Union and Democracy

by Allen Johnson

Down to the end of the eighteenth century, the people of New England possessed a greater degree of social solidarity than any other section of the Union. Descended from English stock, imbued with common religious and political traditions, and bound together by the ties of a common ecclesiastical polity, they cherished, as Jefferson expressed it, "a sort of family pride" which existed nowhere else between people of different States. In New England, there were elements of political and religious dissent, to be sure, but the domination of the Congregational clergy and the magistracy was hardly less complete in the year 1800 than fifty years earlier. New England was governed by "the wise, the good, and the rich." All the forces of education, property, religion, and respectability were united in the maintenance of the established order against the assaults of democracy. New England Federalism was not so much a body of political doctrines as a state of mind. Abhorrence of the forces liberated by the French Revolution was perhaps the dominating emotion. Democracy seemed an aberration of the human mind, which was bound everywhere to produce the same results in society. Jacobinism was the inevitable outcome. "The principles of democracy are everywhere what they have been in France," wrote Ames. "Democracy is a troubled spirit, fated never to rest, and whose dreams, if it sleeps, present only visions of hell."

In 1801, New England was in bitter, irreconcilable opposition to the National Administration. The situation was fraught with grave possibilities. Jefferson himself looked forward to "an uneasy government," if the whole body of New England continued in opposition to Republican principles. Ordinary political opposition was to be expected, of course; but a sectional opposition, fortified by a social solidarity like that of New England, was a menace to the Union. From the moment when he took the oath of office, Jefferson directed his best energies to the Republican conquest of New England. It was a policy dictated not only by partisan considerations, but also by the highest instincts of statesmanship. The fair-minded historian is bound to record that the Jeffersonian party in this period of its history was, in spite of all its inconsistencies, a potent agency in the maintenance of the Union.

The first conquest of the Republicans was that of Rhode Island in the first year of the new Administration. The President was deeply gratified by what he called "the regeneration of Rhode Island," interpreting the event as "the beginning of that resurrection of the genuine spirit of New England." Vermont, he prophesied, would next emerge from under the yoke of the Federalist hierarchy; and the fall election verified his prediction. Elsewhere the contest was more stubborn and prolonged, but the Federalists noted with alarm that the Republican vote was increasing everywhere. By the end of Jefferson's first term, the number of Republican voters in New England very nearly equaled that of their opponents.

The ranks of the Republican party were recruited largely from the rural districts, where hostility to the mercantile and moneyed classes was most bitter. It was the old alignment of the men of little or no personal property against the prosperous and well-to-do classes. From this point of view the Republican movement was an attack upon the privileged orders, an attempt to break down the social hierarchy of New England. Closely connected with the political movement was also the struggle of the Baptists and the Methodists to secure religious freedom in Massachusetts and Connecticut. The dissenters looked to Jefferson as their natural leader; and the bitter opposition of the Congregational clergy to the spread of democracy was due to their persistent, and no doubt sincere, belief that dissent and democracy were manifestations of the same radical and destructive spirit.

The rising tide of Republicanism and the increasing popularity of the Administration cast the Federalist leaders into the deepest gloom. The annexation of Louisiana was regarded as a mortal blow, since it imperiled the ascendency of New England in the Union, and New England was the stronghold of Federalism. At the beginning of the year 1804, most of the Federalist members of Congress from New England were agreed in thinking that a crisis was approaching. Democracy was about to triumph over the forces of law and order. The only question was how to save their section, where the ravages of Jacobinism could yet be stayed. There was but one answer, from the point of view of Senator Timothy Pickering. The people of the Eastern States could not reconcile their habits, views, and interests with those of the South and West: therefore, let them withdraw from the Union and form a Northern Confederation. Plumer, of New Hampshire, and Tracy and Griswold, of Connecticut, were in hearty agreement with this view. Pickering then put his project before the members of the coterie of Federalists in Massachusetts, which was generally known as the "Essex Junto." As the confederacy shaped itself in Pickering's imagination, it would of necessity include New York, which would act as a barrier to the insidious inroads of Southern Jacobinism; but Massachusetts should initiate the movement.

Replying for his intimates in the Essex Junto, George Cabot put aside the project, not as in any wise morally reprehensible,—on the contrary, he thought separation desirable,—but as impracticable. The people of New England were not aware of their danger and therefore not prepared for so radical a movement. The only chance for a successful revolution, Cabot thought, would be "a war with Great Britain manifestly provoked by our rulers." Pickering and Griswold then turned to New York for support and to Aaron Burr.

The Vice-President was at this time without political influence in the Administration, and without credit, either morally or politically. In New York, the Livingstons and the Clintons, whom he had mortally offended, were determined to drive him from the party. At first, Burr was inclined to give way: he even applied to the President for an executive appointment; but this resource failing, he determined to fight his enemies to the bitter end. In February, 1804, he was nominated for governor by a group of his friends in the legislature, in opposition to the Clinton faction. It was well known that many Federalists would support his candidacy. At this crucial moment, Pickering and Griswold sought out Burr as an ally. As Governor of New York, they intimated, he would be in a strategic position and could take the lead in the secession of the Northern States. His leadership in the movement, in short, was to be the price of Federalist support at the polls. But the shifty Burr would not commit himself further than to promise an administration satisfactory to the Federalists. The conspirators had to rest content with this vague assurance and to count on Burr's ambition, and his desire to be revenged upon his enemies, to bind him to their cause.

Meantime, Alexander Hamilton was straining every nerve to prevent the Federalists from indorsing the man who stood in the way of his own ambition and whom he believed to be a dangerous and unprincipled character. Some vestige of prudence kept the party from committing itself openly to Burr, but its vote was cast for him. Burr carried his old stronghold, New York City, but he was beaten elsewhere in the State. The hopes of the Federalists were shattered; the conspirators were confounded; and the bubble of a Northern Confederacy vanished.

The immediate consequences of this political episode were personal. Hamilton had again thwarted the ambitions and incurred the deadly enmity of an embittered political desperado. A challenge followed and was accepted. On a summer morning, July 11, 1804, at Weehawken across the Hudson, the rivals faced each other for the last time. Hamilton threw away his fire: Burr aimed with murderous intent, and Hamilton fell mortally wounded. From this moment Burr was a marked man and an outcast from respectable society in the East. The newer society of the West, less sensitive in such matters, thought none the less of a man who had shot his foe in a fair fight. Thither Burr betook himself when his term of office expired.

As the presidential election approached, the Republicans determined to prevent any recurrence of the accident which had so nearly seated Burr in the President's chair. This resolve took the form of a constitutional amendment which provided that presidential electors should designate on distinct ballots the persons voted for as President and Vice-President. To change the Constitution in this wise was a delicate matter. No part of the work of the Federal Convention had been more difficult than to reconcile the small-State party to the mode provided for the election of a President. The final settlement had been accepted only in the expectation that in most cases the electoral college would fail to elect, and that a choice would then be made by the House of Representatives, where the small States would have an equal voice with the large States. To remove the chances of an election by the House was to upset the original compromise and to increase the importance of the large States in the initial election.