope and provoked them with fear, leading one spectator to comment that “Hamilton’s harangues combine the poignancy of vinegar with the smoothness of oil.”
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During the first days at Poughkeepsie, Hamilton was constantly on his feet, reaching for high-flown eloquence. He denied that federalists exaggerated the weaknesses of the Articles of Confederation: “No, I believe these weaknesses to be real and pregnant with destruction. Yet, however weak our country may be, I hope we shall never sacrifice our liberties.” He then cleverly disarmed opponents: “If therefore, on a full and candid discussion, the proposed system [the Constitution] shall appear to have that tendency, for God’s sake, let us reject that!”
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On June 20, Hamilton made his first prolonged assault on opponents. Not relying on reason alone, he demonstrated how necessary it was for New York’s security that it join the new union: “Your capital is accessible by land and by sea is exposed to every daring invader. And on the northwest, you are open to the inroads of a powerful foreign nation.”
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Under the new central government, he insisted, the tax burden would be shared much more evenly than before. He also reassured New Yorkers that state power would keep federal power in check. Hamilton spoke himself into a state of exhaustion and suddenly cut short his speech. “Many other observations might be made on this subject,” he apologized, “but I cannot now pursue them, for I feel myself not a little exhausted. I beg leave therefore to waive for the present the further discussion of this question.”
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The next day, Hamilton, buoyed by a second wind, disputed that the proposed House of Representatives, with sixty-five members, would have too few delegates and would be dominated by the rich. In his view, representative bodies did not need to mirror exactly those they represented; men of substance, wisdom, and experience could care for the common good. If they came more often from the wealthier, better-educated portion of the community, so be it. Hamilton did not think the rich were paragons of virtue. They had as many vices as the poor, he noted, except that their “vices are probably more favorable to the prosperity of the state than those of the indigent and partake less of moral depravity.”
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As creditors, they would acquire a special stake in perpetuating the new government, and their power would always be circumscribed by popular opinion. In “the general course of things, the popular views and even prejudices will direct the action of the rulers.”
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That same day, Governor Clinton argued that the United States covered so vast a territory and possessed such a variety of peoples “that no general free government can suit” all the states.
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In rebuttal, Hamilton outlined his vision of American nationalism, showing that a true nation, with a unified culture, had been fused from the diverse groups and regions of the original colonies. In all essential matters, “from New Hampshire to Georgia, the people of America are as uniform in their interests and manners as those of any established in Europe.”
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A national interest and a national culture now existed beyond state concerns. This was an assertion pregnant with significance, for if Americans already constituted a new political culture, they needed a new order to certify that reality. And the Constitution bodied forth that order.

For antifederalists who had traded whispered stories of Hamilton’s infamous speech at the Constitutional Convention, he now sounded too reasonable, too plausible, as he spoke of the power of popular opinion. Clearly, he must be a brazen manipulator, a two-faced hypocrite, not someone making legitimate concessions for the sake of political compromise. “You would be surprised did you not know the man what an
amazing republican
Hamilton wishes to make himself be considered,” Charles Tillinghast told another antifederalist caustically. “
But he is known.
”
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The conviction that Hamilton must be dissembling became commonplace among his foes, who were bent upon unmasking the perfidious monarchist.