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STUDIES  IN  THE  SOCIAL  SCIENCES 


Volume  XV 


June,  1976 


THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION: 
THE  HOME  FRONT 


Published  By 
WEST  GEORGIA  COLLEGE 

A  Division  of  the  University  System  of  Georgia 
CARROLLTON,  GEORGIA 


STUDIES  IN  THE  SOCIAL  SCIENCES 


Volume  XV  June,  1976 


THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION 
THE  HOME  FRONT 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Contributors iii 

Foreword John  C.  Upchurch        v 

Preface John  E.  Ferling       vi 

Southern  Social  Structure  and  the 

American  War  for  Independence James  A.  Henretta         1 

Emerging  Urbanism  and  Increasing 

Social  Stratification Bruce  E.  Daniels       15 

The  Revolution,  The  Founding  Fathers,  and 

The  Electoral  College John  J.  Turner,  Jr.       31 

The  American  Revolution  as  a  Leadership  Crisis: 
The  View  of  a 
Hardware  Store  Owner Barbara  R.  Wilhelm      43 

From  Pragmatic  Accommodation  to  Principled  Action: 
The  Revolution  and  Religious  Establishment  in 
Virginia Mary  E.  Quinlivan       55 

Jonathan  Boucher:  The  Loyalist  as  Rebel  ....  Carol  R.  Berkin      65 

The  Labor  Front  During  the  Revolution  .  .  .    Elizabeth  Cometti      79 

"There  Ought  To  Be  No  Distinction:" 
The  American  Revolution  and 
the  Powerless Jerome  H.  Wood,  Jr.       91 


Vol.  II,  1963,  Georgia  in  Transition. 

Vol.  Ill,  1964,  The  New  Europe. 

Vol.  IV,  1965,  The  Changing  Role  of  Government. 

Vol.  V,  1966,  Issues  in  the  Cold  War. 

Vol.  VII,  1968,  Social  Scientists  Speak  on  Community  Development. 

Vol.  VIII,  1969,  Some  Aspects  of  Black  Culture. 

Vol.  XI,  1972,  Georgia  Diplomats  and  Nineteenth  Century  Trade 
Expansion. 

Vol.  XII,  1973,  Geographic  Perspectives  on  Southern  Development. 

Vol.  XIII,  1974,  American  Diplomatic  History:  Issues  and  Methods. 

Price,  each  title,  $2.00 

Vol.  XIV,  1975,  Political  Morality,  Responsiveness,  and  Reform  in 
America. 

Price,  $3.00. 


Copyright  ©,  West  Georgia  College 

Printed  in  U.S.A. 

Thomasson  Printing  Co.,  Carrollton,  Georgia  30117 

Price,  $3.00 


CONTRIBUTORS 


BERKIN,  CAROL  R.,  is  the  author  of  Jonathan  Sewall:  Odessey  of 
an  American  Loyalist  (Columbia  University  Press,  1974)  and  Within 
the  Conjurers  Circle:  Women  in  Colonial  America  (General  Learning 
Press,  1974).  She  received  the  Bancroft  Dissertation  Award  in  1974. 
Ms.  Berkin  received  the  Ph.D.  degree  from  Columbia  University  and 
is   presently   an  Associate   Professor  at   Baruch   College,   CUNY. 

COMETTI,  ELIZABETH,  is  Professor  Emeritus  at  West  Virginia 
University.  Her  forthcoming  studies  include  Social  Life  in  Virginia 
during  the  War  for  Independence  (Colonial  Williamsburg)  and  The 
American  Journal  of  John  Enys  (Syracuse  University  Press).  Ms. 
Cometti  has  edited  Seeing  America  and  Its  Great  Men  (University  of 
Virginia  Press,  1969);  her  articles  have  appeared  in  numerous 
journals,  including  The  Journal  of  Southern  History,  The  New  Eng- 
land Quarterly,  and  The  William  and  Mary  Quarterly.  She  received 
the  Ph.D.  degree  from  the  University  of  Virginia.  In  addition  to  a 
Fulbright  Professorship  in  Rome,  Ms.  Cometti  has  received  grants 
from  the  American  Philosophical  Society  and  the  Southern  Fellow- 
ship Fund. 

DANIELS,  BRUCE  E.,  received  the  Ph.D.  degree  at  the  University 
of  Connecticut  and  is  presently  an  Assistant  Professor  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Winnipeg.  He  is  the  author  of  Connecticut  s  First  Family: 
William  Pitkin  and  His  Connections  (Pequot  Press,  1975).  His 
articles  have  appeared  in  The  Canadian  Journal  of  History,  The  Pro- 
ceedings of  the  American  Antiquarian  Society,  and  The  Journal  of 
American  Studies. 

HENRETTA,  JAMES  A.,  is  the  author  of  Salutary  Neglect  (Prince- 
ton University  Press,  1972)  and  The  Evolution  of  American  Society, 
1700-1815:  An  Interdisciplinary  Analysis  (D.C.  Heath,  1973).  He  is  a 
Professor  at  the  University  of  California,  Los  Angeles.  Mr.  Henretta 
was  a  fellow  at  the  Charles  Warren  Center  for  Studies  in  American 
History,  Harvard  University,  during  1975-1976.  He  received  the 
Ph.D.  degree  from  Harvard  University. 

QUINLIVAN,  MARY  E.,  is  an  Associate  Professor  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Texas  of  the  Permian  Basin.  She  received  the  Ph.D.  degree 
from  the  University  of  Wisconsin.  Ms.  Quinlivan  was  awarded  a 
post-doctoral  grant  from  the  National  Endowment  for  the  Humanities. 

TURNER,  JOHN  J.,  Jr.,  received  the  Ph.D.  degree  from  Columbia 
University.  His  articles  have  appeared  in  The  Historian,  The  New 
York  Historical  Society  Quarterly,  New  York  History,  and  The  Pan- 

iii 


African  Journal.  He  recently  received  an  American  Philosophical 
Society  grant  to  edit  the  Peter  Van  Gaasbeek  papers.  Mr.  Turner  is  a 
Professor  at  West  Chester  State  College. 

WILHELM,  BARBARA  RIPEL,  is  a  member  of  the  History  De- 
partment at  Dowling  College.  She  received  the  Ph.D.  degree  at 
S.U.N.Y.  at  Stony  Brook.  Ms.  Wilhelm  was  an  assistant  to  the  editor 
of  the  Papers  of  James  Madison  project,  and  she  has  published  in  the 
William  and  Mary  Quarterly. 

WOOD,  JEROME  H.,  Jr.,  is  the  author  of  Conestoga  Crossroads: 
The  Rise  of  Lancaster,  Pennsylvania,  1730-1790  (Pa.  Hist.  & 
Museum  Commission).  His  articles  have  been  published  by  The 
Pennsylvania  Magazine  of  History  and  Biography,  The  New  Eng- 
land Quarterly,  and  Mankind.  "The  Negro  in  Early  Pennsylvania" 
appeared  in  Plantation,  Town,  and  County,  eds.,  Eugene  Genovese 
and  Elinor  Miller.  Mr.  Wood  received  the  Ph.D.  degree  from  Brown 
University  and  is  presently  an  Associate  Professor  at  Swarthmore 
College. 


IV 


FOREWORD 


This  volume  continues  the  precedent  of  utilizing  the  services  of 
a  volume  editor  working  under  the  loose  supervision  of  a  general 
editor,  a  policy  initiated  with  the  1973  issue  of  Studies  in  the  Social 
Sciences.  Responsibility  for  selecting  the  theme  of  the  present 
volume,  the  papers  herein  included,  and  initial  editorial  refinement 
was  that  of  the  volume  editor.  The  role  of  the  general  editor  was 
limited  to  broad  consultation  with  the  volume  editor,  final  editing, 
and  liaison  with  the  printer. 

Volume  topics  for  the  past  four  issues  of  Studies  have  rotated 
among  various  social  science  disciplines.  This  year  the  choice 
devolved  on  West  Georgia  College's  History  Department,  which 
selected  a  Bicentennial  theme  permitting  historical  exploration  of  the 
home  front  during  the  American  Revolution.  Clearly,  on  this  our 
country's  200th  year,  a  retrospective  look  at  facets  of  this  complex 
and  critical  topic  ensures  the  timeliness  of  this  issue. 

As  in  the  past,  this  journal  is  financed  partially  by  The  University 
System  of  Georgia.  It  is  distributed  gratis  to  libraries  of  state  sup- 
ported colleges  and  universities  in  Georgia  and  to  selected  institu- 
tions of  higher  learning  in  each  southern  state.  Interested  individuals 
or  libraries  may  purchase  copies  for  $3.00  each  to  help  defray 
printing  and  mailing  costs.  Standing  orders  for  the  series  are  avail- 
able at  reduced  rates. 

It  is  with  considerable  pleasure  that  we  submit  to  you  this  Bicen- 
tennial volume. 

John  C.  Upchurch 
Associate  Professor  and  Chairman 
Department  of  Geography 
General  Editor 


PREFACE 


The  American  struggle  to  separate  from  Great  Britain  has  pro- 
voked two  general  lines  of  historical  inquiry.  Some  historians  have 
concerned  themselves  with  the  origins  of  the  War  for  Independence. 
Other  scholars  have  been  more  interested  in  the  nature  of  the  Ameri- 
can Revolution,  that  is,  in  the  change— or  lack  of  change— which 
occurred  in  American  life  during  the  War  for  Independence. 

The  question  of  internal  change  during  the  Revolution  was  not 
seriously  considered  until  early  in  this  century.  Then  scholars  of  the 
so-called  "Progressive"  persuasion  concluded  that  the  independence 
movement  originated  in  a  deep-seated  class  conflict  between  the 
lower  economic  orders  and  the  more  affluent  strata  of  colonial 
society.  The  less  privileged  classes,  primarily  small  farmers  and 
artisans,  sought  not  only  independence  but  a  thorough  transfor- 
mation of  American  society,  including  the  democratization  of  the 
new  nation.  America  endured  considerable  change,  in  the  viewpoint 
of  the  "Progressives,"  before  the  Constitution  of  1787— a  counter- 
revolutionary document  skillfully  designed  to  nullify  the  Revolu- 
tion—restricted the  powers  of  the  real  revolutionaries. 

By  mid-century  that  interpretation  had  come  under  serious  chal- 
lenge from  scholars  of  the  "consensus"  inclination.  These  writers 
discerned  cleavages  in  colonial  society,  but  they  suggested  that  the 
schisms  were  seldom  of  a  class  nature;  furthermore,  the  divisions 
played  little  role  in  provoking  the  rebellion.  The  result,  these  his- 
torians suggested,  was  a  conservative  revolution,  an  insurrection  to 
preserve  what  existed— and  what  was  thought  to  be  endangered  by 
departures  in  traditional  British  policy —rather  than  an  upheaval  for 
the  purpose  of  provoking  substantive  change. 

In  recent  years  the  most  important  study  to  appear  on  the  topic  — 
clearly  as  important  for  this  generation  as  were  the  works  of  Carl 
Becker  or  Arthur  Meier  Schlesinger  for  an  earlier  generation— has 
been  Bernard  Bailyn's  The  Ideological  Origins  of  the  American 
Revolution  (Harvard  University  Press,  1967).  Although  essentially 
"consensus"  in  outlook,  Bailyn  acknowledged  that  the  American 
home-front  underwent  notable  modifications  during  the  Revolution. 
The  revolt,  he  maintained,  arose  out  of  the  colonists'  world-view.  By 
the  1760s-1770s  the  colonists  had  come  to  see  themselves  as  different 
from  Europeans.  These  differences,  arising  from  the  peculiar  nature 
of  New  World  society,  were  thought  to  be  jeopardized  by  a  British 
onslaught.  The  revolution,  in  part,  therefore,  was  the  institution- 
alization of  the  American  way  of  life  which  had  awkwardly  emerged 
during  the  previous  several  decades.  But,  Bailyn  added,  the  Revolu- 


vi 


tion  was  greater  than  the  sudden  realization  of  American  society :  the 
turbulent  events  of  the  era  comingled  with  the  ideology  of  the  rebel- 
lious to  catapult  the  insurgents— after  1776  — into  "unfamiliar  direc- 
tions, toward  conclusions  they  could  not  themselves  clearly  per- 
ceive." (pg.  161)  The  War  for  Independence,  therefore,  resulted  in  a 
salient,  if  unplanned,  transformation  of  the  home  front. 

This  issue  of  the  Studies  does  not  claim  to  systematically  investi- 
gate the  terribly  complex  question:  how  revolutionary  was  the 
American  Revolution?  Instead,  it  is  a  compilation  of  essays  which 
explore  the  multifaceted  nature  of  the  domestic  society  and  insti- 
tutions during,  and,  in  some  instances,  after  the  rebellion.  No 
attempt  was  made  to  publish  a  "Progressive"  or  "Consensus"  issue. 
By  design,  the  contributors  are  a  disparate  group,  including  scholars 
of  varied  persuasions,  age,  sex,  and  region.  The  one  common  link  is 
that  the  essayists,  in  previous  works,  have  established  deserved 
reputations  of  competence  and  ability  in  the  areas  they  are  scruti- 
nizing in  these  pages.  The  result,  hopefully,  is  a  compendium  of  gain- 
ful and  provocative  views  on  the  issues  which  concerned  those  who 
inhabited  the  home  front  during  the  War  for  Independence. 

A  personal  word  of  gratitude  is  in  order  for  Ms.  Vicki  Ward  and 
Ms.  Eva-Marie  Roswall,  assistants  who  have  typed  draft  after  draft 
of  manuscripts  during  the  past  several  months. 

John  E.  Ferling 

Assistant  Professor  of  History 

Volume  Editor 


vn 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2011  with  funding  from 

LYRASIS  Members  and  Sloan  Foundation 


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SOUTHERN  SOCIAL  STRUCTURE  AND 
THE  AMERICAN  WAR  FOR  INDEPENDENCE 

By 
James  A.  Henretta 

When  the  thirteen  English  colonies  in  North  America  took  up 
arms  against  the  British  Crown  at  Lexington  and  Concord  in  1775, 
the  entire  Western  Hemisphere  was  under  the  effective  political 
control  of  European  imperial  powers.  Half  a  century  later,  at  the  time 
of  the  deaths  of  Thomas  Jefferson  and  John  Adams— simultaneously 
and  symbolically  on  July  4,  1826— the  situation  was  far  different. 
The  successful  achievement  of  American  independence  in  1783  had 
been  followed  by  anti-colonial  uprisings  in  Santo  Domingo  during 
the  opening  years  of  the  French  Revolution  and  subsequently  in 
nearly  all  of  Latin  America.  Within  the  lifetime  of  the  American  revo- 
lutionary generation  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  two  continents  had 
achieved  a  status  of  political  self-determination;  only  Canada  and 
various  Caribbean  islands  and  coastal  enclaves  to  the  south  of  the 
United  States  remained  as  relatively  unimportant  residues  of  the  old 
trans-Atlantic  imperial  systems.  Here,  then,  was  the  first  massive 
decolonization  movement  in  modern  history,  a  phenomenon  that  was 
not  to  be  repeated  until  the  middle  of  the  twentieth  century  when  the 
continents  of  Asia  and  Africa  were  to  assert  their  freedom  from  Euro- 
pean political  domination. 

This  massive  convergence  of  anti-colonial  rebellions,  in  the  eight- 
eenth no  less  than  in  the  twentieth  century,  demands  explanation. 
Was  it  the  example  of  India  in  1947  and  China  in  1949  or  of  the 
United  States  in  1776  which  spurred  other  colonial  peoples  to  throw 
off  the  imperial  masters?  Or  were  there  pervasive  structural  weak- 
nesses in  these  empires,  inherent  flaws  which  made  possible  continent- 
wide  movements  for  political  liberation?  The  question  is  an  important 
one,  for  it  forces  a  consideration  of  the  causation  of  these  anti- 
colonial  movements  and  requires  that  the  American  revolutionary 
experience  be  placed  in  a  wider  hemispheric  perspective. 

The  vocabulary  of  the  twentieth  century  and  modern  models  of 
revolution  have  accustomed  us  to  assume  that  the  dynamism  which 
produces  political  violence  originates  from  below.  But  such  formu- 
lations, stemming  from  the  French  experience  in  1789  and  the 
Russian  example  of  1917,  are  based  on  historical  cases  in  which  pre- 
viously disadvantaged  groups  overthrew  the  constituted  basis  of  the 
society  and  seized  power  for  themselves.  Most  rebellions  in  early 
modern  history— in  Europe  during  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  and  in  the  various  American  colonies  at  the  end  of  the  eight- 


eenth  century  — proceeded  from  quite  different  causes.  In  these  in- 
stances the  initial  impetus  for  change  did  not  come  from  within  the 
society,  from  its  lower  or  disadvantaged  orders,  but  from  without; 
almost  invariably  these  rebellions  stemmed  from  the  attempt  of  a 
central  government  or  an  imperial  power  to  extend  its  political  con- 
trol or  to  increase  its  financial  demands  upon  an  outlying  province 
or  colony.1 

There  is  no  better  example  of  this  process  than  the  American 
movement  for  independence.  Before  1765  the  inhabitants  of  the 
British  colonies  in  North  America  were  loyal,  if  somewhat  uncoop- 
erative, subjects  of  the  Crown.  For  three  generations  they  had 
accepted  the  restrictions  imposed  by  the  Laws  of  Trade  and  Navi- 
gation—or at  least  those  regulations  which  did  not  impinge  too 
directly  on  their  own  self-interest— and  they  had  prospered.  Then, 
beginning  in  the  1760's,  the  British  King  and  Parliament  undertook 
a  sustained  campaign  to  regulate  more  closely  the  course  of 
American  trade,  to  impose  strict  administrative  controls  and,  most 
importantly,  to  increase  imperial  revenues.  It  was  this  series  of  tax 
and  money  bills— the  Revenue  Act  of  1762,  the  Sugar  and  Currency 
Acts  of  1764,  the  Stamp  Act  of  1765,  then  the  Townshend  Duties  of 
1767  and  the  Tea  Act  of  1773— which  gradually  undermined  the 
traditional  allegiance  of  the  privileged  groups  within  American 
society. 

In  less  than  a  dozen  years  faint  protests  led  to  concerted  resis- 
tance, to  riots,  and— ultimately —to  rebellion.  Rhetoric  of  this  revolt 
was  rich  in  metaphors  of  dependence,  of  an  intense  fear  of  an  in- 
fringement on  personal  autonomy  and  freedom.  "The  merchants  in 
England  look  upon  us  in  this  part  of  the  world  as  their  Slaves," 
Edward  Shippen,  a  Pennsylvania  merchant  wrote  to  a  friend  in  1774; 
they  say  that 

it  is  our  duty  to  work  for  them.  And  while  we  the  white 
and  black  Servants  send  the  Merchants  Gold  and  Silver 
and  .  .  .  Spirits,  Sugar,  and  Mollasses  &  c  ...  so  that  they 
may  take  their  pleasure  and  role  about  in  Couches,  they 
are  well  enough  satisfied.2 

Such  apprehensions  of  a  conspiracy  instigated  by  the  King's 
ministers  and  designed  to  reduce  America  to  complete  subordination 
were  pervasive  among  the  Patriot  leadership.  Jefferson  thought  that 
England  had  laid  "a  deliberate  and  systematical  plan  of  reducing  us 
to  slavery,"  while  Alexander  Hamilton  claimed  that  "the  system  of 
slavery  fabricated  against  America  is  the  offspring  of  mature 
deliberation."3 

It  is  obvious  that  many  Americans  feared  a  British  assault  upon 


their  traditional  liberties  but  that  such  subjective  views  fully  com- 
prehended the  rationale  and  the  complexities  of  British  intentions  is 
less  apparent.  In  1763,  Britain  had  just  emerged  from  a  long  and 
debilitating  war  with  France,  a  struggle  in  which  the  American 
colonists  had  participated  directly  in  the  conquest  of  Canada.  This 
victory  had  been  puchased  at  a  high  price.  The  expenses  of  war, 
including  generous  military  subsidies  to  colonial  governments,  had 
exhausted  the  British  Treasury.  It  was  the  enormous  size  of  the 
national  debt— over  £  130  million  — which  was  a  prime  factor  in  the 
British  decision  to  bring  the  colonies  under  more  effective  control.4 

These  new  demands  of  the  British  government  constituted  the 
proximate  cause  of  the  American  War  for  Independence.  War  had  led 
to  financial  distress  and  to  increased  fiscal  demands  upon  the 
colonies.  But  the  strain  placed  upon  the  fragile  bonds  of  the  trans- 
Atlantic  connection  was  too  great;  as  in  many  peripheral  areas  a 
distinct  and  partially  autonomous  society  had  appeared  in  British 
North  America  and  its  inhabitants  were  extremely  sensitive  to  any 
infringement,  real  or  imagined,  of  their  traditional  laws  and  insti- 
tutions. The  dynamism  from  without  — the  concerted  Crown  attempts 
to  extend  the  authority  of  the  central  government— first  elicited 
passive  resistance  in  the  form  of  non-compliance  with  the  Stamp  Act 
and  a  refusal  to  purchase  British  goods  in  the  Non-Importation 
Agreements,  and  then  to  civil  war  within  the  far-flung  Empire. 

A  second  structural  weakness— in  addition  to  the  inherently  fra- 
gile link  between  metropolis  and  periphery —determined  the  outcome 
of  this  conflict.  Most  rebellions  in  Europe  in  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries  were  eventually  crushed  by  the  central  govern- 
ments, as  limited  local  resources  dwindled  away  under  sustained 
pressure.  But  the  colonial  revolts  which  took  place  between  1775  and 
1825  were  another  matter  altogether.  Given  their  geographic  isola- 
tion, the  American  colonies  were  partially  immune  from  the  central 
power;  and  this  inherent  advantage  was  enormously  accentuated  by 
diplomatic  and  military  conflicts  among  the  European  nations.  Soon 
after  the  outbreak  of  fighting  in  America  in  1775  the  French  govern- 
ment secretly  sent  money  and  arms  to  the  colonists,  and  by  1778 
France  had  entered  into  a  formal  military  alliance  with  rebellious 
Americans.  It  was  this  assistance  which  guaranteed  the  American 
achievement  of  independence  and  prevented  either  a  compromise 
political  settlement  or  a  complete  destruction  of  the  Pa- 
triot movement. 

Seen  in  this  light,  the  success  of  the  anti-colonial  revolts  of  the  late 
eighteenth  century  was  the  result,  in  large  measure,  of  the  temporary 
breakdown  of  the  European  diplomatic  system.  The  increasingly 
disruptive  struggles  among  France  and  England  and  Spain,  begin- 


ning  in  1754  with  the  French  and  Indian  War  and  terminating  only 
with  the  defeat  of  Napoleon  in  1815,  caused  each  of  the  imperial 
powers  to  impose  greater  financial  burdens  on  their  colonial  dependen- 
cies, just  at  the  time  that  their  own  preoccupation  with  military 
affairs  at  home  made  the  effective  implementation  of  those  policies 
difficult,  if  not  impossible.  These  bitter  divisions,  moreover,  permitted 
aspiring  colonists  to  play  one  European  power  off  against  another. 
French  assistance  to  the  United  States  was  subsequently  repaid  in 
full  by  the  British,  who  successfully  encouraged  Latin  American 
independence  movements  directed  against  Spain,  the  traditional  ally 
of  France.  The  parallel  with  the  events  of  the  twentieth  century  — 
the  devastating  wars  of  1914-1918  and  1939-1945  which  undermined 
the  financial,  military,  and  psychological  strength  of  the  European 
powers  and  made  it  impossible  for  them  to  continue  their  imperial 
domination  of  the  continents  of  Africa  and  Asia— is  readily  apparent. 
In  both  periods  protracted  military  conflicts  among  the  metropoli- 
tian  imperial  powers  permitted  and,  indeed,  often  encouraged  revolt 
in  the  peripheral  colonial  dependencies. 

Such  a  favorable  structural  situation  neither  made  an  indepen- 
dence movement  inevitable  nor  determined  its  course.  Developments 
on  the  home  front,  therefore,  were  of  crucial  significance  in  the  crea- 
tion of  the  new  American  republic  which  emerged  in  1776.  In  the 
South  the  Patriot  leadership  was  assumed  by  those  who  were  promi- 
nent in  the  production  (or,  in  the  case  of  the  South  Carolina  mer- 
chants, in  the  marketing)  of  the  staple  crops  of  rice  and  tobacco. 
Disadvantaged  or  oppressed  groups  within  the  society —landless 
whites  and  enslaved  blacks— played  a  strictly  subordinate  role;  and 
the  same  was  true,  for  the  most  part,  of  that  part  of  the  white  popu- 
lation engaged  in  diversified  agriculture.  This  split  between  rich  and 
poor,  between  commercially-oriented  and  semi-subsistence  groups, 
stemmed  from  a  variety  of  factors.  Wealthy  planters  had  traditionally 
controlled  southern  politics,  and  so  it  was  only  to  be  expected  that 
they  would  take  control  of  the  anti-imperial  movement.  Moreover, 
the  new  British  measures  bore  most  directly  on  those  engaged  in 
foreign  commerce,  a  sector  of  the  population  which  had  the  most  to 
lose  from  the  imposition  of  imperial  taxes  and  which  was  heavily  in 
debt  to  British  merchants."1  Such  individuals  reacted  instinctively 
when  it  appeared  that  their  private  debts  would  be  compounded  by 
public  taxes. 

Conversely,  settlers  in  the  backcountry  of  Georgia  and  the  Caro- 
linas,  and  even  in  parts  of  Virginia,  had  only  a  tenuous  relationship 
to  the  British  economy;  their  economic  well-being  depended  more  on 
the  labor  of  their  own  hands  than  on  the  success  or  failure  of  the  new 
imperial  legislation.  The  Proclamation  Line  of  1763,  which  restricted 


emigration  further  into  the  interior,  placed  these  settlers  in  political 
opposition  to  Crown  policy;  but  this  was  largely  offset  by  the  need 
for  Royal  assistance  against  the  Native  American  tribes  whose  lands 
they  had  taken,  often  by  force.  Moreover,  the  most  immediate 
political  opponents  of  the  small,  yeoman  farmers  in  the  western 
regions  were  the  low-country  planters,  the  very  men  taking  the  lead 
in  the  independence  movement.  For  nearly  a  generation  these 
wealthy  planters  had  used  their  control  of  the  colonial  assemblies  to 
deny  fair  representation  and  an  equitable  court  system  to  the  back- 
country.  In  the  late  1760's,  these  conflicts  had  become  so  acute  that 
they  engendered  armed  confrontation.  In  1771,  the  lowland  militia  of 
North  Carolina  defeated  backcountry  "Regulators"  in  a  pitched 
battle  at  the  Alamance  River.  Everywhere  in  the  backcountry  there 
were  grievances  that  would  find  renewed  expression  upon  the  out- 
break of  the  war  with  England.  The  instructions  of  the  inhabitants  of 
Mecklenburg  County  to  their  delegates  to  the  North  Carolina  Con- 
stitutional Convention  of  1776  offered  eloquent  testimony  to  the 
depth  and  intensity  of  these  feelings : 

In  fixing  the  fundamental  principles  of  Government  you 
shall  oppose  everything  that  leans  to  aristocracy  or  power 
in  the  hands  of  the  rich  and  chief  men  exercised  to  the  op- 
pression of  the  poor.6 

The  necessity  for  unity  in  the  war  against  Britain  brought  some 
concessions  from  low-country  planters  and  merchants.  Periodic 
reapportionment  of  the  legislatures  appeased  those  western  inhabi- 
tants who  had  watched  their  numbers  grow  steadily  without  a  com- 
mensurate increase  in  assembly  representation;  even  here,  however, 
eastern  domination  was  partially  perpetuated  by  basing  represen- 
tation on  wealth  as  well  as  on  population.  The  new  state  constitu- 
tions reflected  the  interests  of  the  wealthy  in  other  respects  as  well. 
Under  the  provisions  of  the  South  Carolina  Constitution  candidates 
for  Governor  had  to  own  a  debt-free  estate  of  £  10,000;  for  Senator, 
£  2,000;  and  for  Representative,  £  1,000.  These  were  astronomical 
sums  in  a  society  in  which  the  total  monetary  income  of  an  ordinary 
farmer  during  an  entire  year  might  be  less  than  £  25.  Property  quali- 
fications for  officeholding  in  Maryland  were  equally  stringent,  and 
those  for  voting  were  sufficiently  restrictive  so  that  fewer  than  fifty 
percent  of  the  white  adult  male  population  could  qualify  for  the 
franchise.7  Similar  disparities  between  rich  and  poor  and  between 
east  and  west  in  Virginia  were  rectified  only  fifty  years  after  inde- 
pendence in  the  Constitutional  Convention  of  1829-1830.  Nowhere  in 
the  South  had  the  Patriot  movement  been  captured  by  democratic 
forces.  The  struggle  for  home  rule  was  initiated  and  controlled  by 
members  of  the  traditional  elite. 


The  ability  of  the  southern  leadership  to  manage  the  wartime 
economy  and  society  was  not  seriously  tested  until  1778.  Armed 
conflict  during  the  first  years  of  the  struggle  took  place  in  New 
England  and  in  the  Middle  Atlantic  states,  so  there  was  no  serious 
threat  to  internal  disorder  fomented  by  Loyalist  forces;  and  the 
financial  demands  of  war,  the  cost  of  supplying  men  and  materials  to 
the  Continental  Army  commanded  by  Washington,  could  be  met 
from  accumulated  reserves  and  through  borrowing.  In  the  summer  of 
1777,  for  example,  South  Carolina  had  sufficient  credit  to  borrow 
£  140,000  sterling  from  its  citizens.  Within  the  year,  however,  a  fiscal 
crisis  was  at  hand.  From  one  end  of  the  South  to  another  govern- 
ments found  their  treasuries  empty  and  their  inhabitants  unwilling 
or  unable  to  lend  sufficient  funds  to  support  the  war  effort.  Under- 
populated and  hard-pressed  Georgia  limped  along  on  subsidies 
(eventually  amounting  to  £  2.5  million)  from  the  Continental  Con- 
gress. Elsewhere  state  governments  turned  reluctantly  to  taxation, 
worried  that  the  imposition  of  a  heavy  tax  burden  might  discourage 
friends  of  the  Patriot  cause,  yet  unable  to  envision  any  alternative. 
In  the  last  months  of  1777  Virginia  levied  taxes  which  were  expected 
to  yield  £  25,000  annually,  but  even  this  sizable  sum  left  a  deficit  of 
£  445,000  in  the  following  year.  This  huge  gap  was  filled  by  the  is- 
suance of  Treasury  notes,  which  similar  deficits  in  other  southern 
states  were  financed  through  the  issuance  of  paper  money.8 

This  dramatic  and  sudden  increase  in  the  money  supply  engendered 
an  inflationary  surge  of  monumental  proportions.  In  Maryland  a  bag 
of  salt  which  cost  $1  in  1777  had  a  paper  value  of  $3,900  three  years 
later,  while  the  price  of  a  bushel  of  wheat  increased  by  a  factor  of 
5,000.  While  much  of  this  increase  was  "artificial"  — the  result  of 
printing  presses  running  wild  — there  was,  in  fact,  a  real  shortage  of 
goods  occasioned  by  the  British  naval  embargo,  the  disruptions  of 
war,  and  the  need  to  use  surplus  production  to  feed  and  clothe  a  large 
(and  economically  unproductive)  army.  The  "real"  price  of  pork  in 
North  Carolina  rose  from  £  10  a  barrel  in  July,  1777,  to  £  20  a  year 
later,  and  it  doubled  again  to  £  40  by  July,  1779.9  Whatever  the 
cause,  it  was  the  merchants  who  were  held  to  blame.  Traders  were 
"neither  Whigs  nor  tories,"  a  Planter  complained  to  the  North  Caro- 
lina Gazette  in  October,  1777,  "their  short  creed  is  'that  gain  is  god- 
liness'." Three  years  later  the  complaints  were  much  the  same. 
"Whatt  a  Sett  of  Atheistical  fellows  must  there  be  in  Newbern," 
Thomas  Hart  wrote  to  William  Blount,  "that  thinks  there  is  Neither 
God  nor  Devil  to  punish  them  in  a  Nother  World,  for  their  usury  to 
us  in  this.  .  .  ."10 

Soon  neither  merchants  nor  private  institutions  were  willing  to 
accept  state  currency  issues  or  treasury  notes  in  payment  for  needed 


military  supplies.  The  breakdown  of  the  monetary  system  prompted 
North  Carolina  to  levy  a  tax  in  clothing  rather  than  to  try  to  buy  the 
goods.  Such  expedients  were  insufficient;  dire  need  demanded  more 
straight  measures.  The  estates  of  declared  or  suspected  Loyalists 
were  confiscated  by  the  state  governments  and  sold  to  the  highest 
bidder,  even  though  such  seizures  infringed  upon  the  rights  of 
private  property  for  which  the  war  was,  in  part,  being  fought.  Be- 
yond this,  the  Continental  Army  and  the  state  militias  now  forced 
farmers  and  artisans  to  relinquish  needed  supplies  at  the  point  of  a 
gun,  offering  in  return  the  greatly-depreciated  vouchers,  notes,  or 
paper  currency.  Bankrupt,  their  taxing  powers  exhausted,  without 
fiscal  credit,  the  state  governments  directed  their  armies  to  resort  to 
primitive  force.  If  justification  were  needed,  the  doctrine  of  self- 
preservation  would  have  to  suffice. 

The  danger  was  that  these  measures  might  provoke  a  popular 
reaction  that  would  endanger  the  Patriot  cause.  Such  fears  and 
reservations  were  not  without  foundation,  for  the  imposition  of 
heavy  taxes  and  confiscatory  policies  coincided  precisely  with  a 
major  British  offensive  in  the  South.  The  presence  of  British  troops 
would  offer  the  inhabitants  an  effective  "choice"  between  loyalty  to 
the  Crown  or  adherence  to  the  rebellion.  Here  was  the  major  test  for 
the  Patriots  in  the  southern  states;  their  will  would  be  tested  in  a 
two-year  struggle  which  would  go  far  to  determine  the  ultimate 
success  of  the  entire  independence  movement. 

Previously  the  North  had  borne  the  brunt  of  the  military  conflict. 
One  by  one  the  chief  American  cities  and  the  centers  of  colonial 
political  resistance  had  been  attacked  and  subdued  by  the  British.  If 
the  targets  were  often  symbolic— as  in  the  British  advance  on  Phil- 
adelphia, the  home  of  the  Continental  Congress  — the  intention  was 
not.  The  British  design  was  to  force  the  Continental  Army  under 
Washington  into  a  set  battle  and  then  to  use  superior  tactics  and 
numbers  to  force  its  surrender.  This  plan  was  nearly  successful;  on 
more  than  one  occasion  Washington's  troops  were  nearly  crushed, 
and  his  Continental  Army  never  emerged  victorious  from  a  major 
battle.  The  great  success  of  the  American  general  during  these  dis- 
couraging years  was  simply  in  maintaining  the  Army  as  a  symbol  of 
American  resistance.  This  tactical  achievement  eventually  elicited  a 
British  blunder  of  major  proportions.  At  Saratoga,  in  the  wilderness 
of  New  York,  a  rapid  and  vast  mobilization  of  New  England  and  New 
York  militiamen  in  the  fall  of  1777  gave  a  small  American  army  a 
numerical  advantage  over  5,000  slow-moving  British  troops  and 
compelled  their  surrender. 

This  defeat  prompted  a  new  British  strategy  in  1778,  one  directed 
at  the  southern  colonies  and  based  on  different  tactical  principles. 


The  British  army  would  seek  to  capture  land,  not  to  subdue  cities  or 
armies;  it  would  then  mobilize  local  Loyalists  to  administer  this  con- 
quered domain,  while  it  moved  still  further  into  rebel  territory.  This 
new  approach  reflected  a  hazy  but,  in  retrospect,  a  quite  accurate 
assessment  of  the  possibilities  offered  by  the  different  social  and 
political  characteristics  of  the  southern  states.  There  were,  in  the 
first  place,  many  potentially  "activist"  Loyalists  in  the  backcountry 
—settlers  whose  previous  estrangement  from  the  planter  elite  would 
incline  them  to  take  up  arms  against  the  Patriots,  rather  than  simply 
to  offer  "passive"  resistance,  as  was  often  the  case  among  adherents 
of  the  Royal  cause  in  the  North.  There  were  also  large  numbers  of 
recent  immigrants  in  the  South,  Scottish  merchants  in  Georgia  and 
Highlanders  in  the  Carolina  backcountry,  groups  which  retained 
their  allegiance  to  the  British  Crown.  Even  in  Maryland,  where  there 
were  few  ethnic  divisions  and  no  history  of  western  discontent,  there 
was  a  substantial  Loyalist  or  neutral  population  which  might  be 
counted  upon  to  render  at  least  covert  assistance  to  an  occupying 
British  army. 

A  second  element  in  British  thinking  related  to  the  racial  compo- 
sition of  the  southern  population.  Some  within  the  Ministry  believed 
slavery  would  inhibit  the  ability  of  the  rebel  forces  to  resist  a  major 
invasion.  It  was  common  knowledge  that  the  South  Carolina  militia 
was  not  mobilized  for  a  backcountry  campaign  in  1768  because  of  the 
fear  of  slave  revolt.  This  structural  weakness  in  the  southern  social 
order  could  be  expected  to  operate  again,  preventing  the  white  Pa- 
triots from  concentrating  their  forces.  Moreover,  there  was  the  dis- 
tinct posibility  that  the  oppressed  black  population  would  use  the 
wartime  confusion  to  improve  its  own  position.  Some  slaves  might 
flee  to  the  frontier,  thereby  reducing  the  productive  output  of  farms 
and  plantations;  others  might  actively  assist  the  advancing  British 
troops.  The  memory  of  Lord  Dunmore's  Proclamation  of  1776,  an 
invitation  to  Virginia  blacks  to  join  the  Royal  Governor  against  the 
rebels  in  return  for  their  freedom,  was  sharply  etched  in  the  minds  of 
the  white  leadership.  Nearly  1,000  blacks  had  responded  to  the 
Governor's  call,  even  though  the  possibilities  of  success  were  not 
great.  Even  in  the  absence  of  a  new  edict  of  emancipation— for  the 
British  were  now  unwilling  to  endanger  the  slave-based  societies  in 
their  West  Indian  islands— confiscated  slaves  would  greatly  bolster 
the  logistic  capacity  of  the  Royal  forces. 

The  willingness  of  the  British  to  enlist  the  services  of  the  black 
population  (and,  later,  to  consider  those  who  had  served  as  Loyalists 
entitled  to  evacuation11)  highlighted  the  problem  posed  by  the  in- 
stitution of  slavery  for  the  Patriot  forces.  During  the  long  verbal 
debate  over  constitutional  principles  many  Patriot  writers  had  con- 

8 


demned  slavery  while  arguing  that  violence  was  justified  in  the  cause 
of  liberty  and  equality.  Nevertheless,  upon  hearing  of  the  battles  of 
Lexington  and  Concord  in  May  1775,  the  General  Committee  of  Cor- 
respondence in  South  Carolina  proclaimed  that  it  saw 

no  alternative  but  that  we  submit  to  abject  slavery  or  appeal 
to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  in  defence  of  the  common  and  unalien- 
able rights,  peculiar  to  Englishmen.12 

The  Committee's  condemnation  of  slave  status  and  its  restriction  of 
"unalienable  rights"  to  "Englishmen"  represented  a  tortuous  com- 
promise of  dubious  intellectual  validity;  a  few  other  white  inhabi- 
tants of  the  South  (primarily  Quakers,  German  Protestants,  and 
recent  Scottish  immigrants)  carried  the  logic  of  the  natural  rights 
argument  to  its  inherent  conclusion.  Slavery,  declared  the  Scottish 
dominated  Parish  of  St.  Andrew  in  Georgia  in  January,  1775,  was  an 

unnatural  practice  .  .  .  founded  in  injustice  and  cruelty, 
and  highly  dangerous  to  our  liberty  (as  well  as  our  lives) 
debasing  part  of  our  fellow  creatures  below  men,  and  cor- 
rupting the  virtue  and  morals  of  the  rest;  and  is  laying  the 
basis  of  that  liberty  we  contend  for  .  .  .  upon  a  very  wrong 
foundation.13 

The  Quakers  went  even  further,  attempting  to  translate  ideological 
precepts  into  actual  practice.  Responding  to  the  call  of  the  North 
Carolina  Yearly  Meeting  in  1776  to  "clear  their  hands'*  of  slavery  as 
soon  as  possible,  many  Quakers  manumitted  their  own  slaves.  This 
action  was  quickly  denounced  by  the  North  Carolina  Assembly, 
which  passed  a  bill  directing  that  those  blacks  already  freed  be 
imprisoned  and  sold  at  public  auction.14 

Having  thus  resolved  the  philosophical  question  of  the  legitimacy 
of  slavery  in  a  republican  society  by  falling  back  on  the  "known  and 
Established  Laws  of  the  Country,"  the  Southern  Patriot  leadership 
was  still  faced  with  the  pragmatic  question  of  fighting  an  increas- 
ingly bitter  war  with  insufficient  manpower.  In  March  of  1779  the 
Continental  Congress  suggested  that  South  Carolina  and  Georgia 
might  raise  3,000  black  troops  in  separate  battalions  under  white 
officers,  with  the  grant  of  freedom  at  the  end  of  their  service.  Despite 
the  personal  plea  of  John  Laurens  that  this  would  "advance  those 
who  are  unjustly  deprived  of  the  rights  of  mankind  to  a  state  which 
would  be  a  proper  graduation  between  abject  slavery  and  perfect 
liberty"  and  "reinforce  the  defenders  of  liberty  with  a  number  of 
gallant  soldiers,"  this  proposal  was  overwhelmingly  rejected  by  the 
South  Carolina  Assembly.  Of  the  southern  states,  only  Maryland 
permitted  blacks  to  obtain  freedom  through  military  service,  and 


this  step  was  taken  most  reluctantly  under  the  threat  of  British 
invasion.15 

This  inability  of  the  Patriot  South  to  utilize  the  military  services 
of  the  black  population  (which  comprised  30  to  50  percent  of  the 
total)  seriously  affected  the  war  effort.  The  great  contribution  of  the 
southern  aristocracy  in  the  leadership  of  the  American  army 
disguised  the  fact  that  most  of  the  men  they  commanded  were  re- 
cruited from  the  North,  and  particularly  from  New  England.  In 
proportion  to  their  white  populations,  the  southern  states  con- 
tributed fewer  men  to  the  Continental  Army— less  than  5  percent  as 
compared  to  13  percent  for  the  northern  region.16  In  part,  this  was 
the  result  of  a  different  pattern  of  social  and  economic  development. 
A  higher  birthrate  and  a  lower  level  of  mortality  combined  with 
limited  supplies  of  arable  land  to  create  a  large  landless  population 
in  many  parts  of  the  North.  For  instance,  in  six  towns  in  New  Jersey 
over  twenty  percent  of  the  work  force  did  not  own  land,  working  as 
tenant  farmers  or  day  laborers,  while  only  fourteen  percent  of  the 
white  population  in  sixteen  counties  of  North  Carolina  were  landless. 
It  was  this  section  of  the  population,  dominated  by  young  men  with 
little  hope  of  inheriting  a  substantial  family  estate,  which  contributed 
the  great  bulk  of  northern  recruits  to  the  Continental  Army.17  But 
the  greater  possibility  of  acquiring  a  landed  estate  was  not  the  only 
factor  inhibiting  enlistments  in  the  South;  fears  of  racial  unrest  also 
compelled  many  whites  to  stay  at  home  and  to  fight  in  militia  units 
or  ad  hoc  bands  rather  than  to  join  a  formal  military  force. 

All  of  these  factors  — a  large,  activist  Loyalist  population;  racial 
divisions;  a  comparatively  small  and  immobile  white  military  organi- 
zation—worked to  assist  the  British  in  their  conquest  of  the  South. 
In  December,  1778  an  expeditionary  force  of  3,500  soldiers  captured 
Savannah  and  then  extended  the  British  sphere  of  influence  into  the 
backcountry  with  the  capture  of  Augusta  in  the  following  month. 
This  success  prompted  a  major  campaign  in  1780.  Early  in  the  year, 
8,500  troops  under  the  command  of  Sir  Henry  Clinton  landed  at 
Savannah  and  promptly  marched  on  Charleston.  The  city  fell  after 
brief  seige  in  May;  at  one  blow  the  Americans  had  lost  the  largest 
city  in  the  South  and,  even  more  important,  given  the  shortage  of 
manpower,  had  been  compelled  to  surrender  5,000  men. 

The  whole  of  South  Carolina  lay  open  to  British  invasion.  And 
despite  a  bitter  partisan  warfare  waged  by  local  Patriots,  the  British 
had  asserted  nominal  control  over  most  of  the  state  by  August,  1780. 
This  advance  was  consolidated  at  the  battle  of  Camden,  South 
Carolina  when  British  troops  under  Cornwallis  routed  American 
forces  led  by  General  Gates,  the  hero  of  Saratoga.  The  contrast  with 
the  great  northern  battle  was  fully  appropriate,  for  it  underlined  the 

10 


crucial  importance  of  the  different  social  structures  of  the  two 
regions  on  military  events.  Only  1,200  militiamen  turned  out  to 
assist  Gates  and  the  regular  troops  from  Maryland  and  Virginia  at 
Camden.  This  was  fewer  than  New  Hampshire  furnished  to  General 
Stark  at  the  battle  of  Bennington  in  1777. 18  At  Saratoga,  moreover, 
the  Patriots  were  able  to  gather  at  least  6,000  militiamen  from 
among  the  farming  population  of  densely  populated  New  England 
and  New  York.  The  lack  of  Patriot  manpower  was  one  factor  which 
permitted  Cornwallis  to  follow  up  his  triumph  at  Camden  with  a 
tactical  victory,  again  over  Gates,  at  Guilford  Courthouse  (near 
Greensboro,  N.C.)  in  March,  1781.  Despite  losses  in  minor  engage- 
ments with  American  irregular  forces  led  by  Daniel  Morgan  and 
others,  the  British  were  now  in  firm  control  of  Georgia  and  the 
Carolinas. 

The  subsequent  surrender  of  Cornwallis  at  Yorktown  seven 
months  later  obscured  the  magnitude  of  his  achievement  and  the 
wisdom  of  the  British  southern  campaign  as  a  whole.  Loyalism  and 
slavery  combined  to  make  the  South  the  weakest  military  section  of 
the  United  States.  Once  General  Lincoln's  force  was  lost  at  Charles- 
ton, there  was  simply  no  way  that  the  Carolinas  could  be  effectively 
defended  by  the  remaining  part  of  the  white  Patriot  population. 
Even  when  Cornwallis  marched  north  to  Virginia  (a  decision  for 
which  he  was  severely  criticized  by  Clinton,  his  commander)  the 
American  army— now  headed  by  General  Nathaniel  Green— dislodged 
the  Loyalist  garrisons  and  militia  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty. 
"We  fight,  get  beaten,  and  fight  again,"  he  lamented  at  one  point. 
Had  Cornwallis  adopted  a  defensive  position  in  the  Carolinas,  it  is 
doubtful  that  Patriot  forces  would  have  been  able  to  reestablish  their 
control  over  these  crucial  southern  states. 

The  intense  partisan  nature  of  this  warfare  gave  another  distinctive 
character  to  the  movement  for  independence  in  the  South.  There  were 
few  battles  between  disciplined  troops  in  the  British  and  Continental 
Armies  and  many  more  among  ethnic  groups,  former  political 
enemies,  and  opposing  family  clans.  Passions  were  higher  in  these 
circumstances,  and  resentment  faded  less  quickly.  Personal  antag- 
onisms were  exacerbated  by  property  losses.  Perhaps  as  many  as 
4,000  blacks  left  Savannah  at  the  time  of  the  British  evacuation, 
while  as  early  as  1778  Thomas  Jefferson  estimated  that  more  than 
30,000  Virginia  slaves  had  used  the  opportunity  offered  by  the  war  to 
improve  their  position  by  fleeing  their  plantations.  During  Corn- 
wallis' march  through  the  state  in  1781,  Richard  Henry  Lee  informed 
his  brother  that  two  neighbors  had  lost  "every  slave  they  had  in  the 
world"  and  that  "this  has  been  the  general  case  of  all  those  who  were 
near  the   enemy."19   Patriots   retaliated   by   confiscating   Loyalist 

11 


property  (valued  at  nearly  £  5  million  sterling  in  the  United  States 
as  a  whole),  and  by  harrassing  those  who  attempted  to  return  to  their 
homes  after  the  war.  This  revenge  took  on  a  particularly  violent 
character  in  South  Carolina,  where  some  of  the  most  bitter  partisan 
clashes  had  occurred.  Riots  by  the  Marine  Anti-Britanic  Society 
shook  Charleston  in  the  early  1780's,  directed  primarily  against 
wealthy  Loyalist  merchants  who  had  returned  to  the  city.  As  late  as 
April,  1784  — a  full  year  after  the  signing  of  the  formal  peace  treaty  — 
the  Sons  of  Liberty  in  one  rural  area  accosted  William  Rees,  a  former 
Loyalist  officer,  laid  fifty  stripes  on  his  back  with  a  hickory  stick, 
and  warned  him  out.  In  another,  more  extreme  incident,  a  number  of 
Tories  were  ordered  away  from  their  old  properties;  when  they  re- 
fused to  depart,  they  were  attacked  by  a  mob  of  Patriots  and  eight 
former  Loyalists  were  killed.20 

That  the  character  of  the  war  for  independence  and  its  aftermath 
assumed  a  distinct  shape  in  the  South  was  not  accidental.  It  pro- 
ceeded, rather,  from  the  nature  of  the  southern  social  order  itself: 
the  sharp  ethnic  and  geographic  divisions  between  low-  and  back- 
country  which  encouraged  "activist"  Loyalism;  racial  divisions 
which  inhibited  military  mobilization;  the  existence  of  slavery  which 
raised  moral  and  political  dilemmas  in  an  independence  struggle 
based  on  the  rhetoric  of  liberty,  equality,  and  popular  sovereignty. 
This  uniqueness  did  not  escape  the  attention  of  men  and  women  at 
the  time.  As  early  as  1779,  Richard  Henry  Lee  — often  described  as  a 
"Puritan"  in  character,  if  not  in  origin  — wrote  to  John  Adams  of  his 
deep  personal  interest 

in  the  establishment  of  a  wise  and  free  republic  in  Massa- 
chusetts Bay,  where  yet  I  hope  to  finish  the  remainder  of 
my  days. 

"The  hasty,  unpersevering,  aristocratic  genius  of  the  South,"  he  con- 
tinued, "suits  not  my  disposition."  Other  white  southerners  noted 
similar  contrasts,  while  remaining  loyal  to  their  own  section.  "When 
I  was  in  Congress,"  Timothy  Bloodworth  of  North  Carolina  observed 
in  1789,  "the  Southern  and  Northern  Interests  divided  at  [the]  Sus- 
quehannah.  I  believe  it  is  so  now."  These  sentiments  were  echoed  by 
Charles  Pinckney  of  South  Carolina,  who  noted  the  "striking .  .  . 
difference  that  is  between  the  inhabitants  of  Northern  and  Southern 
states."  "There  we  may  truly  observe,"  he  argued,  "that  nature  has 
drawn  as  strong  marks  of  distinction  in  the  habits  and  manners  of 
the  people  as  he  has  in  her  climates  and  productions."  This  crucial 
relationship  between  environment  and  culture  was  explicitly  under- 
lined by  William  Henry  Drayton: 


12 


From  the  nature  of  the  climate,  soil,  and  produce  of  the 
several  states  [he  suggested]  a  northern  and  southern  in- 
terest in  many  particulars  naturally  and  unavoidably 
arises.  .  .  .21 

In  this  conscious  articulation  of  major  cultural  differences  between 
the  North  and  the  South  lay  an  important  new  theme  in  American 
history.  Previously  there  had  been  many  references  to  the  staple- 
producing  areas  of  the  West  Indies  and  the  southern  mainland  on  the 
one  hand,  and  to  the  commercial  and  farming  colonies  of  the  north  on 
the  other.  Now  this  economic  and  mercantilistic  division  — one  made 
primarily  with  reference  to  their  external  relations  with  Great  Britain 
rather  than  their  internal  character— was  gradually  transformed  into 
a  social  and  cultural  dichotomy,  and  one  with  significant  moral 
overtones.  In  the  decades  ahead  the  power  of  the  southern  planter 
aristocracy  would  assume  a  mythic  status,  as  would  the  virtue  of  the 
northern  yeoman  farmer.  Behind  these  symbols  lay  real  political 
difference  on  substantive  issues:  tariffs,  fishing  rights,  Mississippi 
navigation,  industrialization  and,  eventually  subsuming  all  of  these 
sub-categories,  the  opposition  between  a  "free"  and  a  "slave"  society. 
Before  1776,  racial  slavery  was  common  to  all  parts  of  British 
America;  therefore,  it  was  increasingly  confined  to  the  southern 
mainland.  Moreover,  the  basic  postulates  of  slavery  had  been  chal- 
lenged by  the  ideology  of  liberty  and  equality  proclaimed  during  the 
movement  for  independence  from  Great  Britain.  Even  as  the  two 
sections  were  being  pulled  more  tightly  together  by  the  demands  of 
war  and  the  creation  of  new  nation-wide  political  and  constitutional 
institutions,  they  were  becoming  more  aware  of  their  inherent  social 
and  cultural  differences.  It  is  a  sobering  reflection  but,  I  think,  an 
accurate  one,  that  the  nature  of  the  War  for  Independence  — particu- 
larly its  ideological  implications  — helped  to  generate  the  seeds  of  the 
Civil  War. 


FOOTNOTES 

1  See  the  Review  Essay  by  H.G.  Koenisberger  in  the  Journal  of  Modern 
History,  46  (March,  1974),  99-106;  Max  Savelle,  From  Empires  to  Nations 
(Minneapolis,  Minn.,  1974). 

2  Quoted  in  Jerome  H.  Wood,  Jr.,  "Conestoga  Crossroads:  The  Rise  of 
Lancaster,  Pennsylvania,  1730-1789,"  (Ph.D.,  Brown  University,  1969),  297. 

3  Quoted  in  Michael  P.  Rogin,  Fathers  and  Children  (New  York,  1975),  21-28. 

4  The  influence  of  the  Seven  Years  War  on  the  American  independence 
movement  is  argued  most  forcefully  by  Lawrence  H.  Gipson,  The  Coming  of 
the  American  Revolution.  1763-1775  (New  York,  1954). 


13 


5  Jackson  T.  Main,  The  Sovereign  State,  1775-1783  (New  York,  1973),  401, 
411,  424,  and  428;  and,  in  general,  John  R.  Alden,  The  South  in  the 
American  Revolution  (Baton  Rouge,  1963). 

6  Quoted  in  Sheldon  R.  Koesy,  "Continuity  and  Change  in  North  Carolina, 
1775-1789,"  (Ph.D.,  Duke  University,  1963),  79;  Richard  Maxwell  Brown, 
The  South  Carolina  Regulators  (Cambridge,  Mass.,  1963). 

7  See,  in  general,  Raymond  Gale  Starr,  "The  Conservative  Revolution: 
South  Carolina  Public  Affairs,  1775-1790,"  (Ph.D.,  University  of  Texas, 
1964),  73  and  passim. 

8  Main,  Sovereign  States,  chap.  11. 

9  Elizabeth  Cometti,  "Inflation  in  Revolutionary  Maryland,"  William  and 
Mary  quarterly,  3rd  ser.,  8  (1951),  228-234;  Koesy,  "North  Carolina,"  131. 

10  Quoted  in  George  W.  Troxler,  "The  Home  Front  in  Revolutionary  North 
Carolina,"  (Ph.D.,  University  of  North  Carolina,  Chapel  Hill,  1970),  135-136. 

11  Kenneth  Coleman,  The  American  Revolution  in  Georgia,  1763-1789 
(Athens,  Ga.,  1958),  145-146;  Benjamin  Quarles,  The  Negro  in  the  American 
Revolution  (New  York,  1960). 

12  Quoted  in  Starr,  "South  Carolina,"  23-24. 

13  Quoted  in  Coleman,  Georgia,  45-46. 

14  Troxler,  "North  Carolina,"  208-210. 

15  Starr,  "South  Carolina,"  95-98;  Main,  Sovereign  States,  403;  Coleman, 
Georgia,  188. 

16  Main,  Sovereign  States,  396,  402-403,  420. 

17  Compare  Dennis  P.  Ryan,  "Six  Towns:  Continuity  and  Change  in  Revo- 
lutionary New  Jersey,  1770-1792,"  (Ph.D.,  New  York  University,  1974),  147- 
149  with  Koesy,  "North  Carolina,"  254;  Kenneth  Lockridge,  "Land,  Popula- 
tion, and  the  Evolution  of  New  England  Society,"  Past  and  Present,  39 
(1968),  62-80. 

18  Main,  Sovereign  States,  420-421. 

19  Quoted  in  John  H.  Franklin,  "The  North,  the  South,  and  the  American 
Revolution,'  Journal  of  American  History,  62  (June,  1975),  20. 

20  Starr,  "South  Carolina,"  179,  183-4. 

21  All  of  these  quotations  are  from  David  Bertelson,  The  Lazy  South  (New 
York,  1968),  156,  160,  151,  and  140. 


14 


EMERGING  URBANISM  AND 

INCREASING  SOCIAL  STRATIFICATION 

IN  THE  ERA  OF 

THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION 

By 

Bruce  E.  Daniels 

Historians  agree  that  urbanization  is  a  crucial  factor  in  the  mod- 
ernization process.  Traditional  historians  acknowledge  the  presence 
and  importance  of  urban  units  in  the  American  Colonies,  as  well  as 
the  growth  in  their  size  and  numbers  in  the  pre-industrial  early 
national  period.  But  these  traditional  historians  contend  that  cities 
only  became  a  major  factor  in  American  life  with  industrialization  in 
the  second  half  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Historical  sociologists 
usually  argue  that  in  non-urban,  pre-industrial  society,  social  posi- 
tions were  highly  visible  and  stratification  was  clear  and  unam- 
biguous.1 In  the  European  context,  manorial  society,  of  course,  pro- 
vides the  classic  example  of  this.  Industrialization  and  urbanization, 
the  sociologists  contend,  created  the  modern  middle  class,  rendered 
individuals  anonymous,  blurred  the  clearly  defined  social  positions, 
and  modernized  the  social  structure.  The  forces  of  urban  demography, 
a  dynamic  economy,  and  technological  innovations  significantly 
raised  mobility  and  lessened  stratification.  These  empirical  trends  in 
society  that  accompanied  urbanization  and  industrialization,  the 
argument  continues,  have  been  in  turn  accompanied  by  a  democ- 
ratization of  behavior  patterns  and  a  change  in  ideology  towards 
greater  egalitarianism. 

In  America,  the  transition  from  ruralism  and  stratification  to 
urbanism  and  egalitarianism  seems  to  correspond  to  this  rough 
outline  of  development.  One  can  select  points  along  a  chronology 
that  would  show  the  decline  of  stratification  which  accompanied  the 
rise  of  urbanism.  The  extremely  hierarchical  societies  one  associates 
with  Puritan  New  England  and  with  seignorial  New  York,  Maryland, 
and  South  Carolina  failed  to  last  intact  into  the  eighteenth  century. 
In  the  1740s  and  1770's,  the  catalytic  forces  of  the  Great  Awakening 
and  the  Revolution  challenged  doctrines  of  acceptance  of  authority 
and  superiority  and  further  weakened  the  social  hierarchy.  The  nine- 
teenth century  provided  the  coup  de  grace  through  the  innovation  of 
political  parties,  the  opening  of  the  West  and,  finally,  massive  ur- 
banization and  industrialization.  The  only  major  exceptions  to  this 
pattern  of  development  before  the  era  of  the  "Robber  Barons"  were 
the  aberrations  of  slavery   and  the  plantation  South.   Historical 

15 


theorists  would  argue  that  this  trend,  though  somewhat  common  to 
all  of  western  society,  also  manifests  itself  in  a  unique  American 
social  structure.  Although  in  the  twentieth  century  all  of  western 
society  may  be  becoming  more  similar,  the  colonies  and  the  new 
nation  throughout  the  nineteenth  century  constantly  became  less 
European  and  more  American  in  a  fashion  that  could  best  be  demon- 
strated as  a  continuum  on  a  straight  line. 

I  will  argue  in  this  essay  that  neither  the  line  from  great  to  lesser 
stratification,  nor  the  line  from  European  to  American,  has  been 
straight.  Moreover,  the  colonial  portion  of  the  eighteenth  century 
witnessed  an  empirical  reversal  in  the  continuum.  The  American 
colonies  between  1700  and  1776  experienced  a  sharp  growth  in  ur- 
banization accompanied  by  a  growth  in  social  stratification  that 
constantly  grew  towards  approximating  the  English  norm.  Cities  in 
pre-industrial  America,  even  though  they  produced  upward  and 
downward  social  mobility,  sharpened  rather  than  blurred  social  dis- 
tinctions and  positions.  The  crucial  urbanization  that  made  these 
heightened  social  distinctions  meaningful  to  the  colonists  occurred 
not  only  in  the  five  cities,  Boston,  Newport,  New  York,  Philadelphia, 
and  Charlestown,  whose  importance  has  been  recognized  by  most 
scholars— these  cities  were  too  exceptional  to  be  meaningful  to  most 
colonists— but  in  the  large  number  of  emerging  secondary  urban 
units.2 

The  importance  and  nature  of  secondary  urban  units  has  escaped 
widespread  notice  because  most  historians  mistakenly  thought  that 
population  numbers  were  the  key  to  defining  urbanization.  Historical 
geographers  recognize  that  although  population  may  be  a  char- 
acteristic of  urbanization,  population  density  and  social  and  economic 
functions  are  much  more  important  criteria.3  Albany  and  Savannah, 
for  instance,  had  populations  of  4,000  or  less  in  1775  but  were  clearly 
urban  because  they  had  well-defined  business  districts,  served  as 
distribution  and  collection  centers  for  hinterlands,  had  a  wide  range 
of  occupational  specialization,  and  concentrated  much  of  their  popu- 
lation in  one  small  area.4  Farmington,  Connecticut,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  more  than  double  the  population  of  either  Albany  or 
Savannah.  Yet  Farmington  would  as  clearly  not  qualify  as  an  urban 
unit  because  it  had  no  well-defined  business  district,  little  mercantile 
activity,  was  peopled  almost  entirely  by  farmers,  and  its  population 
was  scattered  over  200  square  miles.  Nor  did  legal  incorporation  as  a 
city  always  serve  as  a  sure  test  of  urbanization.  There  were  between 
25  and  45  legally  incorporated  cities  in  the  colonies,  mostly  in  the 
middle  colonies,  many  of  which  were  geniune  urban  units.  In  the 
South,  and  particularly  in  New  England,  however,  many  settlements 
which   were  legally   only   villages   or   towns   functioned   as   urban 

16 


centers.  Since  only  Royal  authority  could  charter  a  municipal  cor- 
poration, the  New  England  charter  colonies  had  no  power  to  create 
legal  cities;  because  municipal  incorporation  meant  a  large  degree  of 
freedom  from  outside  control,  the  Royal  colonies  in  the  South  had  no 
disposition  to  create  them.5 

Notwithstanding  the  definitional  problems,  even  the  areas  tra- 
ditionally thought  to  be  non-urban  experienced  a  massive  growth  in 
secondary  urbanization  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Portsmouth  in 
New  Hampshire,  Salem,  Medford,  and  Marblehead  in  Massachu- 
setts, and  Providence  in  Rhode  Island,  all  competed  with  Boston  and 
Newport  as  central  places  for  northern  and  eastern  New  England.6 
In  Connecticut  five  secondary  urban  units,  Hartford,  Middletown, 
New  Haven,  New  London,  and  Norwich,  began  to  challenge  Boston 
and  New  York's  ability  to  tap  southern  New  England  as  a  cask  with 
spigots  at  either  end.7  In  Pennsylvania  a  major  increase  in  western 
colonial  urbanization  occurred  after  1730  with  the  establishment  of 
Lancaster  and  Wilmington.  Easton,  Harrisburg,  Chambersburg,  and 
Gettysburg  also  challenged  Philadelphia's  domination  of  Penn- 
sylvania, although  none  could  compete  within  fifty  miles  of  Phila- 
delphia without  being  destroyed  by  its  gravitational  pull.8  Many 
units,  small  by  population  size,  functioned  as  urban  units  throughout 
the  non -tidewater  lower  South.  Norfolk,  Virginia,  with  a  population 
less  than  Farmington,  Connecticut,  served  as  the  major  emporium 
on  the  mainland  for  trade  with  the  West  Indies.  Cabinpoint,  Urbana, 
Dumfries,  Richmond,  Falmouth,  Fredericksburg,  and  Alexandria, 
Virginia,  all  functioned  as  major  distribution  and  collection  centers.9 
Annapolis  and  Baltimore  belie  the  notion  that  urbanization  made 
little  progress  along  the  Chesapeake.10  Everywhere  one  looks  in  the 
colonies  in  the  mid-eighteenth  century,  pre-industrial  central  places 
were  emerging  for  primarily  economic  reasons.  In  1770  only  7%  of  the 
American  population  lived  in  urban  units,  but  the  percentage  was 
growing  sharply  and  playing  a  disproportionately  important  role 
in  the  colonies.11 

Sociologists  clash  over  the  causes  of  social  stratification.  Func- 
tional sociologists  argue  that  stratification  results  when  any  social, 
economic,  or  occupational  differentiation  occurs.  They  believe  that 
stratification  has  its  roots  in  men's  persistent  search  for  differences 
among  themselves  and  their  equally  persistent  tendency  to  evaluate 
these  differences.  Those  opposed  to  functionalist  theory  contend  that 
differentiation  is  a  natural  condition  of  mankind  and  should  not  be 
equated  with  the  stratification  which  occurs  only  when  the  differences 
of  one  generation  are  passed  on  to  the  next  generation  intact.  To  the 
non-functionalist,  only  inherited  differentiation  or  differentiation 
that  is  long-enduring  involve  meaningful  stratification.  However,  all 


17 


sociologists  would  agree  that  the  longer  a  differentiated  hierarchy 
exists,  the  more  it  stratifies.12 

All  historians  and  historical  sociologists  agree  with  the  folk  cul- 
ture that  eighteenth  century  American  society  was  significantly  less 
stratified  than  Georgian  England.  Few  scholars,  however,  recognize 
that  over  the  course  of  the  colonial  eighteenth  century  the  gap 
between  the  two  social  structures  narrowed  perceptibly.  In  the 
colonies,  differentiation  of  position  increased  at  a  rapid  rate  and  the 
tendency  of  the  social  and  economic  oligarchies  created  by  this  dif- 
ferentiation to  perpetuate  themselves  also  increased.  The  increase  in 
stratification  and  the  tendency  to  approach  the  English  model  oc- 
curred most  discernibly  in  the  emerging  urban  units  and  will  be 
illustrated  hereafter  by  an  examination  of  Connecticut's  five  urban 
centers,  Hartford,  Middletown,  New  Haven,  New  London,  and 
Norwich. 

Connecticut's  five  cities  exercised  a  political  and  economic  in- 
fluence grossly  disproportionate  to  their  populations.  While  comprising 
less  than  10%  of  the  colony's  total  population,  they  produced  40%  of 
the  governor's  councilors  elected  between  1700  and  1784.  Five  of  the 
nine  governors  in  this  period  were  from  the  five  cities.  Of  Connecticut's 
seven  most  important  military  leaders  during  the  Revolution,  five 
resided  in  the  five  cities  and  a  sixth  had  spent  four  years  at  Yale  in 
New  Haven.  Similarly,  the  leader  of  the  loyalists  in  Connecticut  lived 
in  New  Haven.  An  examination  of  a  list  of  Connecticut's  54  leading 
merchants  in  this  period  shows  that  41  of  them,  or  76%,  were  from 
the  five  centers.13 

Connecticut  underwent  an  economic  revolution  at  mid-century  in 
which  it  changed  from  primarily  grain-growing  subsistence  farming 
to  large  scale  production  of  livestock  and  increased  manufacture  of 
handicrafts  for  export.  After  a  decline  in  the  standard  of  living  be- 
tween 1718  and  the  1740's,  a  strong  upsurge  of  business  activity 
occurred  in  the  late  1740's.  The  five  cities  led,  controlled,  and  bene- 
fitted from  the  economic  revitalization.14  Trade— particularly  the 
West  Indian  trade— increased  dramatically.  The  number  of  ships 
utilizing  these  ports  tripled;  both  exports  and  imports  increased 
dramatically  between  1756  and  1774. 15  The  five  cities,  led  by  the 
merchants  of  New  Haven  and  Norwich  and  the  ships  of  New  London, 
controlled  almost  all  of  this  trade.  Hartford  and  Middletown  became 
the  collection  depots  and  distribution  centers  for  large  agricultural 
hinterlands.  The  importance  of  all  five  cities  as  central  places  can  be 
seen  by  the  networks  of  highways  leading  from  them  into  the  back- 
country.16  Although  they  had  been  increasing  constantly  in  function 
and  complexity,  it  was  the  boom  of  the  1740's-1750's  which  trans- 
formed these  centers  from  "sleepy  towns"  to  provincial  cities.  Not 

18 


content  merely  to  control  Connecticut's  interaction  with  the  great 
merchants  in  over  twenty  West  Indian  ports,  the  five  cities  increas- 
ingly vied  with  Boston  and  New  York  in  the  direct  European  trade.17 
That  this  effort  was  largely  unsuccessful  does  not  detract  from  the 
grandeur  and  expansiveness  of  the  cities'  aspirations  or  the  reality  of 
their  achievements. 

The  array  of  shops,  goods,  services,  and  social  pleasures  available 
in  the  highly  developed  business  districts  of  these  mid-eighteenth 
century  cities  was  impressive.  Nearly  every  known  commodity  in  the 
Western  World  could  be  obtained  on  the  seven  or  eight  commercial 
streets  in  Hartford.  Wigmakers,  watchmakers,  barbers,  harness- 
makers,  braziers  and  pewterers,  apothecaries,  grocers,  dry  goods 
merchants,  jewellers,  printers,  and  artisans  of  every  kind  plied  their 
trade  and  sold  their  wares.  Ten  taverns  and  fourteen  inns  with 
colorful  names  like  "Bunch  of  Grapes,"  "Old  Fortune  of  War,"  and 
"The  Harp  and  the  Crown,"  made  sure  that  Hartford  residents  and 
visitors  did  not  have  to  go  far  to  quench  their  thirst.  Newspapers 
advertised  goods  from  Holland,  Geneva,  France,  The  Indies,  and 
India.  The  ladies  of  Hartford,  wives  of  future  patriots  of  Republican 
simplicity,  frequented  the  shop  of  Marie  Gabriel,  "a  mantuamaker 
and  milliner  from  Paris;"  their  husbands  discussed  vintage  years  for 
grapes  while  browsing  in  newly  opened  winestores.  The  elite  women 
of  these  cities,  worried  that  their  attire  might  be  out  of  fashion, 
quickly  copied  styles  described  by  recent  travelers  to  Boston  or  New 
York.  The  outlandish  jewelry,  parasols,  peacock  fans,  awkward 
hoops,  and  especially  the  hair  dressings  worn  by  the  ladies  of 
Norwich  drove  one  man  to  publish  a  poem  in  a  newspaper  satirizing 
the  calash. 

"Hail,  great  Calash.  O'erwhelming  veil, 

by  all  indulgent  heaven, 

to  calling  nymphs  and  maidens  stale, 

in  sportive  kindness  given. 

Safe  hid  beneath  the  circling  sphere 

unseen  by  mortal  eyes, 

the  mingled  heaps  of  oil  and  hair, 

and  wool  and  powder  lies." 

Men  also  carefully  cultivated  their  coiffures.  When  Samuel  Edwards 
of  Hartford  died,  he  left,  besides  his  large  amounts  of  elegant  clothes, 
a  "noted  wig,"  "best  bob  wig,"  and  "natural  white  wig."  The  social  life 
of  these  elegantly  attired  urbanites  also  reflected  a  growing  sophisti- 
cation and  love  of  the  mindless  but  enjoyable  pleasures  usually  asso- 
ciated with  leisurely  life  in  English  cities.  At  a  wedding  dance  in 
Norwich,  ninety  guests  danced  92  jigs,  52  contra  dances,  45  minuets, 


19 


and  17  hornpipes.  Dancing  clubs,  formed  in  all  of  the  cities,  kept  late 
hours  and  exhausted  their  members.  Young  men  and  women  even 
dared  violate  the  law  and  meet  on  the  street  on  Sunday  for  social 


occasions 


18 


While  the  faddish  and  foppish  elite  shopped  in  the  cities,  the 
number  of  people  who  could  not  afford  even  decent  middle  class 
clothes,  and  who  had  no  reason  to  feel  merry  about  anything,  was 
increasing.  In  the  half-century  preceding  the  Revolution  the  gap 
between  the  wealthiest  and  poorest  members  of  society  increased  in 
absolute  and  also  in  relative  numbers.  The  transition  from  a  frontier 
environment  to  an  urban  stage  was  accompanied  by  a  growing  dif- 
ferentiation of  economic  classes.19  Boston,  the  most  economically 
differentiated  community  in  New  England,  became  an  urban  area 
where  "merchant  princes  and  proletarians"  characterized  the  eight- 
eenth century  social  order.  The  destitute  could  be  seen  in  its  streets 
as  they  tried  desparately  to  avoid  its  "filthy,  dark,  crowded,  and 
odoriferous"  poorhouse.20  Connecticut's  cities  differed  only  by  degree 
from  Boston.  The  richest  30%  of  Boston's  probated  population 
owned  85.30%  of  society's  total  wealth  between  1760  and  1776, 
whereas  the  same  percentage  of  Hartford's  population  owned  73.94%. 
The  richest  30%  owned  only  68.05%  in  Suffolk  County,  Massachu- 
setts, however,  and  but  67.50%  in  Connecticut's  small  towns.21  Even 
outside  the  five  main  urban  areas  of  Connecticut— in  small  coastal 
trading  ports  like  Milford,  with  its  small  but  concentrated  urban 
population— the  top  10%  of  society  owned  36%  of  the  wealth  as 
opposed  to  the  25%  owned  by  the  wealthiest  10%  of  Connecticut 
society  in  general.  While  the  average  employed,  non -skilled  urban 
proletarian  earned  only  £25  per  year,  Daniel  Lathrop  of  Norwich 
managed  to  bequeath  £500  each  to  Yale  University,  Norwich's 
treasury,  and  the  city's  first  ecclesiastical  society.  The  living 
expenses  of  many  of  the  cities'  gentlemen  totaled  as  much  as  £700 
per  year,  while  other  families,  even  with  several  members  employed, 
struggled  to  survive  on  less  than  £50  a  year.  The  periodic  unemploy- 
ment of  numerous  unskilled  workers  and  mariners  in  the  cities  also 
caused  many  to  slip  below  the  income  required  to  support  a  family  in 
a  "middlin"  manner.22  In  the  wake  of  economic  disparities  residential 
neighborhoods  became  segregated  and  differentiated  according  to 
wealth  and  occupation.  The  residential  patterns  reflected  hardening 
class  lines.23  Economic  mobility,  while  always  present  in  the  northern 
cities  to  a  greater  extent  than  in  England,  became  more  limited  and 
the  opportunity  to  exploit  it  more  socially  determined.24 

In  addition  to  the  growing  social  and  economic  differentiation,  the 
century-long  homogeneity  in  religion  and  ethnicity  disappeared.  A 
more  cosmopolitan  pluralism  emerged  in  Connecticut's  cities.  The 

20 


fight  over  the  Saybrook  Platform  in  the  early  years  of  the  eighteenth 
century  and  the  mid-century  factionalizing  during  the  Great  Awak- 
ening shattered  the  unity  of  the  Congregational  church.25  The  fight- 
ing over  the  Great  Awakening,  bitter  in  most  towns,  was  most 
virulent  in  Connecticut's  urban  areas.  Although  only  one-half  of 
Connecticut's  towns  spawned  separatist  parishes  during  the  Awak- 
ening, all  five  cities  did.  In  each  city,  with  the  exception  of  Hartford, 
the  religious  dissension  reached  extraordinary  heights  and  resulted 
in  deep,  angry  contention.26  The  urban  communities  lost  a  higher 
percentage  of  converts  to  the  Anglican  Church  than  did  many  of  the 
small  towns  that  surrounded  them.  Anglicans  also  had  greater 
success  in  officeholding  in  urban  areas  than  in  rural  regions,  and 
Anglicanism  no  longer  was  a  crushing  burden  for  aspirant  office- 
holders.27 Catholicism  also  increased  its  numbers,  and  Jewish 
worship  even  appeared  in  New  Haven.  This  plurality  of  worship 
reflected  an  increase  in  the  settlement  of  new  nationalities  in  the  five 
cities.  Spanish,  Portuguese,  French,  Irish,  Dutch,  and  West  Indians 
emigrated  to  Connecticut's  cities.  Previously  only  an  occasional 
French  Hueguenot  or  Protestant  New  Amsterdam  Dutchman  kept 
the  population  from  being  totally  Congregationalist-English.28  Most 
of  the  non-English  came  to  the  cities  to  promote  commerce  and  hence 
joined  the  mercantile  class.  While  non-English  merchants  usually 
did  not  become  elected  leaders  in  the  communities,  they  did  become 
influential  and  moved  in  the  best  social  circles. 

The  growing  differentiation  and  stratification  in  Connecticut's 
cities  was  reflected  in  their  governments  and  political  patterns.  The 
selectmen  increasingly  became  executive  officers  who  functioned  as 
supervisors  over  a  burgeoning  list  of  lesser  officers.29  The  numbers  of 
officers  elected  by  the  town  meetings  increased  from  approximately 
25  at  the  beginning  of  the  century  to  over  100  in  three  of  the  cities  by 
the  end  of  the  colonial  period.  Greater  distinctions  separated  the 
selectmen  from  the  lesser  officers.  Moreover,  the  town  meetings  grew 
less  active  and  allowed  the  selectmen  more  discretionary  power  to 
govern.  Instead  of  democratizing  officeholding  patterns,  as  is 
emphasized  in  "consensus"  accounts  of  eighteenth  century  politics, 
each  city  experienced  a  growth  in  the  degree  of  oligarchy  among 
officeholders.30  Rotation  of  office,  which  had  characterized  the  elec- 
tion of  selectmen  before  1740,  gave  way  to  patterns  of  increasing  re- 
election. Family  ties  and  connections  became  more  important  for 
political  success.  In  the  1720's-1730's  one  to  three  families  emerged  in 
each  city  to  dominate  most  of  the  major  offices.  The  families  in- 
variably were  descended  from  the  founding  generation  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  and  were  among  the  cities  wealthiest  residents.31 

By  the  late  eighteenth  century  these  emerging  urban  centers  had 

21 


began  to  look  more  like  English  provincial  cities  and  less  uniquely 
American.  It  was  the  cities,  of  course,  that  led  the  American  resis- 
tance to  the  British  imperial  policies;  ironically,  these  cities,  at  the 
moment  of  their  rebellion,  approximated  the  English  urban  and  elite 
social  structure  more  than  at  any  time  in  their  previous  existence. 
Even  the  demographic  factors  of  birth  rates,  death  rates,  and  mar- 
riage ages  deviated  less  from  the  English  norm  and  began  to  be 
affected  by  the  hardening  of  class  lines  and  lessening  of  mobility  and 
economic  opportunity.  One  scholar  recently  suggested  that  as  absurd 
as  it  sounds,  America  may  have  been  becoming  just  another  "over- 
crowded" old  world  society  by  1776.  This  judgement,  with  regard  to 
the  urban  areas,  is  hardly  preposterous.  Political  and  economic 
power,  as  well  as  social  prestige,  were  becoming  concentrated  in  a 
small  number  of  men  and  families.  The  elitism  of  the  seventeenth 
century  Puritan  village  had  co-existed  with  feelings  of  unity  and 
communalism  within  a  homogeneous  community.  Classes  had  existed 
but  they  were  bound  together  in  a  whole  unit.  The  eighteenth 
century  cities  became  sufficiently  heterogeneous  and  differentiated 
to  destroy,  or  badly  wound,  unity.  Classes  emerged  that  felt  little  in 
common  with  each  other.32 

Other  indicators  suggest  that  the  colonies  were  closer  to  the 
English  norm  and  more  aware  of  the  Atlantic  world  than  they  ever 
were  before,  or  would  be  again,  until  World  War  One.  In  the  seven- 
teenth century  each  of  the  colonies  had  been  exceptionally  distinct, 
but  in  the  eighteenth  century,  as  each  copied  the  English  model,  they 
became  more  similar.33  English  imports  per  capita  into  the  colonies 
increased  steadily  throughout  the  eighteenth  century  and  at  a 
greater  rate  of  increase  than  other  imports.  Carriages  graced  city 
streets  in  increasing  numbers.  The  fox  hunt  even  made  its  appear- 
ance in  Charlestown  and  probably  in  Newport.34  The  bar  and  bench, 
the  medical  profession,  and  the  military  styled  themselves  more 
along  the  lines  of  their  old  world  colleagues.35  Even  the  Puritan 
church  grew  so  Anglicized — in  ways  such  as  using  melodies  and 
notes  in  its  singing  — that  purists  stigmatized  it  as  the  "Catholick" 
Congregational  Church.  Jonathan  Edwards,  the  greatest  American 
religious  thinker  of  the  eighteenth  century,  was  more  a  European 
theologian  who  owed  little  to  the  Mathers  or  Stoddards  but  much 
to  Locke,  Newton,  and  Hobbes.36 

The  number  of  newspapers  in  all  of  the  colonies  grew  from  Bos- 
ton's one  in  1704  to  48  widely  scattered  journals  in  1775.  Almost  all 
these  journals  concentrated  their  news  on  non-local  stories.  Reflecting 
their  growing  cosmopolitanism,  each  of  Connecticut's  five  cities 
commenced  the  publication  of  newspapers  by  the  end  of  the  colonial 
period.  The  content  of  the  news  stories  was  heavily  English  and 

22 


European.37  Other  sophisticated  attributes  of  Connecticut's  five 
cities  can  be  seen  in  the  growth  of  large  personal  libraries  and  book 
stores,  and  in  the  creation  of  regular  post  offices.  The  major  public 
buildings  constructed  in  the  late  colonial  period  had  the  dignity  of 
well-constructed  brick  Georgian  architecture.  An  unusual  example  of 
the  decline  of  the  wilderness  conditions  in  Connecticut's  cities  can  be 
seen  in  the  widely  heralded  killing  of  the  "last  rattlesnake"  in  Nor- 
wich. By  the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution  the  five  cities  had  large 
public  grammar  schools,  and  Yale  University  in  New  Haven  enrolled 
the  large  number  of  200  students.  The  great  demand  for  domestic 
servants  caused  the  appearance  of  a  slave  market  in  Middletown 
in  the  1760's.38 

Most  of  the  Anglicization  or  Europeanization  occurred  without 
conscious  thought,  but  at  times  the  desire  to  copy  English  society 
was  given  overt  expression.  John  Trumball,  the  young  Yale  poet, 
wrote  an  immensely  popular  poem  printed  in  New  Haven  called  "The 
Progress  of  Dullness,"  in  which  Tom  Brainless  and  Dick  Hairbrain 
competed  for  the  love  of  Miss  Simper.39  Through  these  characters 
Trumbull  condemned  American  society  and  urged  it  to  be  more  like 
the  sophisticated  English  society  he  admired.  Conversely,  European 
visitors  invariably  expressed  amazement  at  the  similarities  between 
the  cities  of  the  old  world  and  the  new.  Some  American  cities  even 
displayed  such  unwanted  attributes  of  European  cities  as  growing 
health  problems,  increased  crime,  and  soaring  taxes,  although  gen- 
erally Connecticut's  urban  centers  did  not.40 

The  Revolutionary  experience  did  not  end  the  trend  towards  the 
Anglicization  of  the  cities.  Connecticut's  five  urban  areas  became 
aware  of  themselves  as  entities  distinct  from  their  fellow  towns  and 
decided  to  seek  incorporation  as  legal  cities.  Throughout  the  eight- 
eenth century  in  Connecticut,  and  in  every  other  colony,  differences 
between  farm  inhabitants  and  city  dwellers  surfaced  with  increased 
regularity  and  urgency.41  In  Connecticut's  five  cities  the  conflict 
became  acute  because  each  town  was  an  amalgam  of  an  urban  busi- 
ness district  that  was  surrounded  by  outlying  farms  within  the  same 
legal  unit.  Each  of  the  five  towns  contained  large  numbers  of 
farmers,  often  a  majority,  whose  needs  were  antithetical  to  the  busi- 
ness community  and  who  often  blocked  projects  which  the  business 
community  regarded  as  essential.42  As  early  as  1771  New  Haven 
appointed  a  committee  to  investigate  incorporating  the  business 
district  of  the  town  as  a  separate  city.43  Because  the  Revolutionary 
War  destroyed  the  commerce  of  the  militarily  exposed  ports  of  New 
Haven  and  New  London,  and  because  Hartford,  Middletown,  and 
Norwich,  rapidly  increased  their  business  districts'  commerce  by 
acting  as  major  entrepots,  all  five  centers  were  convinced  at  the  end 

23 


of  the  war  that  they  could  only  safeguard  their  mercantile  interests 
by  becoming  incorporated  cities.  The  Revolutionary  War  also  caused 
both  merchants  and  farmers  to  conclude  that  fundamental  differ- 
ences separated  urban  and  rural  areas.  Few  of  the  surrounding 
farmers  opposed  the  drive  for  incorporation  and  in  1784  the  business 
districts  of  the  five  areas  acquired  standard  English  municipal  gov- 
ernment consisting  of  a  "Mayor,  Aldermen,  Common  Council,  and 
Freemen."  The  only  basic  difference  between  the  five  new  city  gov- 
ernments and  English  municipal  corporations  was  that  the  member- 
ship of  freemen  in  the  Connecticut  cities  was  quite  large;  hence,  a 
meeting  of  their  freemen  was  a  large  deliberative  body  while  in  the 
English  cities  the  membership  was  very  restricted.44  Each  of  the 
new  cities  still  remained  a  part  of  the  original  towns  and  still  took 
part  in  town  government. 

Connecticut's  five  acts  of  incorporation  were  not  unique  in  the 
new  states.  During  the  Revolutionary  shakeup,  a  wave  of  incor- 
porations, beginning  with  Richmond,  Virginia  in  1782  and  Charleston, 
South  Carolina  in  1783,  brought  the  legal  status  of  other  American 
cities  in  line  with  their  economic  status.  The  regulation  of  commerce, 
the  sole  reason  for  incorporation  in  Connecticut's  cities,  dominated 
the  incorporation  acts  and  the  business  of  the  five  cities  during  their 
first  years.  To  underscore  that  largeness  of  population  need  not  be 
a  criterion  for  definition  of  an  urban  area,  none  of  Connecticut's  new 
cities,  when  separated  from  the  town's  farmers,  had  more  than  4,000 
inhabitants.45 

The  growing  synthesis  between  political,  social,  and  economic 
power  in  the  five  cities  did  not  immediately  end  during  the  Revolu- 
tionary period.  Political  officeholding  was  more  oligarchic  than  ever 
and  family  prestige,  as  an  important  political  favor,  was  at  a  high 
point  during  the  Revolutionary  years,  but  undoubtedly  the  seeds 
were  sown  for  the  destruction  of  a  few  families'  monopoly  of  office- 
holding.46  The  peak  of  a  political  cycle  was  reached  during  the  Revo- 
lutionary years.  The  party  battles  of  the  1790's  and  of  the  early  nine- 
teenth century,  unleashed  by  Revolutionary  forces,  ended  total 
dominance  of  major  officeholding  by  the  rich  and  well-born.  How- 
ever, while  the  synthesis  between  power  and  wealth  ended  in  the 
half -century  after  the  Revolution,  the  concentration  of  wealth  in  the 
hands  of  a  few  and  the  growing  economic  stratification  continued  in 
Connecticut  and  in  the  other  cities  of  the  new  states.  If  one  looks 
ahead  to  the  distribution  of  the  nation's  wealth  in  1861,  the  ongoing 
trend  can  be  substantiated.47  In  the  immediate  Revolutionary  years, 
Hartford's,  Middletown's,  and  Norwich's  crucial  commercial  roles  in 
the  provisioning  of  the  Revolutionary  armies  assured  that  their 
commerce  would  increase,  the  trend  in  their  increasing  importance 

24 


would  be  accentuated,  and  no  democratization  would  occur  in  their 
distribution  of  wealth.48 

In  conclusion  then,  it  appears  clear  that  the  colonies  did  not  enter 
their  national  existence  entirely  as  a  rural,  homogeneous,  unstratified 
society  with  only  a  handful  of  urban  pockets.  A  century-long  trend 
towards  secondary  urbanization  and  towards  social  stratification 
that  approached  English  norms  preceded  the  Revolution  and  in  some 
ways  was  intensified  by  it.  In  Massachusetts,  in  the  thirty  years 
after  the  Revolution,  much  of  rural  society  exchanged  its  values  for 
ones  that  at  first  had  appeared  only  in  Boston  and  then  in  a  few 
secondary  centers.49  Heterogeneity,  cosmopolitanism,  and  organiza- 
tional variety,  which  were  once  found  in  the  cities  began  to  make 
their  inroads  in  rural  Massachusetts'  "Peaceable  Kingdoms"  and 
soon  became  a  generalized  feature  of  the  new  state's  society.  Vol- 
untary associations,  which  usually  are  indications  of  more  sifting 
going  on  within  the  social  strata,  rose  sharply  in  rural  society.  Small 
western  towns,  settled  in  the  half-century  after  the  Revolution, 
dreamed  of  becoming  great  urban  communities  and  hoped  to  be 
known  as  the  "Athens  of  Ohio,"  or  of  Tennessee.  Settlements  never 
seemed  content  to  remain  rural  or  sleepy  towns.  They  built  grand 
hotels  and  chartered  colleges  as  indications  of  their  urban  aspirations 
and  pretensions.50  Urban  society  and  urban  values  were  expanding 
far  before  any  large-scale  industrial  development.  Anglicization  was 
not  ended  by  the  Revolution  but  also  continued  apace.  The  rhetoric 
of  post-Revolutionary  society  may  have  argued  against  English 
models  of  behavior  but  the  growth  in  the  concentration  of  wealth,  in 
commerce,  in  the  poor  classes,  in  cosmopolitanism  and  urban  values, 
and  the  love  of  things  English  during  "The  Federal  Era,"  all  show 
that  in  reality,  if  not  in  ideology,  the  trend  towards  urbanization  and 
stratification  survived  the  Revolution  and  continued  into  the  na- 
tional period. 


FOOTNOTES 

1  The  sociological  theory  upon  which  this  paragraph  is  based  is  found  in 
Kurt  B.  Mayer,  "The  Changing  Shape  of  the  American  Class  Structure," 
Social  Research,  30  (Winter,  1963),  462-68. 

2  The  conception  of  Anglicization  of  features  of  Massachusetts'  society  is 
discussed  in  John  Murrin,  "Anglicizing  An  American  Colony:  the  Trans- 
formation of  Provincial  Massachusetts;;  (Ph.D.  Diss.,  Yale  University, 
1966),  and  Murrin,  "The  Transformation  of  Bench  and  Bar  in  Provincial 
Massachusetts,"  Colonial  America:  Essays  in  Politics  and  Social  Develop- 
ment, ed.,  Stanley  Katz,  (Boston,  1971).  The  idea  of  increased  stratification 
is  discussed  in  Kenneth  Lockridge,  "Land,  Population  and  the  Evolution  of 

25 


New  England  Society,  1630-1790,"  Colonial  America,  ed.,  Katz,  467-491,  and 
Lockridge,  "Social  Change  and  the  Meaning  of  the  American  Revolution," 
Journal  of  Social  History,  VI  (Spring,  1973),  403-439.  the  importance  of  the 
five  main  colonial  centers  has  been  brilliantly  chronicled  by-  Carl  Briden- 
baugh,  Cities  in  The  Wilderness:  The  First  Century  of  Urban  Life  in 
America,  1625-1742  (Originally  published  New  York,  1938;  Oxford  Univer- 
sity Press  edition,  1970),  and  Cities  in  Revolt:  Urban  Life  in  America,  1743- 
1776  (Originally  published  New  York,  1955;  Oxford  University  Press 
edition,  1970).  Jackson  Turner  Main  did  note  over  a  decade  ago  that  the 
lesser  cities  were  important  and  that  their  social  structures  "with  certain 
modifications  .  .  .  shared  the  same  qualities"  as  the  larger  cities.  See  Jackson 
Turner  Main,  The  Social  Structure  of  Revolutionary  America  (Princeton, 
New  Jersey,  1965),  34. 

3  See  Joseph  A.  Ernst  and  H.  Roy  Merrens,  "Camden's  Turrets  Pierce  the 
Skies!  The  Urban  Process  in  the  Southern  Colonies  During  the  Eighteenth- 
Century,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  XXX  (October,  1973),  549-574. 
Ernst's  and  Merrens'  position  is  questioned  in  Hermann  Wellenreuther, 
"Urbanization  in  the  Colonial  South:  A  Critique,"  William  and  Mary  Quar- 
terly, XXXI  (October,  1974),  653-668,  but  ably  defended  by  their  rebuttal  in 
the  same  issue.  See  also  James  T.  Lemon,  "Urbanization  and  The  Develop- 
ment of  Eighteenth-Century  Southeastern  Pennsylvania  and  Adjacent 
Delaware,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  XXIV  (October,  1967),  501-542, 
520-524. 

4  Bridenbaugh,  Cities  in  Revolt,  216,  217. 

5  Ernest  S.  Griffith,  History  of  American  City  Government:  The  Colonial 
Period  (New  York,  1938),  71,  72,  97.  I  shall  follow  the  convention  accepted 
by  Carl  Bridenbaugh  and  most  American  historians  of  calling  urban  areas 
"cities"  even  though  often  they  legally  were  not. 

6  Bridenbaugh,  Cities  in  Revolt,  48. 

7  Gaspare  John  Saladino,  "The  Economic  Revolution  in  Late  Eighteenth- 
Century  Connecticut"  (Ph.D.  Diss.,  University  of  Wisconsin,  1964),  17-20; 
Robert  Owen  Decker,  "The  New  London  Merchants:  1645-1901:  The  Rise 
and  Decline  of  a  Connecticut  Port"  (Ph.D.  Diss.,  University  of  Connecticut, 
1970),  30-38;  Rollin  G.  Osterweis,  Three  Centuries  of  New  Haven,  1638-1938 
(New  Haven,  1953),  75-76;  and  Frances  Manwaring  Caulkins,  A  History  of 
Norwich,  Connecticut  (Hartford,  1966),  309. 

8  Lemon,  "Urbanization,"  502-517. 

9  Ernst  and  Merrens,  "Urbanization  in  South,"  558-569;  Robert  Coakley, 
"Virginia  Commerce  During  The  American  Revolution"  (Ph.D.  Diss.,  Uni- 
versity of  Virginia,  1949),  Passim;  James  H.  soltow,  "The  Role  of  Williams- 
burg in  the  Virginia  Economy,  1750-1775,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  IV 
(October,  1958),  467-482,  468. 

10  Bridenbaugh,  Cities  in  Revolt,  216,  217. 

11  James  A.  Henretta,  The  Evolution  of  American  Society,  1700-1815:  An 
Interdisciplinary  Analysis  (Lexington,  Massachusetts,  1973),  80-81.  Briden- 
baugh, in  an  unfortunately  little-used  book,  The  Colonial  Craftsman  (New 


26 


York,  1950),  chapter  IV,  calls  attention  to  the  importance  of  these  secondary 
units,  but  his  remarks  have  escaped  wide  notice. 

12  Talcott  Parsons  is  probably  the  best  known  proponent  of  functionalism. 
See  Walter  Buckley,  "Social  Stratification  and  the  Functional  Theory  of 
Social  Differentiation,"  Social  Stratification  in  the  United  States,  Jack  L. 
Roach,  Llewellyn  Gross,  and  Orville  Gursslin  (eds.)  (Englewood  Cliffs,  New 
Jersey,  1969),  17-24,  see  also  Roach  et  al  (eds.).  Social  Stratification,  "Intro- 
duction," 3. 

13  North  Callahan,  Connecticut's  Revolutionary  War  Leaders,  Connecticut 
Bicentennial  Series,  III  (Chester,  Connecticut,  1973),  passim;  Thomas 
Barrow,  Connecticut  Joins  the  Revolution,  Connecticut  Bicentennial  Series, 
I  (Chester,  Connecticut,  1973),  passim;  Saladino,  "The  Economic  Revolu- 
tion," appendices  29  and  30,  425-432.  In  all  of  New  England,  cities  always 
contributed  a  disproportionate  share  of  the  colony  officers.  See  Edward 
Cook  Jr.,  "Local  Leadership  and  the  Typology  of  New  England  Towns,  1700- 
1785),"  Political  Science  Quarterly,  LXXXVI  (December,  1971),  586-608, 
594. 

14  Henretta,  The  Evolution  of  Society,  41;  Saladino,  "The  Economic  Revo- 
lution," 17-20. 

15  Saladino,  "The  Economic  Revolution,"  1-5;  Decker,  "The  Rise  and 
Decline  of  a  Port,"  253-256. 

16  Saladino,  "The  Economic  Revolution,"  17. 

17  Osterweis,  New  Haven,  75-76;  Caulkins,  Norwich,  309;  Saladino,  "The 
Economic  Revolution,"  4-17;  Henretta,  The  Evolution  of  Society,  41;  and 
Decker,  "The  Rise  and  Decline  of  a  Port,"  37-38. 

18  For  the  details  of  this  paragraph  see  William  Deloss  Love,  The  Colonial 
History  of  Hartford  (originally  published  Hartford,  1914,  Pequot  Press 
edition,  1974),  232-250;  Caulkins,  Norwich,  311-335;  Decker,  "The  Rise  and 
Decline  of  a  Port,  55-56;  Bridenbaugh,  Cities  in  Revolt,  41,  156,  163-164, 
279;  and  William  Weedon,  The  Economic  and  Social  History  of  New 
England,  1620-1789,  2  Vols,  (originally  published  New  York,  1890;  Hillory 
House  edition,  1963),  I,  249. 

19  Bruce  C.  Daniels,  "Long-Range  Trends  of  Wealth  Distribution  in  Eigh- 
teenth-Century New  England,"  Explorations  in  Economic  History,  XI 
(Winter,  1973-74),  123-135,  passim;  Main,  Social  Structure,  37;  and  Henretta, 
"Economic  Development  and  Social  Structure  in  Colonial  Boston,"  William 
and  Mary  Quarterly,  XXII  (January,  1965),  75-92,  85-105. 

20  Henretta,  The  Evolution  of  Society,  Chap.  Ill;  and  Allan  Kulikoff,  "The 
Progress  of  Inequality  in  Revolutionary  Boston,"  William  and  Mary  Quar- 
terly, XXVIII  (July,  1971),  375-412,  384. 

21  Daniels,  "Long-Range  Trends,"  129,  131. 

22  Main,  Social  Structure,  35,  73,  116-123;  Caulkins,  Norwich,  328;  and 
Bridenbaugh,  Cities  in  Revolt,  361. 

23  Carl  Abbott,  "The  Neighborhoods  of  New  York,  1760-1775,"  New  York 
History,  LXI  (January,  1974),  35-54,  35-52;  Kulikoff,  "The  Progress  of  In- 
equality," 398-409;  and  Henretta,  The  Evolution  of  Society.  86. 

27 


24  Henretta,  The  Evolution  of  Society,  98;  and  Bridenbaugh,  Cities  in 
Revolt,  211. 

25  Richard  Bushman,  From  Puritan  to  Yankee:  Character  and  the  Social 
Order  in  Connecticut,  1690-1765  (Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  1967),  passim; 
Oscar  Zeichner,  Connecticut's  Years  of  Controversy,  1750-1776,  Williams- 
burg, Va.,  1949)  chap.  2;  James  Walsh,  "The  Great  Awakening  in  the  First 
Congregational  Church  of  Woodbury,  Connecituct,"  William  and  Mary 
Quarterly,  XXVIII  (October,  1971),  543-562,  passim;  and  Henretta,  The 
Evolution  of  Society,  129-130. 

26  C.C.  Goen,  Revivalism  and  Separatism  in  New  England,  1740-1800  (New 
Haven,  1962),  68-90,  115,  302-309. 

27  Bruce  E.  Steiner,  "Anglican  Officeholding  in  Pre-Revolutionary  Connecti- 
cut: The  Parameters  of  New  England  Community,"  William  and  Mary 
Quarterly,  XXXI  (July,  1974),  369-406,  375,  377. 

28  Osterweis,  New  Haven,  90,  111;  and  Decker,  "The  Rise  and  Decline  of 
a  Port,"  40. 

29  The  statements  about  the  nature  and  growth  of  local  government  have 
been  discussed  more  fully  in  a  preliminary  article,  Daniels,  "The  Growth  in 
Size  and  Power  of  Local  Government  in  Colonial  Connecticut,"  The  Bulletin 
of  the  Connecticut  Historical  Society,  XXXIX  (January,  1974),  20-25, 
passim.  I  have  elaborated  at  great  length  on  the  nature  of  executive  offices 
and  the  town  meeting  in  two  essays  I  am  preparing  for  publication,  "The 
Frequency  of  Town  Meetings  in  Colonial  Connecticut,"  and  "Puritan 
Villages  Become  Large  Towns:  The  Complexity  of  Local  Government  in 
Connecticut,  1676-1776." 

30  For  the  Connecticut  cities  see  Daniels,  "Large-Town  Officeholding  in 
Eighteenth-Century  Connecticut:  The  Growth  of  Oligarchy,"  The  Journal  of 
American  Studies,  IX  (April,  1975);  and  Daniels,  "Family  Dynasties  in 
Connecticut's  Largest  Towns,"  Canadian  Journal  of  History,  VIII  (Septem- 
ber, 1973),  99-111,  passim.  For  substantiation  of  this  in  other  cities  see 
Kulikoff,  "The  Progress  of  Inequality,"  390;  Henretta,  The  Evolution  of 
Society,  90-111;  Murrin,  "Anglicizing  An  American  Colony,"  264-265;  and 
Michael  Zuckerman,  Peaceable  Kingdoms:  New  England  Towns  in  the 
Eighteenth-Century  (New  York,  1970),  Appendix  VIII. 

31  Daniels,  Family  Dynasties,"  and  Murrin,  "Anglicizing  An  American 
Colony,"  264.  Carl  Bridenbaugh  feels  that  the  colonial  aristocracy  peaked  in 
social  prestige  in  the  1760's  and  1770's.  See  Bridenbaugh,  Cities  in  Revolt, 
332. 

32  Henretta,  The  Evolution  of  Society,  14,  discusses  the  changing  demo- 
graphic characteristics  of  the  cities.  An  example  of  demographic  changes 
from  unique  American  norms  to  English  norms  in  a  non-urban  area  can  be 
found  in  Philip  Greven  Jr.,  Four  Generations:  Population,  Land  and  Family 
in  Colonial  Andover,  Massachusetts  (Ithaca,  New  York,  1970).  Lockridge. 
"Land  Population,"  467,  makes  the  "overcrowded  argument  and  expands  on 
it  in  "Social  Change,"  passim.  For  the  seventeenth  century  communalism 
and  unit  of  villages  see  Lockridge,  A  New  England  Town:  The  First  Hun- 


28 


dred  Years  (New  York,  1970),  passim,  and  Sumner  Chilton  Powell,  Puritan 
Village  (Middletown,  Connecticut,  1963),  passim. 

33  Murrin,  "Anglicizing  An  American  Colony,"  20.  Murrin's  thesis  is  the 
first  major  explicit  treatment  of  Anglicization  though  Bridenbaugh  in  Cities 
in  Revolt  had  implicitly  dealt  with  the  same  theme,  Chaps.,  V,  VI,  and  IX. 

34  Henretta,  The  Evolution  of  Society,  42;  and  Bridenbaugh,  Cities  in 
Revolt,  341,  365. 

35  Murrin,  "Anglicizing  an  American  Colony,"  passim.  Edward  E.  Atwater 
(ed.),  History  of  the  City  of  New  Haven  By  An  Association  of  Writers  (New 
York,  1887),  describes  some  of  these  changes  in  New  Haven  in  "The  Bench 
and  the  Bar,"  and  "Changes  in  Medicine  and  Surgery,"  chaps.  XIII  and 
XIV. 

36  Murrin,  "Anglicizing  an  American  Colony,"  28-38. 

37  Sidney  Kobre,  The  Development  of  the  Colonial  Newspaper  (Gloucester, 
Massachusetts,  1960),  97,  174,  177. 

38  Weedon,  Economic  and  Social  History,  546,  763;  Osterweis,  New  Haven, 
102,  158;  Love,  Colonial  Hartford,  230;  Caulkins,  Norwich,  299;  J.  William 
Frost,  Connecticut  Education  in  the  Revolutionary  Era,  Connecticut 
Bicentennial  Series,  VII  (Chester,  Connecticut,  1974),  14;  and  Louis 
Leonard  Tucker,  Connecticut's  Seminary  of  Sedition:  Yale  College,  Con- 
necticut Bicentennial  Series  VIII  (Cheste,  Connecticut,  1974),  124. 

39  Atwater,  New  Haven,  194. 

40  Bridenbaugh,  Cities  in  Revolt,  118-132. 

41  Bushman,  From  Puritan  to  Yankee,  54-72,  shows  that  often  conflicts  in 
Connecticut  towns  were  between  the  rich  inhabitants  of  town  centers  in- 
terested in  commerce  and  the  middle-class  farmers  in  outlying  areas.  Walsh, 
"The  Great  Awakening,"  559,  shows  ideological  and  religious  splits  often 
pitted  the  town  center  against  the  outlying  farmers.  Griffith,  American  City 
Government,  262-263,  demonstrates  that  the  same  split  between  business 
district  merchants  and  outlying  farmers  characterized  most  cities.  Briden- 
baugh, Cities  in  Revolt,  10,  11;  and  Murrin,  "Anglicizing  An  American 
Colony,"  267,  also  agree  that  urban-rural  splits  were  crucial  factors. 

42  Christopher  Collier,  Roger  Sherman's  Connecticut:  Yankee  Politics  and 
The  American  Revolution  (Middletown,  Connecticut,  1971),  197,  198,  dis- 
cusses the  fights  in  New  Haven.  Love,  Colonial  Hartford,  348,  discusses 
them  in  Hartford.  Weedon,  Economic  and  Social  History,  735,  discusses  the 
anomaly  of  Hartford,  containing  a  clear  urban  center,  also  producing  vast 
amounts  of  wheat  as  late  as  the  1760's. 

43  Love,  Colonial  Hartford,  343;  and  Osterweis,  New  Haven,  112. 

44  Love,  Colonial  Hartford,  348,  349;  Atwater,  New  Haven,  80,  81;  and 
Osterweis,  New  Haven,  165,  discusses  the  anxieties  of  the  urban  areas. 
David  Roth,  Connecticut's  War  Governor:  Jonathan  Trumbull,  Connecticut 
Bicentennial  Series,  IX  (Chester,  Connecticut,  1974),  74;  Collier,  Roger 
Sherman's  Connecticut,  198;  and  Love,  Colonial  Hartford,  348,  show  the 
heightened  tension.  For  the  acts  of  incorporation  see  State  Records,  V 
(January,   1784),  257-277,  and  V  (May,   1784),   343-373.  The  similarities 

29 


between  the  new  cities  and  the  English  model  can  easily  be  seen  by  compar- 
ing the  five  corporations  to  English  ones  described  in  Sidney  and  Beatrice 
Webb,  English  Local  Government  IV,  Statutory  Authorities  For  Specific 
Purposes   (originally   published    London,    1922,    London,    1963),    353-373. 

45  Love,  Colonial  Hartford,  343,  354-355;  and  Osterweis,  New  Haven,  157. 
165. 

46  For  the  increase  in  officeholding  oligarchy  see  Daniels,  "Large  Town 
Officeholding,"  passim. 

47  JacksonTurner  Main,  "Trends  in  Wealth  Concentration  Before  1860," 
Journal  of  Economic  History  (June,  1971),  445-447;  and  Kulikoff,  "The 
Progress  of  Inequality,"  376. 

48  Chester  Destler,  Connecticut:  The  Provisions  State,  Connecticut  Bicen- 
tennial Series,  V  (Chester,  Connecticut,  1973),  passim;  Saladino,  "The 
Economic  Revolution,"  43;  and  Henretta,  The  Evolution  of  Society,  167. 

49  This  discussion  of  the  spread  of  urban  values  is  based  on  Richard  D. 
Brown,  "The  Emergence  of  Urban  Society  in  Rural  Massachusetts,  1760- 
1820,"  LXI  Journal  of  American  History  (June,  1974),  29-51. 

50  Boorstin,  The  National  Experience,  part  three. 


30 


THE  REVOLUTION,  THE  FOUNDING 

FATHERS,  AND 

THE  ELECTORAL  COLLEGE 

By 
John  J.  Turner,  Jr. 

True,  this  office  [the  Presidency]  was  viewed  with  some 
suspicion.  .  .  .  Framers  had  vivid  recollections  of  auto- 
cratic actions  of  the  king  of  England,  surrounded  by  friends 
who  did  his  bidding.  They  would  have  no  king  in  this  coun- 
try, nor  set  up  any  office  in  which  an  ambitious  man  could 
come  to  exercise  kingly  powers. 

Broadus  Mitchell  and  Louise  Mitchell 

The  sweltering  Philadelphia  summer  of  1787  made  the  difficult 
work  of  the  Constitutional  Convention  even  more  arduous.  It  was  the 
worst  time  of  the  year  to  engage  in  political  wrangling.  Of  the  many 
knotty  issues  which  troubled  the  assembly,  the  efforts  to  provide  for 
a  president  were  probably  the  most  perplexing.  The  Convention 
quickly  agreed  on  the  necessity  for  a  national  executive;  but  here 
consensus  ended.  Delegates  divided  over  whether  a  single  or  a  plural 
executive  was  more  desirable,  over  the  length  of  the  term  as  well  as 
eligibility  for  re-election  and  over  the  powers  to  be  invested  in  the 
office. 

Wrestling  with  these  questions,  the  most  vexing  detail  concerned 
the  mode  for  electing  the  chief  executive.  On  September  6,  during  the 
closing  days  of  the  meeting,  the  Convention  finally  adopted  the 
electoral  college  mechanism  for  choosing  a  president.  The  tedious 
debate  which  produced  this  complicated  scheme  and  the  subsequent 
operation  of  the  electoral  college,  which  proved  to  be  very  different 
from  the  delegates'  expectations,  have  obscured  the  fact  that  the 
plan  was  consistent  with  the  Framers'  concept  of  the  nature  of 
responsible  republican  government,  the  institutional  requirements  of 
sound  governance,  and  the  appropriate  means  of  conducting  public 
business.  Rather  than  being  a  "Rube  Goldberg  mechanism"  or  a 
"jerry -rigged  improvisation,"  the  electoral  college  was  patterned  on  a 
dynamic  set  of  beliefs  which  emerged  from  the  Revolution  and 
transformed  American  political  culture.1 

The  Founding  Fathers  did  not  impose  a  Utopian  system  on  the 
new  nation.  Historical  experience,  "the  least  fallible  guide  of  human 
opinions,"  and  "the  oracle  of  truth,"  guided  them  as  they  attempted 
to  erect  a  government  that  would  be  in  harmony  with  the  philosophi- 
cal milieu  of  the  American  Revolution  and  the  fundamental  and 

31 


unique  conditions  of  the  young  republic.  Steeped  in  the  anti -authori- 
tarian opposition  literature  of  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  century 
English  radicalism,  which  formed  the  nucleus  of  the  ideology  of  the 
Revolution,  the  delegates  were  profoundly  suspicious  of  human 
nature  and  of  man's  capacity  to  use  power  wisely.  They  regarded  self- 
interest  as  a  dominant  motive  of  political  behavior.  No  system,  no 
class,  high  or  low,  could  be  trusted  on  its  own  moral  worth.  Liberty 
was  always  threatened  and  frequently  destroyed  by  leaders,  par- 
ticularly the  executive,  who  were  corrupted  by  power  and  usurped 
authority.  Despotism,  they  believed,  could  be  prevented  only  through 
a  constitutional  structure  which  would  limit  man's  natural  licen- 
tiousness  by   such   devices   as   federalism   and   the   separation   of 


powers/ 

Most  delegates  were  particularly  anxious  to  devise  a  governmental 
system  which  would  mitigate  against,  or  at  least  control,  parties  and 
factions.  Their  theory  of  republican  politics  had  no  room  for  the 
acceptance  of  a  legitimate  opposition.  They  conceived  of  parties  as 
conspiratorial,  malevolent  enemies  of  restrained  government  and 
advance  agents  of  despotism.  On  the  one  hand  they  envisioned 
groups  demagogically  drawing  fanatic  mob  support  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  they  saw  tight,  powerful,  largely  secret  factions  manipu- 
lating government  for  personal  ends.  The  public  business,  most 
assumed,  should  be  conducted  without  these  disrupting  alien  forces 
which  devoured  liberty.3 

If  not  parties,  though,  what  method  or  machinery  would  they 
employ  to  direct  the  affairs  of  the  infant  republic?  They  embraced  a 
social  structure  in  which  politics  was  a  non -institutional  phenomenon, 
an  unwritten  canon  of  political  behavior,  nearly  identical  with  the 
other  forces  organizing  society.  They  cherished  the  politics  of  defer- 
ence, a  politics  in  which  leadership  was  recruited  through  the  chan- 
nels of  instinctive  social  habit.4 

Clearly  the  delegates  did  not  consider  all  men  qualified  to  govern. 
Their  writings  abound  with  references  to  men  "pre-eminent  for 
ability  and  virtue,"  to  "those  politicians  and  statesmen  .  .  .  most  cele- 
brated for  the  soundness  of  their  principles,"  and  to  the  "best  men." 
Only  a  particular  breed  of  men,  in  their  estimation,  possessed  the 
unusual  characteristics  essential  for  public  office.  Such  men  "stood" 
for  office;  they  were  chosen,  not  nominated  for  leadership.  Drawn 
from  among  land  owners,  merchants  and  "the  learned  professions," 
these  gentlemen  and  friends  of  good  government  possessed  the 
wealth  and  leisure  to  pursue  politics  as  an  avocation  rather  than  a 
vocation.  They  were  presumed  to  be  selected  for  political  office  by  a 
natural  deference  that  was  the  very  texture  of  society  and  would 
serve  from  a  deep  sense  of  duty  and  obligation  to  the  community. 

32 


The  public  welfare  could  be  trusted  to  such  men.5 

At  the  same  time,  the  delegates  were  compelled  to  reconcile  their 
concept  of  deference  with  the  revolutionary  notion  of  republicanism 
which  emerged  after  independence  and  formed  the  ideological  under- 
pinning of  the  new  nation.  Now  ultimate  sovereignty  rested  with  all 
of  the  people  and,  most  significantly,  power  was  lodged  between  the 
people  and  their  leaders,  not  between  King,  Lords,  and  Commons.  It 
seemed  axiomatic  that  "the  American  empire  ought  to  rest  on  the 
solid  basis  of  THE  CONSENT  OF  THE  PEOPLE."  No  other  struc- 
ture of  government  "would  be  reconcilable  with  the  genius  of  the 
people  ...  or  with  the  fundamental  principles  of  the  Revolution," 
proclaimed  Madison.6 

It  was  the  shield  of  republican  institutions,  many  delegates 
affirmed,  which  would  protect  society— and  its  natural  leaders  as 
well— from  corruption.  The  republican  principle  demanded,  said 
Hamilton,  that  a  "deliberate  sense  of  the  community  should  govern 
the  conduct"  of  those  entrusted  with  "the  management  of  their 
affairs."  In  the  inevitable  clash  of  interests,  these  leaders  would  rely 
on  reason,  not  passion.  The  national  interest  would  be  the  common 
and  intelligent  concern.  Majorities  in  the  government  would  shift 
from  issue  to  issue  and  from  policy  to  policy;  order,  stability, 
equilibrium,  a  natural  harmony  would  result.  "In  the  extended 
republic  of  the  United  States,  and  among  the  great  variety  of  in- 
terests, parties,  and  sects  which  it  embraces,"  Madison  contended,  "a 
coalition  of  a  majority  of  the  whole  society  could  seldom  take  place 
on  any  other  principles  than  those  of  justice  and  the  general 
good.  .  .  ."7 

The  eighteenth  century  understanding  of  the  social  structure  from 
which  leadership  would  rise  was  paradoxical.  It  presumed  the  inevit- 
ability of  conflict  among  interests,  yet  it  foresaw  social  stability 
resulting  from  the  very  complexity  and  balance  of  interests.  The 
whole  was  conceived  as  arranging  itself  into  a  rather  formal  pattern, 
and  within  that  formality  the  social  graces  and  a  degree  of  public 
spirit  and  virture  could  exist.  Stability  and  ultimately  liberty  would 
be  destroyed,  however,  if  interests  were  transformed  into  political 
factions  or  parties  which  operated  outside  the  social  structure.  One 
object  of  constitutional  government,  therefore,  was  the  prevention  of 
party.  The  Philadelphia  debate  over  the  proper  method  of  choosing 
the  president  was  addressed  specifically  to  this  problem.8 

Edmund  Randolph's  Virginia  Plan  provided  for  a  national  execu- 
tive to  be  chosen  by  the  national  legislature.  Several  delegates 
strenuously  objected  to  the  plan.  James  Wilson  of  Pennsylvania  was 
concerned  that  such  a  dependent  executive  would  be  unable  to  medi- 
ate "between  the  intrigues  and  sinister  views  of  the  Representatives 

33 


and  the  general  liberties  and  interests  of  the  people."  Another  dele- 
gate believed  that  Randolph's  proposal  would  foment  the  great  evils 
of  "cabal  at  home,  and  influence  from  abroad."9 

During  the  next  few  weeks  several  alternative  schemes  for  select- 
ing a  chief  executive  were  debated.  A  plan  to  lodge  the  choice  of  a 
president  directly  in  the  hands  of  the  people  encountered  roughly  the 
same  objections  as  the  Randolph  proposal.  Elbridge  Gerry  of  Massa- 
chusetts considered  the  general  populace  unqualified  to  act  "directly 
even  in  [the]  choice  ot  electors."  The  people,  he  contended,  were  "too 
little  informed  of  personal  characters  in  large  districts,  and  liable  to 
deceptions."  Another  member  warned  that  the  people  "will  be  led  by 
a  few  active  and  designing  men.  The  most  populous  States  by 
combining  in  favor  of  the  same  individual  will  be  able  to  carry  their 
points."  George  Mason  of  Virginia  deemed  popular  election  for  the 
presidency  as  unnatural  as  "to  refer  a  trial  of  colours  to  a  blind  man." 
The  size  of  the  nation,  he  insisted,  would  make  it  impossible  for  the 
people  to  render  a  sagacious  decision.  There  would  be  such  a  dearth 
of  distinguished  citizens  who  could  be  recruited  as  candidates,  added 
Hugh  Williamson  of  North  Carolina,  that  each  area  would  turn  to  its 
local  favorites.  The  larger  states  in  such  an  eventuality  would  domi- 
nate the  presidency.  Other  delegates  feared  that  popular  election 
would  throw  the  presidential  appointment  to  organized  groups,  such 
as  the  Cincinnati,  which  would  conspire  to  dominate  the  nation.10 

On  June  9  Gerry  suggested  that  the  president  be  chosen  by  the 
state  executives.  Several  members  objected.  One  delegate  maintained 
that  such  a  mode  of  election  would,  of  necessity,  split  the  states  into 
coalitions  based  on  particularistic  interests.  Madison  pointed  out 
that  the  Gerry  plan  would  foster  corruption  among  state  governors 
who  "could  and  would  be  courted,  and  intrigued  with  by  the  Candi- 
dates, by  their  partizans,  and  by  the  Ministers  of  foreign  powers."11 

Two  additional  proposals  were  introduced.  A  recommendation 
that  the  choice  of  a  president  be  left  to  the  state  legislatures  moved 
Madison  to  object  that  the  legislatures  would  act  in  concert  to  pro- 
mote the  appointment  of  a  man  who  would  not  oppose  their  mutual 
interests.  One  final  scheme  called  for  the  president  to  be  selected  by 
lot  from  a  small  group  of  members  of  the  House  of  Representatives. 
Although  Morris  supported  the  scheme  and  observed  that  "it  would 
be  better  that  chance  should  decide  than  intrigue,"  the  lottery  idea 
received  little  consideration.12 

The  question,  after  months  of  debate,  remained  unresolved. 
Finally,  on  August  31,  the  Convention  created  a  committee  of  eleven, 
headed  by  Judge  David  Brearly  of  New  Jersey,  to  bring  in  solutions 
on  this  and  other  "postponed  matters."  A  few  days  later,  the  com- 
mittee produced  the  electoral  college  plan  for  electing  the  president 

34 


which  was  amended  and  then  accepted  by  the  assembly.  It  required 
that  each  state  legislature  provide  a  number  of  electors  equal  to  its 
congressional  representation.  Each  electoral  delegation  was  to  meet 
within  its  state,  cast  ballots  for  two  persons,  one  of  whom  could  not 
reside  in  the  state,  and  transmit  the  results  to  Congress  to  be 
counted.  If  no  person  received  a  majority  of  the  electoral  votes,  the 
House  of  Representatives  would  choose  from  among  the  five  highest 
on  the  list;  each  state  contingent  was  to  cast  one  vote,  and  a  majority 
was  required  for  election. i;i 

The  delegates'  concern  that  presidential  elections  be  protected 
from  party  intrigue  and  corruption  was  mirrored  in  the  care  with 
which  they  fixed  the  details  of  the  electoral  system  once  they  had 
settled  upon  the  basic  plan.  For  example,  the  Convention  cannily 
devised  a  method  for  choosing  a  president  when  no  candidate  re- 
ceived a  majority  of  the  electoral  votes.  It  was  first  proposed  that  the 
Senate  settle  inconclusive  elections.  Wilson  moved  to  strike  the  word 
"Senate"  from  the  draft  of  the  constitutional  provision  and  substi- 
tute "Legislature."  Since  this  alteration  seemed  to  favor  the  large 
states  at  the  expense  of  the  small,  Hugh  Williamson  of  North  Caro- 
lina suggested  that  in  case  of  electoral  deadlock  the  election  should 
be  resolved  by  the  House  of  Representatives  "voting  by  States  and 
not  per  capita."  Supporters  emphasized  that  Williamson's  plan 
would  lessen  the  aristocratic  influence  of  the  Senate  and  reduce  the 
possibility  of  corruption.  N 

Other  provisions  were  added  to  shelter  the  election  process  and 
the  electors  from  intrigues  of  Congressmen  and  federal  office  holders. 
On  September  6,  the  Convention  determined  that  no  person  would  be 
appointed  an  elector  who  was  a  member  of  the  Congress  or  who  held 
an  office  of  profit  or  trust  under  the  United  States.  Furthermore,  in 
the  event  of  a  contingent  House  election,  the  voting  would  begin 
immediately  following  the  announcement  of  the  electoral  count.  And 
while  Congress  was  given  some  right  to  alter  state  regulations  for 
elections  to  the  lower  House,  the  national  legislature  was  to  possess 
no  comparable  authority  in  the  selection  of  presidential  electors.  To 
reduce  the  possibility  of  unwanted  pressures  on  electors,  a  provision 
was  included  which  required  that  all  electors  meet  on  the  same  day 
in  their  respective  states.  The  electoral  colleges,  secure  from  the  dep- 
redations of  Congress,  were  now  the  preserve  of  the  states;  more- 
over, the  prospect  that  a  truly  continental  individual,  free  from  cabal 
and  corruption,  would  be  selected  to  lead  the  republic  seemed  rea- 
sonably assured.15 

Though  the  state  ratifying  conventions  fully  debated  all  sections 
of  the  new  Constitution,  for  the  most  part  they  were  quietly  acquies- 
cent toward  the  electoral  scheme.  The  predominant  opinion  expressed 

35 


in  the  scattered  debates  on  the  system  acknowledged  that  it  consti- 
tuted a  sound  safeguard  against  the  dangers  of  faction,  conspiracy, 
and  intrigue.16 

Of  course,  there  were  criticisms,  mostly  reflective  of  the  same 
chronic  fear  of  party.  George  Mason  warned  in  the  Virginia  conven- 
tion that  an  elective  monarchy  would  develop  in  the  absence  of  a 
provision  for  the  rotation  of  the  president.  Mason  believed  that 
electors  would  be  easily  influenced.  To  "prevent  the  certain  evils  of 
electing  a  new  president,  it  will  be  necessary  to  continue  the  old  one," 
he  lamented.  James  Monroe  observed  that  in  possessing  the  power  to 
set  the  times  for  the  choosing  of  electors  and  for  electoral  balloting, 
Congress  would  be  able  to  spread  the  two  dates  so  as  to  permit 
factions  to  influence  the  electors  before  they  voted.  The  electoral 
scheme,  another  delegate  claimed,  would  give  the  larger  states  per- 
petual power  to  elect  the  president  and  result  in  "a  government  of 
faction.  .  .  ."  At  least  one  delegate,  Rawlins  Lowndes  in  the  South 
Carolina  ratifying  convention,  argued  that  through  its  very  effec- 
tiveness, the  electoral  system  would  hinder  the  government.  After 
Washington  should  pass  from  the  scene,  he  maintained,  no  man 
would  command  the  respect  necessary  to  be  elected  and  the  govern- 
ment would  falter.  The  system  was  also  criticized  on  the  grounds 
that  it  was  designed  to  deceive  the  people  into  believing  that  they 
were  actually  making  the  selection  In  fact,  these  critics  maintained 
an  electoral  majority  would  be  nearly  impossible  to  attain,  and  most 
contests  would  be  decided  in  the  House,  which  would  act  counter  to 
the  popular  will.17 

Such  doubts,  however,  were  rare.  Most  delegates  to  the  state 
conventions  emphasized  the  advantages  of  the  electoral  college  sys- 
tem. Indeed,  the  general  acceptance  of  the  proposal  was  cause  for 
specific  comment  in  The  Federalist.  "The  mode  of  appointment  of  the 
Chief  Magistrate,"  wrote  Hamilton,  "is  almost  the  only  part  of  the 
system .  .  .  which  has  escaped  without  severe  censure  or  which  has 
received  the  slightest  mark  of  approbation  from  its  opponents."  It 
"unites  in  an  eminent  degree  all  of  the  advantages  the  union  of  which 
was  to  be  wished  for." 18 

Although  other  factors  no  doubt  played  a  role,  the  electoral  plan 
seems  to  have  won  support  because  it  was  uniquely  fitted  to  the 
ideological  requirements  of  eighteenth  century  American  politics  and 
to  the  institutional  demands  of  good  government.  Deeply  suspicious 
of  man's  capacity  to  wield  power  wisely,  a  legacy  of  their  study  of  the 
Whig  interpretation  of  British  history  and  the  colonial  experience, 
the  delegates  attempted  to  create  authority  and  yet  to  reject  what 
logic  was  forever  trying  to  assign  it:  A  single  identifiable  focus.  The 
electoral  college  was  one  of  the  procedural  restraints  devised  to  frag- 

36 


ment  destructive  authority  and  to  prevent  any  individual,  party  or 
institution  from  absorbing  the  whole  of  power.  Resting  upon  the 
people,  the  ultimate  source  of  sovereignty,  and  presenting  as  many 
federal  as  national  features,  it  provided  a  mode  for  selecting  a  presi- 
dent from  a  constituency  different  from  that  of  senators  and  con- 
gressmen. As  part  of  the  federal  apportionment  of  powers,  it  secured 
the  whole  electoral  process  to  the  keeping  of  the  states  where  the 
local  choice  of  small  intermediate  groups  of  presidential  electors  was 
less  apt  to  convulse  the  community  than  the  selection  of  the  chief 
magistrate  by  a  large  national  electorate.  Voting  separately  in  their 
states,  the  electors  were  protected  from  pressures  that  might  be 
exerted  "if  they  were  all  to  be  convened  at  one  time,  in  one  place." 
Since  the  election  would  be  made  by  a  temporary  group,  convened 
separately  for  that  one  purpose,  and  purged  of  all  who  might  have  a 
specific  interest  in  the  final  choice,  the  danger  of  corruption,  and 
especially  foreign  intervention,  was  small.  The  votes  of  each  state 
electoral  college,  "allotted  to  them ...  in  a  compound  ratio,  which 
considers  them  partly  as  distinct  and  coequal  societies,  partly  as 
unequal  members  of  the  same  society,"  were  expected  to  result  in  a 
nationally  distributed  majority  for  a  distinguished  American  who 
would  stand  above  all  interests.  If  no  man  received  such  a  majority, 
the  House  of  Representatives  would  render  a  comparable  decision, 
for  the  members  would  "be  thrown  into  the  form  of  individual  dele- 
gations from  so  many  distinct  and  coequal  bodies  politic."19 

Insulated  against  the  tumult  of  disorder,  the  delicate  task  of 
choosing  a  chief  executive  would  fall  naturally  to  a  wise  group  of 
dedicated  public  servants  chosen  in  a  manner  predetermined  by  the 
social  structure.  "Those  men  only,"  wrote  John  Jay,  "who  have  be- 
come the  most  distinguished  by  their  abilities  and  virtue  .  .  .  ,"  would 
assume  this  obligation.  Selected  by  the  people  for  this  singular  pur- 
pose, they  would  feel  a  particular  responsibility  to  the  commonweal. 
Free  from  debilitating  bias  and  possessing  "extensive  and  accurate 
information  relative  to  men  and  characters  .  .  .  ,"  they  would  act  with 
reason;  the  choice,  which  was  simultaneously  individual  and  collec- 
tive—federal and  national  —  would  fall  naturally  on  a  man  acknowl- 
edged to  embody  the  qualities  of  excellence,  virtue,  and  integrity 
who  would  represent  a  real  majority,  not  an  organized  majority.  In 
both  electors  and  president,  the  politics  of  deference  would  find  its 
fitting  republican  representatives—  disinterested,  deliberative  in  tem- 
perament, virtuous,  capable  of  transposing  into  a  national  unity  the 
interests  that  combined  to  make  the  selection.20 

Hamilton  wrote: 

The  process  of  election  affords  a  moral  certainty  that  the 
office  of  President  will  never  fall  to  the  lot  of  any  man  who 


37 


is  not  in  an  eminent  degree  endowed  with  the  requisite 
qualifications.  Talents  for  low  intrigue,  and  the  little  arts  of 
popularity,  may  alone  suffice  to  elevate  a  man  to  the  first 
honors  in  a  single  state;  but  it  will  require  other  talents, 
and  a  different  kind  of  merit,  to  establish  him  in  the  esteem 
and  confidence  of  the  whole  Union  ...  to  make  him  a  suc- 
cessful candidate  for  the  distinguished  office  of  President  of 
the  United  States.21 

Widely,  even  enthusiastically  accepted,  the  electoral  college  never 
functioned  as  planned  and,  with  the  rise  of  political  parties,  it  as- 
sumed a  new  role  which  "has  yet  to  be  studied"  and  remains  the 
source  of  heated  debate.  Yet  the  electoral  system  was  the  achieve- 
ment of  ideas  which  transcend  its  invention  and  history.  The 
Founders  had  created  a  president  with  awesome  power,  but  they 
aspired  to  protect  liberty—  both  individual  and  collective—  by  filling 
the  office  with  a  responsible,  honorable  leader.  Although  their  social 
and  constitutional  formula  for  generating  such  leadership  soon 
eroded— a  result,  in  part,  of  the  new  republic  they  had  created  —  their 
undeniable  conviction  that  the  preservation  of  republican  govern- 
ment demanded  a  presidential  electoral  system  that  would  yield  a 
worthy  executive,  free  from  intrigue  and  corruption,  who  could  be 
trusted  to  exercise  power  without  endangering  constitutional  guar- 
antees, is  the  substance  of  the  presidential  politics  of  this  bicen- 
tennial year.2'2 

FOOTNOTES 

1  Max  Farrand,  The  Framing  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States  (New 
Haven,  1913),  54-59;  Clinton  Rossiter,  1787:  The  Grand  Convention  (New 
York,  1966),  135-55;  James  Madison  to  Thomas  Jefferson,  Oct.  24,  1787,  in 
Max  Farrand,  ed.,  The  Records  of  the  Federal  Convention  (New  Haven. 
1911),  III,  32,  158;  John  P.  Roche,  "The  Founding  Fathers:  A  Reform 
Caucus  in  Action,"  American  Political  Science  Review,  LV  (1961),  799-816. 
For  an  excellent  bibliography  on  the  electoral  college,  see  Kalman  S. 
Szekely,  Electoral  College:  A  Selective  Annotative  Bibliography  (Littleton, 
Colo.,  1970). 

2  These  themes  are  developed  in  a  number  of  important  books  and  articles. 
See  Stanley  Elkins  and  Eric  McKitrick,  "The  Founding  Fathers:  Young 
Men  of  the  Revolution,"  Political  Science  Quarterly,  LXXVI  (1961).  181- 
216;  Robert  W.  Schoemaker,  "  'Democracy'  and  'Republic'  As  Understood  in 
Late  Eighteenth-Century  America,"  American  Speech,  XLI  (1966),  83-95: 
Robert  E.  Shalhope,  "Toward  a  Republican  Synthesis:  The  Emergence  of  an 
Understanding  of  Republicanism  in  American  Historiography."  William 
and  Mary  Quarterly,  3d  Ser.,  Ill  (1964),  1-35:  Douglass  G.  Adair,  "Experi- 
ence Must  Be  Our  Only  Guide:  History,  Democratic  Theory,  and  the  United 


38 


States  Constitution,"  in  Ray  A.  Billington,  ed..  The  Reinterpretation  of  Early 
American  History:  Essays  in  Honor  of  John  Edwin  Pomfret  (San  Marino. 
Cal.  1966),  129-148;  Trevor  Colbourn,  The  Lamp  of  Experience:  Whig 
History  and  the  Intellectual  Origins  of  the  American  Revolution  (Chapel 
Hill,  N.C.,  1965);  Stanley  N.  Katz,  "The  Origins  of  American  Constitutional 
Thought,"  in  Donald  Fleming  and  Bernard  Bailyn,  eds..  Perspectives  in 
American  History  (Lunenburg,  Vt.,  1969),  III,  474-490;  Austin  Ranney,  The 
Doctrine  of  Responsible  Government  (Urbana,  111.,  1954);  The  Federalist, 
Intro.  Clinton  Rossiter  (New  York,  1961),  No.  10,  77-84;  Bernard  Bailyn, 
The  Ideological  Origins  of  the  American  Revolution  (Cambridge,  1967); 
Jack  P.  Greene,  "Political  Mimesis:  A  Consideration  of  the  Historical  and 
Cultural  Roots  of  Legislative  Behavior  in  the  British  Colonies  in  the  Eight- 
eenth Century,"  American  Historical  Review.  LXXV  (1969),  337-360;  Ber- 
nard Bailyn,  "The  Central  Themes  of  the  American  Revolution,"  and  Jack  P. 
Green,  "An  Uneasy  Connection,"  in  Stephen  G.  Kurtz  and  James  H.  Hutson, 
eds.,  Essays  on  the  American  Revolution  (Chapel  Hill,  N.C.,  1973),  3-80; 
Edmund  S.  Morgan,  "The  Puritan  Ethic  and  the  American  Revolution," 
William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  3d  Ser.,  XXIV  (1967),  3-43;  Richard  Hof- 
stadter,  The  American  Political  Tradition  (New  York,  1960),  3-17;  B.F. 
Wright,  "The  Federalist  on  the  Nature  of  Political  Man,"  Ethics,  XLIX 
(1949),  1-31. 

3  Early  in  the  eighteenth  century  some  Americans  expressed  the  view  that 
parties  could  serve  the  needs  of  responsible  government,  but  such  ideas 
were  clearly  exceptional.  See  Bernard  Bailyn,  "The  Origins  of  American 
Politics,"  in  Donald  Fleming  and  Bernard  Bailyn  eds.,  Perspectives  in 
American  History  (Lunenberg,  Vt.,  1967),  I,  96-98;  Richard  Hofstadter,  The 
Idea  of  a  Party  System:  The  Rise  of  the  Legitimate  Opposition  in  the 
United  States  (Berkeley,  1969),  1-73.  A  number  of  scholars  have  examined 
the  deep  political  cleavages  which  were  evident  in  most  colonial  and  state 
legislatures  to  explain  the  nature  of  partisan  politics  before  1787.  Jackson 
Turner  Main  has  produced  a  number  of  interesting  studies.  See  his  "Politi- 
cal Parties  in  Revolutionary  Maryland,"  Maryland  Historical  Magazine, 
LXII  (1967),  1-27;  "The  Antifederalist  Party,"  in  Arthur  M.  Schlesinger,  Jr., 
ed.,  History  of  American  Presidential  Elections,  1789-1968  (New  York, 
1971),  I,  135-36;  and  Political  Parties  Before  the  Constitution  (Chapel  Hill, 
N.C.,  1973).  See  also  Alison  Gilbert  Olson,  Anglo-American  Politics  1660- 
1775  (New  York,  1973);  Stephen.  E.  Patterson,  Political  Parties  in  Revolu- 
tionary Massachusetts  (Madison,  Wis.,  1973). 

4  Charles  S.  Sydnor,  Gentlemen  Freeholders:  Political  Practices  in  Wash- 
ington's Virginia  (Chapel  Hill,  1952),  60-77;  David  Hackett  Fischer,  The 
Revolution  of  American  Conservatism  (New  York,  1965),  17-32;  J.R.  Pole, 
"Historians  and  Problems  of  Early  American  Democracy,"  American  His- 
torical Review,  XLVII  (April,  1962),  626-46;  Lloyd  I.  Rudolph,  "The  Mean- 
ing of  Party:  From  the  Politics  of  Status  to  the  Politics  of  Opinion  in  Eight- 
eenth Century  England  and  America,"  (Ph.D.  diss.,  Harvard  University, 
1956),  2-12;  Harry  Ammon,  "The  Jeffersonian  Republicans  in  Virginia:  An 
Interpretation,"  Virginian  Magazine  of  History  and  Biography,  LXXI 
(1963),  153-67;  John  B.  Kirby,  "Early  American  Politics-The  Search  for 

39 


Ideology:  An  Historigraphical  Analysis  and  Critique  of  the  Concept  of 
'Deference',"  The  Journal  of  Politics,  XXXII  ( 1970),  808-38;  See  also,  Roy  N. 
Lokken,  "The  Concept  of  Democracy  in  Colonial  Political  Thought,"  Wil- 
liam and  Mary  Quarterly,  3d  Ser.,  XVI  (1959),  568-80;  Richard  Buel,  Jr., 
"Democracy  and  the  American  Revolution:  A  Frame  of  Reference."  William 
and  Mary  Quarterly.  3d  Ser.,  XXI  (1964),  169-90. 

5  The  Federalist,  No.  3,  43;  No.  22,  152;  No.  39,  240;  No.  69,  414;  No.  70, 
424.  Diamond  argues  that  the  Founders  were  typical  of  the  disinterested 
class  of  political  leaders  who  were  expected  to  guide  the  new  government. 
See  Martin  Diamond,  "Democracy  and  The  Federalist:  A  Reconsideration 
of  the  Framers'  Intent,"  American  Political  Science  Review,  LIII  (1959), 
52-68.  See  also  Alice  Frey  Emerson,  "The  Reality  of  the  Concept  of  Public 
Interest:  Examination  of  an  Idea  Within  the  Context  of  American  Politics," 
(Ph.D.  diss.,  Bryn  Mawr  College,  1964),  22-23;  Gordon  Wood,  The  Creation 
of  the  American  Republic,  1776-1787  (Chapel  Hill,  N.C.,  1969),  65-70;  Paul 
Goodman,  The  Democratic-Republicans  of  Massachusetts  (Cambridge, 
1964),  59-69;  Fisher,  Revolution  of  American  Conservatism,  227;  Rudolph, 
"Meaning  of  Party,"  10-15. 

6  The  Federalist,  No.  22,  152;  No.  39,  40.  Although  I  have  not  focused  on 
the  clash  of  Federalists  and  Antifederalists  over  the  Constitution,  it  is 
important  to  note  that  both  were  committed  to  republicanism  and  consti- 
tutionalism and  that  it  was  within  this  common  framework  of  assumptions 
that  differences  arose.  What  form  republican  government  should  take  and 
what  embodied  the  essentials  of  a  republican  society  — the  kind  of  unity 
required  for  responsible  government— were  questions  that  generated  bitter 
argument.  Indeed,  these  differences  were  not  resolved  with  the  adoption 
of  the  Constitution  and  continued  to  provoke  controversy  in  the  first  years 
of  the  new  government.  The  writing  on  this  period  throws  considerable 
light  on  the  meaning  of  the  Revolution.  See  Richard  Buel,  Jr.,  Securing  the 
Revolution:  Ideology  in  American  Politics,  1789-1815  (Ithaca,  1972);  James 
M.  Banner,  Jr.,  To  the  Hartford  Convention:  The  Federalists  and  the 
Origins  of  Party  Politics  in  Massachusetts,  1789-1815  (New  York,  1970); 
Marshall  Smelser,  "The  Federalist  Period  as  an  Age  of  Passion,"  American 
Quarterly,  XIX  (1967),  147-65;  Lance  Banning,  "Republican  Ideology  and 
the  Triumph  of  the  Constitution,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  3d  Ser., 
XXXI  (1974),  167-188.  For  insight  into  Antifederalist  thought,  see  Cecelia 
M.  Kenyon,  "Men  of  Little  Faith:  The  Anti-Federalists  on  the  Nature  of 
Representative  Government,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  3d  Ser.,  XII 
(1955).  3-43;  Cecelia  M.  Kenyon,  ed.,  The  Antifederalists  (Indianapolis, 
1966),  xcviii-vcix,  vlviii;  Eldon  G.  Bowman,  "Patrick  Henry's  Political 
Philosophy,"  (Ph.D.  diss.,  Claremont  Graduate  School,  1961),  107;  Jackson 
turner  Main,  The  Anti-Federalists:  Critics  of  the  Constitution,  1781-1788 
(Chicago,  1964),  113. 

7  The  Federalist,  No.  50,  317;  No.  52,  325;  No.  64,  391;  No.  71,  432. 

8  Douglass  G.  Adair,  "That  Politics  May  Be  Reduced  to  a  Science:  David 
Hume,  James  Madison  and  the  Tenth  Federalist,"  Huntington  Library 
Quarterly,   XX  (1957),  343-360;  Arthur  O.   Lovejoy,  "Theory  of  Human 

40 


Nature  in  the  American  Constitution  and  the  Method  of  Counterpoise,"  in 
Jack  P.  Greene,  ed.,  The  Reinterpretation  of  the  American  Revolution.  1763- 
1789  (New  York,  1968),  469-86.  Although  preparty  politics  was  directed  by 
and  for  local  elites,  the  actual  practice  of  colonial  politics,  particularly  in 
urban  centers,  and  the  impact  of  the  broad-based  American  protest  after 
1765,  the  forces  unleashed  by  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  and  the  war 
that  followed  eroded  old-school  values  by  democratizing  the  political  culture 
in  ways  never  anticipated  or  intended.  See  Gary  B.  Nash,  "The  Transfor- 
mation of  Urban  Politics  1700-1765,"  Journal  of  American  History,  LX 
(1973),  605-32;  David  Curtis  Skaggs,  "Maryland's  Impulse  Toward  Social 
Revolution,"  Journal  of  American  History,  LIV  (1968),  771-86;  Merrill 
Jensen,  "The  American  People  and  the  American  Revolution,"  Journal  of 
American  History,  LVII  (1970),  5-35;  Main,  Political  Parties  Before  the 
Revolution,  15-17.  For  a  provocative  analysis  of  the  "mutually  inconsistent 
beliefs"  that  shape  the  American  mind,  see  Robert  G.  McCloskey,  "The 
American  Ideology,"  in  Marian  D.  Irish,  ed.,  Continuing  Crisis  in  American 
Politics  (Englewood  Cliffs,  N.J.,  1963),  10-25;  Michael  G.  Kammen,  People 
of  Paradox:  An  Inquiry  Concerning  the  Origins  of  American  Civilization 
(New  York,  1972). 

9  Farrand,  Records,  I,  28,  80;  II,  30,  112. 

10  Ibid.,  I,  80;  II,  30-32.  Gouverneur  Morris  argued,  however,  that  popular 
election  in  such  a  large  nation  "could  not  be  influenced,  by  those  little  com- 
binations and  those  momentary  lies  which  often  decide  popular  elections 
within  a  narrow  sphere."  See  Ibid.,  II,  54.  Formed  in  June,  1783,  The 
Society  of  the  Cincinnati  was  an  organization  of  Continental  Army  officers. 
The  Society  aroused  antagonism  among  groups  that  believed  it  was  estab- 
lishing an  aristocracy.  Further  apprehension  resulted  when  the  group  met 
in  Philadelphia  concurrently  with  the  Constitutional  Convention.  See  Ibid., 
II,  114,  119. 

11  Ibid.,  I,  181;  II,  110. 

12  Ibid.,  II,  103-105. 

13  Ibid.,  II,  481,  496-500. 

14  Ibid.,  II,  527.  It  was  thought  that  the  frequence  of  election  to  the  House 
would  free  that  body  from  "influence  and  faction  to  which  the  permanence 
of  the  Senate  may  Subject  that  branch."  See  Ibid.,  502. 

15  Ibid.,  521,  526.  C.C.  Pinckney  of  South  Carolina  "remembered  very  well 
that,  in  the  Federal  Convention,  great  care  was  used  to  provide  for  the 
election  of  the  President .  .  .  independently  of  Congress,  and  to  take  the 
business,  as  far  as  possible,  out  of  THEIR  hands.  "  See  Jonathan  Elliot,  ed., 
The  Debates  in  the  Several  State  Conventions  on  the  Adoption  of  the 
Federal  Constitution  (Philadelphia,  1941),  IV,  442.  See  also  Charles  A. 
O'Neil,  The  American  Electoral  System  (New  York,  1887),  12;  Lucius 
Wilmerding,  The  Electoral  College  (New  Brunswick,  N.J.,  1958),  16-17.  "As 
the  Electors  would  vote  at  the  same  time  throughout  the  U.S.  and  at  so 
great  a  distance  from  each  other,"  stated  Morris,  "the  great  evil  of  cabal 
was  avoided.  It  would  be  impossible  to  corrupt  them."  Farrand,  Records,  II, 
500,  526. 

41 


16  For  example,  see  Elliot,  Debates,  II,  511-12;  III,  150;  IV,  122,  304-05. 

17  Ibid.,  Ill,  484-485,  488,  492-493;  IV,  288. 

18  The  Federalist,  No.  68,  411-12. 

19  Ibid.,  No.  68,  412;  No.  39,  244.  See  also  Wood,  Creation  of  the  American 
Republic,  598. 

20  The  Federalist,  No.  64,  391;  No.  68,  413-414.  For  similar  arguments  in  the 
ratifying  conventions,  see  Elliot,  Debates,  II,  321,  511-12;  III,  485-86;  IV, 
58,  104,  106-07,  122,  304-05. 

21  The  Federalist,  No.  68,  414. 

22  Richard  P.  McCormick,  "Political  Development  and  the  Second  Party 
System,"  in  William  Nisbet  Chambers  and  Walter  Dean  Burnham  eds., 
The  American  Party  Systems  (New  York,  1967),  110-11;  Alexander  Bickel, 
The  New  Age  of  Political  Reform  (New  York,  1968),  5-20.  Kenyon,  ed.,  The 
Antifederalists,  IV;  Douglass  Adair,  "Fame  and  the  Founding  Fathers," 
in  Edmund  P.  Willis,  ed.,  Fame  and  the  Founding  Fathers  (Bethlehem.  Pa., 
1967),  27-50. 


42 


THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION  AS 

A  LEADERSHIP  CRISIS: 

THE  VIEW  OF  A 

HARDWARE  STORE  OWNER 

By 
Barbara  Ripel  Wilhelm 

When  the  American  Revolution  is  discussed  as  an  ideological 
movement,  and  when  its  philosophical  themes  are  analyzed,  almost 
inevitably  the  only  names  which  appear  in  the  innumerable  texts  are 
those  of  the  esteemed  leadership.  The  Founding  Fathers  of  the  new 
nation  have  been  praised  for  their  intellectual  abilities  and  com- 
mended for  their  foresight.  They  are  even  thought  to  be  national 
saints  who  very  likely  saved  the  populace  from  British  tyranny  and, 
perhaps,  from  the  chaos  of  an  American  anti-authoritarian  "rabble." 

The  debate  about  the  motives,  intentions  and  purposes  of  the 
Revolutionary  leadership  began  almost  as  soon  as  the  period  itself 
faded  into  the  constitutional  debates.  Contemporary  Whigs  and 
nineteenth  century  historians,  however,  frequently  contended  that  if 
the  revolutionaries  were  idealists  they  were  far  removed  from  the 
daily  needs  and  mundane  thoughts  of  the  rest  of  the  population.  The 
"intellectual  elite,"  according  to  the  Progressive  school  of  thought, 
related  to  American  society  through  exaggerated  propaganda  which 
played  the  role  of  stirring  the  public  on  occasions  requiring  violent 
responses  to  British  intervention  in  American  politics— an  inter- 
vention not  clearly  opposed  to  the  interests  of  many  Americans,  but 
which  surely  attempted  to  limit  the  power  of  the  colonial  leaders. 
Thus,  ideas  and  ideals  were  forged  into  tools  through  which  the 
masses  could  be  manipulated  by  a  small  cabal  of  scheming,  self- 
interested  colonists. 

Even  much  of  the  recent  scholarship,  the  so-called  neo-Whig 
school,  presents  the  Revolution  primarily  as  a  movement  planned 
and  executed  by  a  leadership  group  which  may  have  talked  about  the 
rights  and  liberties  of  all  men  but  which  did  not  really  believe  that 
most  of  the  population  could  understand  political  philosophy. 
Bernard  Bailyn,  principal  spokesman  for  this  interpretation,  has 
provided  modern  scholarship  with  an  exciting  discussion  of  the 
newspaper  articles  and  pamphlets  of  the  era.  He  states,  in  his  Ideo- 
logical Origins  of  the  American  Revolution,  that  the  "leaders  of 
colonial  thought  .  .  .  forced  forward  alteration,  or  challenged,  major 
concepts  and  assumptions  of  18th  century  political  theory."  News- 
paper articles  and  pamphlets  were  used  to  explain  the  "American 

43 


position"  to  the  public  and  the  ideas  were  discussed  and  simplified 
over  and  over  again  from  the  1760's  through  the  war  period  itself. 
The  ideas  presented,  however,  were  always  those  which  the  leader- 
ship felt  were  important  and  unfortunately  Bailyn  provides  no  clear 
view  as  to  how  they  were  received.  Surely  the  patriotic  cause  tri- 
umphed but  many  historians  have  contended  that  the  ideology  of  the 
patriot  leadership  was  merely  a  glorious  rationalization  for  the 
interests  of  the  upper  class. 1 

Gordon  Wood,  in  a  recent  article,  has  attempted  to  combine  as- 
pects of  Progressive  and  neo-Whig  historiography.  He  describes  the 
leaders  of  the  Revolutionary  period  as  an  elite  which  debated  what 
they  felt  were  the  important  philosophical  questions.  Still,  Wood 
contests,  these  leaders  were  primarily  interested  in  communicating 
with  a  narrow  clique  of  "thoughtful  persons"  which  barely  included 
each  other.  Most  of  the  elite  saw  the  public  as  a  useful  political  tool 
which  had  rights  and  liberties  but  which  could  be  manipulated  to 
approve  a  leadership  which  the  elite  deemed  worthy.  By  1776  that 
leadership  meant  the  American  patriots  and  not  the  British 
government.2 

If,  however,  the  only  role  the  "common  man"  played  in  the  devel- 
opment of  Revolutionary  ideology  was  in  choosing  sides  and  approv- 
ing leaders,  it  must  be  made  clear  what  kinds  of  thoughts  he  had —or 
indeed  if  he  had  any  thoughts  at  all  —about  the  leadership  in  colonial 
America.  Historians  often  point  ou.  that  little  can  be  said  about  the 
thoughts  of  the  "common  man"  in  history  since  few  such  men  leave 
any  insightful  recollections  about  their  world.  Some  scholars  have 
criticized  the  study  of  ideas,  alleging  that  only  the  quantification  of 
economic  data  permits  a  glimpse  into  the  day-to-day  activities  of 
most  of  the  people  of  the  past.  Yet,  in  this  particular  case,  there  is  at 
least  some  evidence  that  the  common  man  was  thoughtfully  con- 
cerned with  the  ideological  issues  of  the  American  Revolution;  long 
overlooked  is  a  massi .  e  collection  of  Massachusetts,  mostly  Boston, 
newspapers  assembled  by  a  humble  hardware  store  owner  with  the 
almost  amusing  name  of  Harbottle  Dorr.  ' 

In  many  ways  Dorr  is  an  unlikely  person  for  the  massive  effort  he 
undertook.  The  collection  of  almost  4,000  pages  of  text,  plus  an  un- 
countable number  of  annotations  in  his  handwriting,  appears  to  be 
the  only  distinguishing  feature  of  a  man  who  seems  otherwise  quite 
common  in  Massachusetts,  if  not  the  total  colonial  population.  Little 
is  known  of  his  personal  background.  His  father  probably  died  when 
Harbottle  was  about  seventeen  and  the  only  inheritance  Dorr  man- 
aged to  salvage  from  the  debt-ridden  estate  was  a  small  library  of 
books.  This  inheritance  probably  influenced  Dorr's  later  interest  in  a 
newspaper  collection,  but  the  literary  character  of  the  family  was 

44 


quite  narrow.  It  is  probable  that  Dorr's  mother  was  illiterate.  With 
this  inauspicious  start,  it  took  a  combination  of  luck,  ambition,  and 
the  rising  economy  of  colonial  Boston  to  produce  a  modest  life-style 
for  young  Dorr  but  he  did  accumulate  enough  wealth  to  establish  a 
hardware  shop.  Here,  according  to  Dorr  himself,  he  collected  the 
newspapers  and  made  the  fascinating  commentary  during  the  quiet 
times  of  his  business  dealings.4 

The  collection,  begun  in  1765,  was  a  conscious  effort  made  by  a 
man  who  saw  his  community  badly  influenced  by  tyrannical  political 
policy  most  recently  evidenced  by  the  infamous  Stamp  Act.  It  ended 
in  1776  when  the  publication  of  Boston  newspapers  was  terminated 
by  British  troops.  It  is  clear  that  Dorr  believed  he  was  providing  an 
important  contribution  to  the  future  study  of  his  era.  Dorr  chose  to 
collect  newspapers  to  make  his  point  because  he  claimed  they  gave  a 
"full  Account  of  the  Jealousies,  great  uneasiness,  vast  difficulties, 
and  cruel  Treatment  of  the  Colonies  by  the  Detestable  Acts  of 
Parliament."  After  organizing  the  papers  into  four  volumes,  Dorr  set 
out  to  index  them  and  make  them  useful  to  readers  not  familiar  with 
the  names  and  events  of  his  day.  There  is  no  doubt  that  he  had  a  wide 
knowledge  of  English  law,  history,  and  past  and  present  politicians. 
He  identified  names,  events,  dates  and  acts  of  Parliament  only 
vaguely  referred  to  in  the  newspapers.  His  primary  object  seems  to 
have  been  to  make  future  readers  aware  of  the  "rightness"  of  the 
American  cause;  he  does  this  by  pointing  out  the  "goodness"  of  the 
American  patriot -leaders  and  the  "badness,"  in  a  very  moralistic 
sense  of  evil,  of  British  and  Tory  leadership.  In  a  determined  effort  to 
be  comprehensive,  Dorr  went  through  the  texts  a  number  of  times; 
some  annotations  were  probably  contemporary  while  others  reveal 
that  he  was  still  working  on  his  commentary  during  the  war  years. 
The  fact  that  he  refers  to  George  Washington  only  as  "General"  and 
never  as  "President"  seems  to  indicate  that  the  editing  was  com- 
pleted before  1789.5 

Dorr's  impressions  about  the  political  crises  of  the  1760's  and 
1770's  were,  of  course,  influenced  by  his  own  involvement  in  the 
patriot  cause.  He  was  an  early  member  of  the  Sons  of  Liberty  and  a 
proud  signers  of  the  non-importation  agreements.  Those  who  did  not 
agree  and  join  with  Dorr  and  his  friends  were  immediately  branded 
as  bad,  misled,  and  selfish  men.  Dorr  had  little  use  for  their  opinions 
about  the  appropriateness  of  British  policy.6  In  1776  Dorr  proved 
that  he  believed  the  newspapers  were  a  useful  tool  for  reaching  out  to 
the  people.  He  advertised  in  The  Continental  Journal  and  Weekly 
Advertiser  for  information  about  the  British  troops  which  allegedly 
plundered  and  robbed  his  shop.  The  personal  suffering,  which  he  said 
nearly  amounted  to  his  ruin,  added  to  the  tone  of  his  annotations  and 

45 


his  belief  that  the  American  cause  was  righteous.7  From  1777  to 
1784,  and  1786  to  1791,  Dorr  was  a  town  selectman,  an  indication 
that  his  opinions  were  popular  enough  for  him  to  win  at  least  minor 
elections.8 

In  1773  Dorr  wrote  a  letter  published  by  The  Boston  Gazette 
about  colonial  problems  and  the  faulty  leadership  which  had  con- 
tributed to  American  difficulties  with  the  mother  country.  The  letter 
might  have  been  a  response  to  the  publication  of  the  correspondence 
between  Governor  Thomas  Hutchinson  and  Thomas  Whately,  the 
exchange  in  which  the  American  patriots  saw  definite  proof  of  a  pan- 
Atlantic  conspiracy  attacking  the  rights  and  freedoms  of  the 
colonists.  The  main  topic  of  Dorr's  message  was  a  reproof  against  the 
clergy  for  not  praying  for  a  colonial  leadership  who  would  preserve 
American  civil  as  well  as  religious  liberties ;  Dorr  warned  that  "when 
a  people  are  deprived  of  their  civil  liberties,  their  religious  ones  are  in 
danger."  Surprisingly,  for  it  was  but  1773,  Dorr  called  for  a  colonial 
union  to  offset  "the  calamities  which  threaten  America,"  and  he 
chastized  the  clergy  for  praying  for  leaders  who  "have  been  declared 
(explicitely  or  virtually,)  TRAITORS  to  the  country,  not  only  by  the 
people  in  general,  but  also  by  the  highest  authority  among  them." 
The  role  of  the  people  in  determining  the  policy  of  the  leadership  was 
basic,  and  Dorr  defined  good  leaders  as  "the  mouth  of  the  people 
unto  God."9 

Dorr  did  not  present  a  simple  definition  showing  how  to  determine 
good  leaders  from  the  bad,  but  his  comments  about  the  actions  of 
men  in  both  America  and  England  displayed  some  basic  qualities 
which  confirmed  a  dividing  line.  In  general,  men  who  operated  upon 
what  Dorr  considered  to  be  selfish  principles  for  personal  advance- 
ment, no  matter  what  the  cost,  were  evil  "tools"  and  were  to  be 
driven  out  of  any  decent  community.  Governments  which  rewarded 
such  self-interested  men  were  also  to  be  disregarded. When  it  became 
clear  to  Dorr  that  Great  Britain  rewarded  those  who  hurt  the  Ameri- 
can community,  he  decided  that  she  had  become  too  corrupt  to  be 
consulted  in  American  affairs.  Bad  leaders,  in  very  moralistic  terms, 
were  vain,  traitorous,  illiterate,  uneducated,  liars,  slanderers,  bigots, 
and  enemies  to  the  constitution. 

Timothy  Ruggles  was  one  of  Dorrs  "bad  men."  He  was  a  rescinder 
of  the  non-importation  agreements  and  a  proponent  of  British 
superiority  over  American  rights.  Dorr  repeatedly  remarked  that 
Ruggles  was  an  enemy  of  America,  yet  the  corrupt  British  rewarded 
him  with  high  office  and  lucrative  salaries. 10  There  were  other  com- 
ments noting  the  inferiority  of  British  sympathizers.  The  Duke  of 
Cumberland,  no  friend  to  America,  was  illiterate;  and  Governor 
Cooke  of  Rhode  Island,  also  pro-British,  had,  in  general,  a  low  in- 

46 


telligence.11  Other  enemies  also  proved  their  depravity  because  they 
acted  out  of  passions  such  as  religious  fanaticism.  Dorr  observed 
that  the  Bishop  of  Warburton  was  an  enemy  of  America  who  based 
his  hatred  of  the  colonists  on  the  fact  that  they  were  dissenters. 
Because  of  these  misplaced  feelings,  Warburton,  according  to  Dorr, 
voted  against  the  repeal  of  the  Stamp  Act  and,  on  the  same 
prejudice,  most  of  the  other  bishops  in  Parliament  joined  Warburton. 
Dorr  accused  the  Bishop  of  Gloucester  of  slander  for  preaching  a 
sermon  in  which  he  denounced  the  Americans  as  a  people  "ready  to 
laugh  at  the  Bible."  Lord  Hillsborough,  Dorr  commented,  was  a  man 
who  acted  simply  out  of  hatred  and  a  desire  to  subvert  the  true 
constitution  of  the  British  empire.  None  of  these  men  deserved 
respect,  much  less  obedience.  Dorr  boldly  asserted  that  when 
enemies  of  America  died,  their  deaths  "could  be  much  lamented."12 

By  the  great  number  of  Dorr's  comments  against  them,  the  most 
evil  leaders  in  America  were  Francis  Bernard  and  Thomas  Hutchin- 
son. As  early  as  June,  1765,  Dorr  relished  what  he  believed  was  the 
exposition  of  Bernard's  true  character,  a  traitor  to  the  people  of 
Massachusetts;  and  by  November  of  the  same  year,  he  termed  the 
governor  as  "implacable  enemy"  showing  "implacable  Enmity  to  this 
whole  People  and  Constitution."  In  1769,  the  year  Bernard  was 
recalled  from  the  colony,  Dorr  compared  him  to  Sir  Edmund  Andros 
as  the  most  arbitrary  governor  in  Massachusetts'  history,  correcting 
the  newspaper  remark  about  "that  unparrelled  Incendiary  Gover- 
nor Andros."13 

Hutchinson,  who  succeeded  Bernard  as  governor,  also  seems  to 
have  succeeded  him  as  the  main  target  of  Dorr's  criticisms.  Dorr 
wrote  that  "Hutchinson  ...  is  a  Tool  to  Ld.  Hillsborough,  Lord 
Hillsborough  a  Tool  to  Bute,  and  the  Earl  of  Bute  a  Tool  to  the 
Devil."  The  sole  motive  behind  Hutchinson's  actions  was  his  "lust 
for  Ambition  and  Power"  which  caused  him  to  attempt  a  selfish  rule 
disregarding  the  needs  of  the  colonists.  Reading  a  comment  printed 
in  the  newspaper  that  "the  instructions  of  your  constituents  you 
should  be  always  ready  to  obey,"  Dorr  commented  that  his  charge  to 
officials  was  "Contrary  to  Govr.  Hutchinson's  opinion!"  Dorr  thought 
Hutchinson  was  a  villain  and  a  traitor,  and  certainly  unworthy  of 
any  honest  man's  esteem.  In  one  of  Hutchinson's  newspaper  letters, 
the  Governor  acknowledged  that  he  did  not  favor  any  "innovations" 
in  the  constitutional  form  of  government,  and  Dorr  retorted  with  a 
sarcastic  "Hah!  Hah!"  written  in  large  letters  in  the  margin  next  to 
Hutchinson's  remark.  In  a  more  serious  tone,  Dorr  thought  it  was  "to 
the  Great  Sorrow  of  all  Friends  to  Liberty"  when  Hutchinson's 
official  commission  as  governor  of  Massachusetts  arrived  in  1771. 
Even  when  a  letter  chastized  Hutchinson  for  the  selfish  use  of  his 

47 


office  and  implied  that  such  a  person  ought  to  commit  suicide,  Dorr 
dispassionately  responded  "It  was  reported  Govr.  Hutchinson  at- 
tempted to  cut  his  Throat."  Dorr  did  try  to  maintain  some  ojectivity 
about  Hutchinson,  and,  in  1769,  when  a  letter  referred  to  Hutchinson 
as  the  "herald  of  Slavery"  Dorr  felt  the  remark  was  "very  Severe."14 

Dorr  could  observe  Bernard  and  Hutchinson  very  closely  for  they 
were  members  of  his  own  community.  Perhaps  that  explains  why  he 
was  so  harsh  in  his  remarks  about  them;  he  might  have  subcon- 
sciously envied  their  success,  power  and  wealth.  Slowly,  however, 
the  judgements  against  these  two  men  became  signs  of  the  corrup- 
tion of  the  British  administration  and  those  who,  along  with  Bernard 
and  Hutchinson,  favored  British  policy.  If  Dorr  criticized  Bernard 
and  Hutchinson  merely  because  of  subjective  jealousies,  these 
emotions  were  translated  only  into  politically-based  censures  and 
became  part  of  his  more  extensive  analysis  of  imperial  politics. 
Dorr's  verbal  attacks  became  more  and  more  centerd  upon  English 
villains.  Although  there  were  many  references  to  "cursed"  acts  and 
"obnoxious"  policies,  Dorr  repeatedly  turned  his  attention  to  a 
severe  condemnation  of  "the  despotic,  luxurious  Ministry."  Dorr  was 
concerned  about  the  continual  and  blatant  lack  of  justice  in  England 
which  was  obvious  in  even  the  most  insignificant  cases.  In  one  such 
episode,  two  brothers  received  a  light  sentence  after  murdering  "a 
poor  watchman;"  the  reason  for  their  short  imprisonment  was  that 
"their  sister  is  mistress  to  some  Noble  Lord."  Immorality,  corruption, 
greed,  the  lust  for  power,  and  bad  politics  all  had  perverted  the 
British  ministry  into  evil  acts.  Dorr  even  claimed  that  the  colonies 
had  received  "Popish  Priests  being  paid  from  England"  in  an 
attempt  to  subvert  American  religious  scruples.  British  politicians 
were  caught  up  in  a  grand  scheme  to  deprive  the  colonists  of  the 
rights  and  liberties  they  deserved  to  enjoy  through  their  natural 
rights  preserved  in  the  true  Constitution.15 

With  the  ministry  so  corrupt,  the  King  himself  became  a  topic  of 
Dorr's  critical  annotations.  In  1772,  the  residents  of  Marblehead 
passed  a  strongly  worded  resolution  about  their  own  rejection  of  the 
notion  that  "the  King  himself  is  become  an  instrument  in  the  hands 
of  the  ministry  to  promote  their  wicked  purposes."16  Dorr,  however, 
disregarded  the  refutation  and  claimed  "So  it  is."  According  to  Dorr, 
a  monarch  had  limited  powers;  it  was,  he  thought,  the  people's  duty 
to  check  acts  that  were  clearly  unconstitutional,  and  even  at  the  risk 
of  death  or  imprisonment,  the  people  must  oppose  a  tyrant.  Dorr 
even  implied  that  George  III  was  a  fool  because  he  took  so  lightly  a 
petition  from  the  people  of  London.17 

With  all  the  villains  on  the  Anglo-American  scene,  Dorr  ought  to 
have  been  very  specific  about  the  qualities  of  a  good  leader,  but  he  is 

48 


less  clear  about  this.  The  signs  of  goodness  were,  it  seems,  clouded 
even  to  Dorr,  and  he  admitted  that  he  sometimes  erred  in  judging 
friends  of  America  whom  he  later  determined  were  really  enemies. 
Dorr  had  dubbed  Governor  George  Johnstone  "a  great  Friend  to 
America,  to  Great  Britain:  &  to  the  rights  of  Mankind"  and  docu- 
mented with  various  references  to  prove  his  early  impression.  The 
praises,  however,  had  to  be  retracted  for  Johnstone  turned  out  to  be 
corrupt.  He  accepted  a  "bribe  by  being  appointed  one  of  the  Com- 
missioners in  1778,  to  settle  the  dispute  with  America:  and  was  base 
enough  to  endeavour  to  bribe  a  member  of  Congress."  There  were 
other  Americans  who  appeared  good  men  while  in  the  colonies  but, 
when  they  went  to  England,  fell  under  the  spell  of  corruption  and 
forsook  the  colonists.18 

Dorr  did  find  good  men  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  and  was 
complimentary  to  individuals  rather  than  simply  to  the  adminis- 
trations or  the  nationalities  they  served.  James  Otis  earned  a 
position  of  respect  in  the  colonies  for  his  "candid  declarations"  and 
for  "his  truly  Patriotic  conduct  in  general."  Samuel  Adams,  claimed 
Dorr,  was  incorruptible  and  "at  the  peril  of  his  life,  stood  foremost  in 
the  post  of  danger."  In  England,  Edmund  Burke  was  "glorious 
Patriot;"  the  Earl  of  Buchan  "a  True  Friend  of  Liberty  and  a  Good 
Man;"  and  William  Pym  "a  Glorious  Son  of  Liberty"  who  died  in 
the  good  Cause."  Dorr  even  praised  some  monarchs  and  said  that 
"king  William  was  a  good  &  a  great  Prince."19 

These  general  approbations  are  too  vague  to  form  a  precise  picture 
of  what  Dorr  might  have  included  as  the  characteristics  of  a  good 
leader.  As  a  whole,  an  image  has  to  be  drawn  from  his  views  about 
the  "bad  men."  The  people  had  to  be  on  guard  to  judge  leaders  who 
might  surrender  to  avarice  and  the  lust  for  power,  both  immoral 
passions  which  kept  leaders  from  listening  to  the  needs  of  their 
followers.  Good  men  did  not  accept  rewards  from  corrupt  govern- 
ments. Hutchinson  had  acted  improperly  when  he  had  accepted 
positions  and  pensions  from  the  ministry  in  exchange  for  the  imple- 
mentation of  evil  policies.  Dorr  even  considered  that  the  great 
William  Pitt  might  have  been  tempted  by  the  passion  for  personal 
glory  when  he  accepted  a  peerage;  the  Bostonians  seemed  to  agree, 
for  they  were  delaying  the  erection  of  a  statue  to  Pitt's  honor  because 
of  the  possibility  that  his  new  rank  was  a  bribe.  A  good  man,  Dorr 
believed,  had  to  act  independently  even  at  the  risk  of  his  future.  He 
complimented  Joseph  Greenleaf  who  was  deprived  of  his  office  of 
Justice  of  the  Peace  because  he  did  not  attend  "the  Illegal  summons 
of  the  Govr.  and  Council."20 

Good  leadership  was  tied  to  good  government  and  the  conformance 
to  an  ethic  which  society  had  chosen  to  follow,  rules  which  should 

49 


benefit  the  community  as  a  whole,  not  merely  a  few  individuals.  This 
philosophy  was  printed  over  and  over  in  Revolutionary  literature, 
and  Dorr  must  have  been  influenced  by  its  message.  In  1771  he  read: 

The  multitude  I  am  speaking  of,  is  the  body  of  the  people  — 
no  contemptible  multitude  — for  whose  sake  government  is 
instituted;  or  rather,  who  have  themselves  erected  it,  solely 
for  their  own  good— to  whom  even  kings  and  all  in  sub- 
ordination to  them,  are  strictly  speaking,  servants  and  not 
masters.  The  constitution  and  its  laws  are  the  basis  of  the 
public  tranquility— the  firmest  support  of  the  public  au- 
thority, and  the  pledge  of  the  liberty  of  the  citizens. 
This  was  not  new  to  Dorr  and  he  commented  that  "this  is  orthodox 
and  is  my  Political  Creed."21  The  people  were  the  proper  creators 
and  also  the  objects  of  government;  leaders  rose  from  their  ranks  and 
for  their  benefit.  Bad  leaders  caused  great  unrest  in  societies  and  the 
people  were  justified  to  take  any  action  to  unseat  them.  Dorr  even 
claimed  that  "Mobbs,  or  Riots  are  never  without  some  Cause,"  and 
that  cause  was  almost  always   selfish,   greedy   and  unresponsive 
leadership.22 

As  Dorr  looked  upon  his  town  and  country,  the  tranquility  of  the 
colonies  had  certainly  been  disturbed  by  the  poor  leadership  of  the 
British  empire.  When  actual  warfare  broke  out  between  the  mother 
country  and  the  colonies,  it  was  obvious  that  he  not  only  believed 
British  policy  to  be  wrong  but  that  this  policy  had  been  composed  by 
evil  men  with  depraved  motives.  These  leaders  had  disregarded  the 
colonists'  needs  and  had  done  little  to  help  the  American  people. 
Leaders  who  were  specifically  rejected  by  Americans  had  been  re- 
warded by  the  English  ministry.  One  outstanding  example  of  this 
was  when  the  colonists  had  imprisoned  Thomas  Dudley  for  his 
cooperation  with  the  hated  Andros  and  the  ministry  had  then  ap- 
poined  Dudley  Governor  of  Massachusetts.  Time  and  again  the 
British  politicians  had  passed  acts  which  were  distressing,  obnoxious, 
enslaving,  fatal  and,  above  all,  unwanted  by  Americans.  This  bad 
leadership  was  condemned  for  both  its  moral  and  political  impro- 
prieties. Americans  sent  petitions,  resolves,  and  representatives  to 
England  to  demonstrate  that  they  would  not  give  up  their  liberties. 
Still  there  was  no  remedy  and  "at  length  the  sword  was  drawn  by  the 
Ministerial  Butchers— whereby  G.  Britain  lost  her  Colonies."23 

The  consequences  for  the  English  were  disastrous.  No 
doubt  Britain,  instead  of  preserving  her  liberty  by  the  vir- 
tue of  America,  had  lost  it  by  that  means,  as  by  the  virtue 
of  America,  she  separated  from  G.  Britain,  which  no  doubt 
in  the  sequel,  will  ruin  her  i.e.  G.  Britain.24 

50 


Both  Dorr  and  the  leaders  of  the  American  cause  dwelt  on  the  notion 
that  the  virtuous  Americans  had  only  stood  firm  against  the  corrupt 
British  and  were  forced  into  preserving  their  rights.  As  early  as  1765, 
Dorr  had  marked  a  newspaper  passage  which  advised  that  if  Amer- 
icans had  to  choose  between  their  relationship  with  Britain  and  their 
"most  valuable  natural  rights",  they  had  no  choice  but  that  of 
independence.25 

Thus  the  new  nation,  as  Dorr  saw  it,  was  born  out  of  a  confron- 
tation between  the  corruption  of  the  leadership  of  Great  Britain  and 
the  virtuous  people  of  America.  The  United  States  now  was  the  best, 
and  perhaps  only,  voice  of  the  "English"  constitution.  Americans 
had  become  the  only  "true  Englishmen."  Having  refused  to  submit 
to  the  temptations  of  power  and  greed,  Americans  lived  in  a  happy, 
peaceful  place  with  leaders  who  cared  for  their  needs.26 

Dorr  had  great  respect  for  the  leaders  he  approved  as  good  men. 
It  was  his  impression  that  these  rulers  rose  out  of  the  people  as  a 
result  of  their  unselfishness.  For  such  efforts  they  earned  a  supreme 
prize. 

There  is  no  pleasure  in  this  life,  besides  a  good  conscience, 
equal  to  that  resulting  from  the  just  esteem  of  ones  country 
founded  on  a  sincere  desire  of  serving  it,  &  of  having 
strained  every  nerve  for  that  purpose.27 

These  opinions  put  Dorr's  thesis  about  American  revolutionary 
society  at  odds  with  those  of  Professor  Wood,  for  Dorr  saw  no  basic 
division  into  an  exclusive  elite  and  the  "vulgar."  He  saw  American 
society  as  a  unit.  Leaders  listened  to  the  people  and  if  they  did  not 
represent  them  and  act  on  their  needs,  the  people  responded  by 
replacing  them.  The  goals  as  well  as  the  meaning  of  the  American 
Revolution  were  shared  by  the  entire  American  people. 

No  doubt  if  our  Morals  are  pure,  and  if  we  have  the  same 
sacred  regard  to  liberty  which  [we]  have  at  present  (now  we 
are  independent  of  Great  Britain)  we  shall  [be]  the  glory  of 
all  lands  &  there  will  be  no  one  hurting  or  destroying.  .  .  .28 

If  Dorr  was  taught  this  rhetoric  by  a  disdaining  elite  which  sought 
to  use  the  populace  only  to  maintain  its  own  power,  the  teaching  was 
so  effective  Dorr  never  recognized  the  plot.  From  the  outset  of  his 
commentary  Dorr  indicated  that  he  had  long  believed  many  English 
politicians  and  policies  sought  the  destruction  of  American  liberties. 
Although  Dorr  probably  learned  to  read  in  some  public  school,  there 
is  no.  evidence  that  he  had  much  formal  education.  The  "school"  in 
which  he  learned  history  and  constitutional  law  was  the  society  in 
which  he  lived.  It  is  true  that  the  newspapers  were  filled  with  Whig 

51 


"propaganda,"  but  editors  merely  published  material  which  would 
attract  people  to  purchase  the  weekly  sheets— paper  and  print  were 
too  expensive  to  waste  on  superficialities.  The  subject  matter  of  the 
columns  was  regarded  not  only  as  relevant  but  useful  in  understand- 
ing the  world  around  those  who  read  them. 

These  conclusions  place  limits  on  the  interpretations  that  the  in- 
tellectual stance  of  the  American  patriots  was  actually  shared  by  a 
small  number.  Ideas  may  of  course  be  used  as  rationalizations  for 
other  needs  and  incentives,  but  Dorr  s  commentary  totally  lacks  any 
suspicion  about  less  idealistic  motives  of  the  patriot  leadership.  He 
gave  his  respect  to  men  who  shared  a  common  set  of  ideals  with  him, 
not  with  those  whom  he  suspected  might  force  ideas  upon  him.  For 
Dorr  there  was  no  division  of  society  into  intellectuals  and  the 
vulgar,  but  into  the  good  men  and  the  bad.  Some  historians  may 
present  Revolutionary  rhetoric  as  a  tool  used  by  the  leaders  to 
attract  a  following,  but  Dorr  did  not  see  any  choice  in  the  kind  of 
leaders  he  would  follow. 

Harbottle  Dorr  was  not  a  member  of  any  kind  of  intellectual  elite 
nor  even  a  prominent  member  of  his  community.  When  he  died  in 
1794,  the  Boston  newspapers  mentioned  his  passing  in  short  lists  of 
others  who  had  died  about  the  same  time,  but  no  fanfare  about  his 
principles  was  made.29  There  was  little  that  was  special  about  him, 
but  there  can  be  no  doubt,  after  reading  through  his  newspaper  com- 
mentary, that  he  fully  believed  the  American  Revolution  to  be  an 
idealistic  preservation  of  rights  and  freedoms,  and  good  leadership. 


FOOTNOTES 

1  For  an  excellent  discussion  of  Revolutionary  historiography  see  Gordon  S. 
Wood,  "Rhetoric  and  Reality  in  the  American  Revolution,"  William  and 
Mary  Quarterly,  3rd  Series,  XXIII  (January,  1966),  3-32;  Bailyn,  The 
Ideological  Origins  of  the  American  Revolution,  (Cambridge,  Mass.,  1967). 

2  Gordon  S.  Wood,  "The  Democratization  of  Mind  in  the  American  Revo- 
lution," Leadership  in  the  American  Revolution  (Washington,  1974),  62-83. 

3  The  Harbottle  Dorr  Collection  of  Annotated  Massachusetts  Newspapers, 
microfilm  edition,  Massachusetts  Historical  Society.  Hereafter  cited  H.D., 
volume  number,  and  pagination  by  Dorr. 

4  For  biographical  information  about  Dorr,  see  H.D.  I,  typescript  at  the 
beginning  of  the  volume;  and  Bernard  Bailyn,  "The  Index  and  Commen- 
taries of  Harbottle  Dorr,"  Massachusetts  Historical  Society,  Proceedings, 
LXXXV(1953),  21-35. 

5  H.D.,  II,  2-3;  III,  unnumbered  first  page,  for  clues  showing  Dorr  made 
his  comments  either  contemporary  to  the  newspapers  or  during  the  war,  se( 
H.D.,  I,  216;  IV,  583,  734;  and  Bailyn.  Ideological  Origins. 

52 


6  Dorr  repeatedly  accused  John  Mein,  publisher  of  The  Boston  Chronicle,  of 
using  his  newspaper  to  defeat  the  non-importation  agreements.  See  for 
example,  H.D.,  II,  735. 

7  H.D.,  IV,  966;  the  advertisement  appeared  on  July  4,  1776. 

8  H.D.,   I,  typescript  at  the  beginning;  Bailyn,  Ideological  Origins,   22. 

9  H.D.,  IV,  359;  Dorr  later  affixed  his  signature  to  the  article  and  thus 
claimed  it  as  his  own  composition.  The  quoted  reference  to  "TRAITORS"  is 
almost  definitely  an  accusation  against  Hutchinson  for  his  letters  to 
Whately. 

0  H.D.  I,  258,  354,  372,  396;  III,  273,  276,  281. 

1  H.D.  Ill,  284;  IV,  710,  1057. 

2  H.D.  I,  393,  462,  574,  635,  640;  II,  74,  100,  262,  465. 

3  H.D.  I,  95,  265,  269;  II,  476,  577,  663;  IV,  324. 

4  H.D.  I,  580;  II,  288,  297,  657;  III,  253,  345,  363,  377,  418,  456,  469;  IV, 
321,  324,  435,  1156. 

5  H.D.  I,  314,  616;  II,  424,  464;  III,  489;  IV,  466,  827. 

6  H.D.  IV,  205. 

7  H.D.  II,  551;  III,  142,  206,  568;  IV,  293,  318. 

8  H.D.  I,  230;  II,  637;  IV,  999.  In  May,  1778,  Johnstone  tried  to  bribe 
Joseph  Reed,  Robert  Morris  and  Francis  Dana  to  agree  to  a  peace  negotia- 
tion with  the  British  and  forestall  an  alliance  with  the  French. 

19  H.D.  I,  180,  217,  223,  295,  320,  398,  636;  II,  659;  III,  32;  IV,  139,  750, 
1198. 

20  H.D.  I,  399;  III,  631. 

21  H.D.  Ill,  370. 

22  H.D.  Ill,  302. 

23  H.D.  I,  53,  353,  433,  467,  700,  719;  IV,  708,  762. 

24  H.D.  IV,  1250. 

25  H.D.  I,  114. 

26  H.D.  II,  425,  576,  659;  III,  75,  177;  IV,  420. 

27  H.D.I,  80. 

28  H.D.  IV,  1084.  The  text  unfortunately  fades  and  the  final  words  are 
illegible;  the  bracketed  insertions  are  the  logical  completion  of  the  torn  edge 
of  the  page. 

29  The  Boston  Gazette  and  Weekly  Republican  Journal,  (June  9,  1794); 
The  Columbian  Centinel  (June  7,  1794). 


53 


FROM  PRAGMATIC  ACCOMMODATION 

TO  PRINCIPLED  ACTION: 

THE  REVOLUTION  AND  RELIGIOUS 

ESTABLISHMENT  IN  VIRGINIA 

By 
Mary  E.  Quinlivan 

The  significance  of  the  American  Revolution  in  the  history  of 
religious  establishment  in  Virginia  lies  as  much  in  the  encourage- 
ment of  public  discussion  of  the  contribution  of  religion  and  religious 
establishment  to  social  order  as  it  does  in  the  actual  adoption  of 
Thomas  Jefferson's  bill  for  religious  freedom  in  1786.  In  the  decades 
prior  to  the  Revolution,  Virginia  underwent  religious  change  more 
penetrating  than  that  which  occurred  between  1776  and  1786.  The 
introduction  of  various  dissenting  groups  during  the  second  quarter 
of  the  eighteenth  century  on  the  frontier,  the  advent  of  the  Great 
Awakening,  and  the  subsequent  rise  of  the  Baptists  in  all  parts  of 
Virginia  in  the  next  quarter  century  were  substantive  changes  in  the 
religious  character  of  the  colony  unequaled  by  developments  during 
the  Revolution.  But  the  Revolutionary  situation,  which  commenced 
in  1776,  provided  the  opportunity  to  move  from  pragmatic  accom- 
modation to  principled  action. 

During  the  years  following  the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution,  the 
General  Assembly  of  Virginia  gradually  ended  the  special  relation- 
ship which  had  existed  between  the  Church  of  England  and  the  civil 
government.  The  Declaration  of  Rights  of  1776  contained  a  broad 
assertion  of  religious  liberty;  the  assembly  then  began  to  spell  out 
the  meaning  of  that  liberty.  Penal  legislation  requiring  religious 
uniformity  and  church  attendance  was  repealed.  Taxation  of  dissenters 
for  the  benefit  of  the  Anglican  church  was  abolished  in  1776  and  all 
levies  for  the  support  of  the  clergy  was  suspended  annually  until 
abolished  in  1779. 

Vestiges  of  the  Anglican  establishment  remained,  however,  in  the 
vestry  and  marriage  laws  throughout  the  Revolution.  The  vestries, 
to  which  dissenters  could  not  legally  belong,  were  empowered  to  tax 
parish  members  and  dissenters  alike  for  the  care  of  the  poor.  In  1781 
dissenting  ministers  were  authorized  to  perform  marriages.  The  law, 
however,  did  not  put  dissenting  ministers  on  a  par  with  the  clergy  of 
the  Anglican  church,  for  only  four  ministers  of  each  dissenting 
denomination  in  a  county  were  given  authority  to  perform  marriages 
within  the  bounds  of  that  county  alone.  Petitions  asking  for  the 
generalized  dissolution  of  vestries  and  the  election  of  overseers  of  the 

55 


poor  and  for  the  further  liberalization  of  the  marriage  laws  went 
unheeded  by  the  assembly. 

At  the  same  time  that  dissenters  complained  about  the  vestigial 
remains  of  the  old  establishment,  they  were  aware  of  a  movement  for 
the  building  of  a  multiple  establishment  through  a  general  assess- 
ment for  the  Christian  religion.  Its  proponents  suggested  that  the 
state  collect  a  direct  tax  for  religion  from  all  taxpayers,  each  desig- 
nating to  which  church  he  wanted  his  payment  assigned.  Although 
this  general  assessment  movement  was  unsuccessful,  it  was  neither  a 
reactionary  phase  of  the  Revolution  nor  an  expedient  by  a  religious 
group  which  preferred  a  single  establishment.  The  movement 
resulted  from  intense  emphasis  on  the  social  importance  of  religion. 
Its  adherents  believed  that  religion's  positive  effect  on  the  social 
order  justified  its  support  by  the  state;  moreover,  they  believed,  the 
likelihood  that  religion  would  decline  without  state  assistance 
necessitated  such  support. 

There  has  been  general  agreement  among  historians  that  the 
principal  religious  development  of  the  Revolution  was  the  movement 
from  expedient  toleration  of  certain  groups  of  dissenters  towards 
separation  of  church  and  state  and  that  the  experience  of  Virginia 
was  salient.  In  his  classic,  The  American  Revolution  Considered  as 
a  Social  Movement,  J.  Franklin  Jameson  traced  the  movement  as 
part  of  the  Revolution's  effect  upon  thought  and  feeling.  In  a  recent 
essay  on  the  role  of  religion  in  the  Revolution,  William  McLoughlin 
emphasized  the  importance  of  the  Revolution  in  continuing  the  dis- 
solution of  colonial  religious  establishments  — a  development  set  in 
motion  by  the  Great  Awakening—  and  in  creating  "religious  liberty 
for  Protestantism  in  order  to  provide  the  cultural  cohesion  needed  for 
the  new  nation."1 

Numerous  specialized  studies  have  contributed  to  the  under- 
standing of  the  specific  developments  in  Virginia.  Much  of  the 
historical  treatment  of  the  assessment  issue  is  in  denominational 
chronicles  written  by  nineteenth  century  historians,  primarily  Pres- 
byterian and  Baptist  clergymen.  Their  tendency  to  claim  glory  or  lay 
blame  decreases  their  value  but,  because  of  the  important  evidence 
and  insights  they  contain,  many  of  these  studies  are  indispensable.2 
The  major  twentieth  century  study  is  that  by  Hamilton  J.  Eckenrode, 
Separation  of  Church  and  State  in  Virginia:  A  Study  in  the  Develop- 
ment of  the  Revolution.3  His  work,  a  compendium  of  documents  and 
a  narrative  of  the  separation  of  church  and  state,  is  helpful  for 
gaining  an  understanding  of  the  assessment  movement.  His  labeling 
of  "conservative"  and  "radical"  groups  and  policies  is,  however, 
somewhat  misleading.  Because  he  failed  to  study  the  pre-Revolu- 
tionary   thought  on   church-state  alliance,   Eckenrode  viewed  the 

56 


general  assessment  movement  as  essentially  a  reaction  against  the 
Revolution.  He  did  not  recognize  it  as  an  expression  of  the  con- 
tinuing concern  with  the  social  relevance  of  religion  or  of  divergent 
views  of  the  meaning  of  the  Revolution.  His  failure  to  note  Patrick 
Henry's  pre-Revolutionary  espousal  of  the  civil  utility  of  religion  led 
him  to  interpret  Henry's  leadership  in  the  assessment  movement  as 
simply  an  expression  of  his  "growing  conservatism." 

Eckenrode's  interpretation  was  criticized  in  an  excellent  article  by 
Marvin  K.  Singleton,  who  stressed  that  at  the  opening  of  the  Revolu- 
tion the  assessment  question  was  explicity  left  for  later  deliberation. 
Singleton  believed  that  Henry's  submission  of  the  assessment  bill 
"was  in  itself  not  necessarily  reactionary  or  opportunistic".  Henry's 
"retrospective  view  of  the  issue,  though  mistaken  and  troublesome, 
was  not  an  unnatural  sort  of  mistake  to  fall  into  during  the  1780's, 
when  the  values  of  the  Revolution  had  not  yet  fully  jelled  into 
principles  of  good  government."4  Singleton's  interpretation  of  Henry's 
role  in  the  assessment  controversy  is  marred  only  by  his  failure  to 
note  the  continuity  in  Henry's  concern  for  the  civil  usefulness  of 
religion  at  the  time  of  the  Parsons'  Cause  and  later  in  the  movement 
to  preserve  religious  establishment.5 

The  changes  which  were  made  in  the  position  of  the  Church  of 
England  in  Virginia  and  the  theorizing  which  was  done  on  the  role  of 
religious  establishment  during  the  American  Revolution  must  be 
seen  in  the  context  of  church-state  relations  in  the  preceding 
decades.  This  paper,  therefore,  seeks  to  explain  that  context  and  the 
significance  of  the  General  Assembly's  invitation  to  open  discussion 
of  views  concerning  religious  establishment  during  the  Revolution. 

The  argument  of  the  civil  utility  of  religion  which  formed  the 
rationale  for  the  general  assessment  proposals  of  the  1770's  and  the 
1780's  was  not  a  new  argument.  Based  on  the  writings  of  William 
Warburton,  Bishop  of  Gloucester,  it  formed  the  justification  for  the 
alliance  of  church  and  state  in  pre-Revolutionary  Virginia.  War- 
burton's  works  were  a  Whig's  effort  to  justify  an  established  church 
through  an  analysis  of  the  nature  of  society.6  His  expressed  purpose 
was  not  to  defend  the  establishment  of  any  particular  church  or 
creed,  but  rather  to  show  that  an  established  church  of  some  sort  is 
necessary  for  the  well-being  of  any  community.  His  first  step  was  to 
examine  the  nature  of  civil  and  religious  societies  and  the  purposes 
for  which  they  exist.  He  held  that  state  and  church  are  independent 
societies,  each  with  its  particular  purposes  and  functions;  the  two 
entered  into  such  an  alliance  for  their  mutual  benefit.  The  state, 
which  originated  through  social  compact,  has  for  its  end  "security  to 
the  temporal  liberty  and  property  of  man."  It  has  no  interest  in 
securing  man's  future  happiness;  the  magistrate  can  be  concerned 

57 


only  with  the  bodies,  not  the  souls  of  men.  The  magistrate  cannot 
punish  offenses  because  they  are  sins  but  because  they  are  crimes, 
actions  which  have  a  malignant  influence  on  society.  The  state  must 
not  concern  itself  with  religious  opinions  other  than  the  "three  funda- 
mental principles  of  Natural  Religion:  the  being  of  a  God,  his  provi- 
dence over  human  affairs,  and  the  natural  essential  difference  of 
moral  good  and  evil."  The  state's  interest  in  these  basic  principles  is 
from  a  political,  not  a  religious  motive.  They  are  necessary  to  give 
sanction  to  an  oath,  and  are  thus  the  bond  of  civil  society. 

Although  Warburton  emphasized  the  distinction  between  the  func- 
tions of  these  two  societies,  he  held  that  all  alliance  between  them 
is  beneficial  and  natural.  The  state  needs  the  aid  of  the  church  to  give 
it  a  powerful  sanction  for  the  observance  of  its  own  laws  and  to 
secure  the  performance  of  certain  duties  of  imperfect  obligation.  The 
church  needs  the  state  for  protection  from  external  violence.  In  the 
alliance  that  is  formed  the  church  gives  up  her  independence  to  the 
state.  Warburton 's  rationale  for  state  establishment  of  religion  was 
basically  that  of  civil  utility,  a  rationale  dangerously  close  to  the 
Erastianism  which  he  abhorred.  He  did  not  want  religion  to  be  con- 
sidered the  creation  or  the  tool  of  the  state.  Nevertheless  in  his 
theory  the  church  — and  the  clergy —  necessarily  played  a  subsidiary 
role  in  its  alliance  with  the  state  despite  an  independent  and 
peculiarly  spiritual  function  of  preparing  men  for  eternal  life. 

Warburton 's  writing,  particularly  The  Alliance  between  Church  and 
State  (1136  and  The  Divine  Legation  of  Moses  (1737-1741 ),  were  well 
known  in  Virginia  and  were  frequently  cited  by  participants  in  pre- 
Revolutionary  discussions  of  the  church-state  relationship.  In  most 
of  these  discussions  there  were  few  who  questioned  whether  there 
ought  to  be  a  close  relationship  between  church  and  state.  Rather, 
the  discussions  generally  centered  on  such  issues  as  the  usefulness  to 
the  colony  of  certain  groups  of  dissenters  and  the  actual  contribution 
to  social  cohesion  made  by  the  Church  of  England,  particularly  by  its 
clergy  who  were  frequently  described  in  perjorative  terms. 

The  role  of  the  clergy  within  the  church-state  alliance  was  a  basic 
concern  in  the  Parsons'  Cause  of  the  1750's  and  1760's.  In  this 
conflict  some  of  the  clergy  protested  against  what  they  claimed  was 
an  illegal  devaluation  of  their  salaries  through  the  Two  Penny  Acts. 
The  faction  of  the  clergy  which  was  involved  in  the  controversy 
believed  that  the  temporary  commuting  of  their  salaries  from 
tobacco  to  money  at  a  time  when  the  fluctuation  in  the  price  of 
tobacco  would  have  been  to  their  advantage  would  lead  to  the  "ruin 
of  the  Established  Church."  They  expressed  their  views  to  the 
Bishop  of  London:  "For  what  Clergyman  can  it  be  expected  will 
come  hither  from  Great  Britain,  or  who  will  here  design  their  sons  for 

58 


holy  Orders,  when  the  Clergy  shall  not  be  paid  in  one  certain  com- 
modity, but  in  Tobacco  or  Money  or  something  else,  as  any  of  them 
shall  happen  to  be  the  least  profitable.  .  .  &  when  they  shall  be  sup- 
ported in  a  penurious  manner  or  starved  outright."7 

This  group  considered  the  commutation  an  attack  upon  the  clergy 
and  thus  on  the  existing  religious  establishment.  They  did  not  wish 
to  have  a  subservient  role  in  Virginia  society.  According  to  one  of  the 
protesting  clergy,  James  Maury,  there  had  been  a  "long  Train  of 
public  measures"  designed  for  purposes  of  "reducing  &  degrading  the 
Church  from  a  federal  Equality  &  Alliance  with  the  State,  it's  in- 
dubitable Right  by  the  British  Constitution,  to  an  abject  Vassalage 
&  servile  dependence  on  it."8  Clearly  Reverend  Maury  believed  that 
at  the  heart  of  the  Parsons'  Cause  was  the  question  of  the  proper 
locus  of  authority  in  the  church-state  alliance.  He  and  the  other 
protesting  clergy  wanted  a  sure  and  adequate  income  which  would 
permit  them  an  independent  voice;  they  wanted  a  minimum  of  lay 
control  in  the  church.  In  this  way,  religion  and  religious  establish- 
ment could  best  serve  society.  Their  adversaries  believed  that  the 
clergy  should  play  a  supportive  role  to  the  state.  Lay  control  would 
help  assure  the  proper  functioning  of  the  clergy  within  the  alliance. 

In  the  case  in  which  he  defended  the  parish  sued  by  Reverend 
Maury,  Parick  Henry  dramatically  expressed  the  importance  of  an 
established  church  and  the  deviation  of  Virginia's  clergy  from  their 
proper  role.  His  argument  concerning  the  role  of  religious  establish- 
ment dealt  exclusively  with  its  civil  utility.  Its  purpose  is  to  "enforce 
obedience  to  civil  sanctions,  and  the  observance  of  those  which  are 
called  duties  of  imperfect  obligation."  If  the  clergy  failed  to  fulfill 
this  function,  society  "may  justly  strip  them  of  their  appointments." 
Henry  characterized  the  Virginia  clergy  as  "rapacious  harpies  [who] 
would,  were  their  powers  equal  to  their  will,  snatch  from  the  hearth 
of  their  honest  parishioner  his  last  hoe-cake,  from  the  widow  and  her 
orphan  children  their  last  milch  cow!  The  last  bed,  nay,  the  last 
blanket  from  the  lying-in  woman!"  Because  the  clergy  in  the  Par- 
sons' Cause  had  counteracted  the  purposes  of  their  alliance  with  the 
state,  they  ought  to  be  considered  as  "enemies  of  the  community" 
rather  than  as  "useful  members  of  the  State."9 

Soon  after  the  Parsons'  Cause  had  ceased  to  be  of  great  interest 
to  Virginians,  a  new  controversy,  that  of  the  American  episcopate, 
gained  attention  in  the  colony.  In  1771,  as  a  result  of  pressure  from 
representatives  of  the  United  Convention  of  the  Clergy  of  New  York 
and  New  Jersey,  Virginia's  Commissary,  James  Horrocks,  called  two 
meetings  of  the  Virginia  clergy  to  discuss  the  feasibility  of  petitioning 
the  King  for  the  creation  of  a  colonial  episcopate.  Although  atten- 
dance at  both  meetings  was  extremely  sparse,  a  majority  of  the 


59 


twelve  clergymen  present  at  the  second  meeting  decided  to  prepare  a 
petition  to  the  king  requesting  the  establishment  of  the  episcopate. 
This  petition  was  to  be  approved  first  by  the  majority  of  the  Virginia 
clergy  and  then  by  the  Bishop  of  London  before  being  presented  to 
the  king.  Four  of  the  twelve  clergymen  present  voted  against  this 
plan  of  action.  Two  of  them,  Thomas  Gwatkin  and  Samuel  Henley, 
published  a  formal  statement  against  the  action  in  the  Virginia 
Gazette.10  Although  they  collaborated  on  the  statement  in  the 
Gazette,  it  became  apparent  as  time  went  on  that  Gwatkin  and 
Henley  held  quite  different  views  on  the  concept  of  the  church-state 
alliance. 

Gwatkin  wrote  to  the  clergy  of  New  York  and  New  Jersey  in 
response  to  their  criticism  of  the  Virginia  clergy's  lack  of  support  for 
the  American  episcopate.  Explicitly  declining  to  engage  in  a  "philo- 
sophical dispute  concerning  establishment  in  general,"  he  based  his 
argument  concerning  the  clerical  role  in  the  Virginia  establishment 
on  the  theories  of  Warburton.  He  showed  that  the  discussion  of  an 
American  episcopate  was  necessarily  a  different  question  in  Virginia 
from  what  it  was  in  those  colonies  in  which  the  Church  of  England 
was  not  already  established  by  law.  In  Virginia,  said  Gwatkin,  the 
Clergy  had  connected  itself  with  the  government  and  consequently 
had  surrendered  its  right  to  make  alterations  without  the  approbation 
of  the  civil  authorities.  The  Virgin^  House  of  Burgesses  had  seen  the 
northern  clergy's  "scheme"  in  its  proper  light  and  foresaw  its  "mis- 
chievous tendency"  of  separating  the  interests  of  the  clergy  from 
those  of  society.  Gwatkin  believed  that  for  reasons  of  civil  utility,  the 
clergy  of  an  established  church  must  play  a  subordinate  role.  In  that 
position,  they  were  unable  to  effect  basic  changes  in  the  ecclesiastical 
constitution  without  express  legislative  consent.11 

Although  most  of  those  who  objected  to  the  American  episcopate 
challenged  neither  the  concept  of  episcopacy  in  general  nor  the 
alliance  of  church  and  state,  Samuel  Henley  implicitly  questioned 
episcopacy  and  explicity  condemned  the  accepted  theory  underlying 
the  church-state  alliance.  In  doing  so,  he  came  into  open  conflict  with 
the  staunch  lay  supporter  of  Virginia's  religious  establishment  and 
the  Treasurer  of  Virginia,  Robert  Carter  Nicholas.  During  1773  and 
1774  these  two  men  aired  diametrically  opposed  views,  providing  the 
fullest  pre-Revolutionary  debate  on  the  role  of  religion  and  -religious 
establishment  in  society. 

Because  Nicholas,  as  an  important  vestryman  of  Bruton  Parish  in 
Williamsburg,  had  kept  Henley  from  a  permanent  appointment  as 
rector  of  the  parish,  Henley  published  a  letter  in  the  Virginia  Gazette 
of  May  13,  1773,  challenging  Nicholas  to  bring  his  charges  against 
Henley  into  the  open.  In  various  issues  of  the  Gazette,  Nicholas  indi- 


60 


cated  that  his  objections  centered  on  Henley's  stand  on  the  American 
episcopate,  his  doctrinal  latitudinarianism,  and,  most  particularly, 
his  view  of  the  church-state  alliance. 

In  March,  1772,  Henley  preached  a  sermon  on  the  church-state 
relationship  which  he  later  had  printed.  The  ideas  developed  in  this 
sermon  were  at  the  heart  of  the  Nicholas- Henley  dispute.  Henley 
spoke  at  length  on  the  origin  of  the  social  compact  and  its  relation 
to  religion  in  society.  He  thought  society  was  founded  on  purefy 
human  motives,  primarily  the  security  and  enjoyment  of  property. 
The  magistrate's  basic  duty  is  to  preserve  the  peace  and  property 
of  the  members  of  society.  He  recognized  that  much  confusion  can 
arise  in  connection  with  this  concept  because  some  things  which  are 
against  God's  laws  are  also  violation  of  the  state's  laws,  but  he  added 
that  although  violation  of  a  civil  law  might  "involve  in  it  a  violation 
of  the  Law  of  God,  it  is  cognizable  before  the  Magistrate  in  no  other 
light  than  as  a  civil  offence,  since  in  no  other  view  can  it  be  injurious 
to  society." 

Henley  believed  that  although  society  and  government  were 
founded  on  purely  human  motives  and  religion  played  no  role  in  the 
formation  of  either,  religion  inevitably  "looks  with  a  benign  aspect 
upon  civil  polity  .  .  .  since  the  conduct  it  enjoins  tends  greatly  to 
advance  man's  secular  welfare."  This,  however,  was  not  the  primary 
purpose  of  religion,  and  Henley  was  unwilling  to  have  religion's  role 
reduced  to  that  of  civil  utility.  The  authority  of  religion  was  anterior 
to  every  political  establishment  and  binding  upon  every  individual: 
"Human  law  could  not  more  give  it  effect  than  extent."  Man  must 
be  free  to  follow  his  conscience,  for  "our  duty  to  our  Maker  is  coeval 
with  our  being."  No  matter  how  desirable  uniformity  in  religious 
opinions  may  appear,  to  make  nonconformity  criminal  is  "highly 
impious."  The  establishment  of  religious  doctrines  on  the  authority 
of  the  state  would  be  useless;  unless  they  are  actually  believed  they 
are  ineffective.  The  most  sacred  dogmas  would  be  "but  human  pre- 
scriptions" to  those  who  were  not  convinced  of  their  divine  nature. 
Legislation  enjoining  public  worship  is  equally  foolish,  for  "can  a 
legal  injunction  excite  the  spirit  of  devotion?"  Religion  is  not  in  need 
of  legislative  support  by  the  state  any  more  than  the  movement  of 
sun  and  moon  are  dependent  on  the  state.12 

The  House  of  Burgesses  was  the  congregation  to  whom  this  ser- 
mon was  preached  on  March  1,  1772.  Although  there  is  no  record 
indicating  fully  the  circumstances  under  which  this  sermon  was 
prepared  and  delivered,  Henley's  choice  of  subject  matter  and  his 
manner  of  handling  it  are  significant.  At  the  time  of  the  delivery  of 
this  sermon  religious  questions  were  of  great  importance  in  the 
deliberations  of  the  House  of  Burgesses.  As  a  result  of  numerous 

61 


petitions  from  Baptists  and  others,  a  religious  toleration  bill  had 
been  given  a  second  reading  and  referred  back  to  the  Committee 
for  Religion  on  the  Friday  prior  to  the  delivery  of  the  sermon.  It 
seemed  to  Henley  an  appropriate  time  for  a  sermon  on  the  text, 
"Render  to  Caesar  the  things  that  are  Caesar's,  and  to  God  the 
things  that  are  God's."  Although  he  made  some  practical  application 
of  his  theory  in  the  latter  part  of  his  sermon,  most  of  the  address 
was  a  philosophical  treatise  on  the  origin  and  interrelationships  of 
society,  the  state,  and  religion.  Henley  was  not  dealing  with  the  es- 
tablishment of  religion  as  it  existed  in  Virginia;  nor  did  he  suggest 
modifications  to  the  burgesses.  Rather,  he  was  questioning  in  toto 
the  concept  of  religious  establishment. 

In  his  criticism  of  Henley,  Nicholas  made  no  attempt  to  philoso- 
phize on  the  social  compact  or  the  distinction  between  the  purposes 
of  church  and  state.  Rather,  he  said  that  if  he  were  a  minister  he 
would  consider  it  his  duty  to  show  the  "superior  Advantages  of  our 
Establishment,  and  the  various  and  striking  Beauties  of  our 
Liturgy."  Such  preaching  would  strengthen  those  who  were  already 
members  of  the  church  and  would  attract  strangers  as  well.  But 
Henley  seemed  to  Nicholas  to  have  had  as  his  purpose  "to  beat  down 
and  destroy  that  necessary,  that  friendly  and  amiable  Alliance  be- 
tween Church  and  State,  which  the  best  and  ablest  Divines  have 
thought  essential  to  the  Prosperity  of  both."13 

Henley  objected  to  Nicholas's  statement  that  the  most  revered 
clergymen  had  considered  the  alliance  between  church  and  state 
essential.  In  determining  his  mental  list  of  able  divines,  Henley 
noted,  Nicholas  must  have  excluded  all  the  reformers  of  the  English 
Church  of  the  previous  century  and  a  half  and  all  the  current  bishops 
of  the  Church  of  England  except  "his  Lordship,  of  Gloucester  [Wil- 
liam Warburton]."  Henley  held  that  the  theory  that  the  alliance 
between  church  and  state  was  essential  to  both  was  "of  but  few  Years 
existence  and  was  begotten  on  a  Fondness  for  Novelty  by  the  crea- 
tive Imagination  of  a  paradoxical  Theologue  [Warburton]."14 

Thus  within  the  established  church  itself,  on  the  eve  of  the  Revo- 
lution, there  was  significant  public  airing  of  opposing  views  concern- 
ing the  role  of  religious  establishment.  This  diversity,  combined  with 
the  changes  brought  about  by  the  growth  of  the  Presbyterians  and, 
more  dramatically,  the  Baptists  — who  espoused  a  theological  basis 
for  disestablishment  — produced  a  fluid  situation  concerning  re- 
ligious establishment  at  the  opening  of  the  Revolution. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  in  dealing  with  this  confusing,  uncertain 
situation,  the  assembly  temporized  in  1776;  and  during  the  ensuing 
years,  in  spite  of  a  liberal  statement  on  religious  liberty  in  the  Vir- 
ginia  Declaration  of  Rights,   serious  consideration  was  given  to 

62 


proposals  for  a  general  assessment.  Such  proposals  were  in  accord 
with  the  theorizing  which  had  buttressed  the  establishment  of  the 
Church  of  England  and  which  readily  could  be  applied  to  a  broader 
kind  of  religious  establishment.  By  specifically  delaying  a  judgment 
on  the  value  of  a  general  assessment  in  its  December,  1776,  suspen- 
sion of  the  legislation,  which  had  provided  for  clerical  salaries;  and 
by  giving  serious  consideration  to  general  assessment  bills  in  1779 
and  1784,  the  assembly  explicitly  demonstrated  its  lack  of  con^ 
sensus  on  the  role  of  religious  establishment. 

In  each  instance  in  which  it  postponed  definite  action,  the  as- 
sembly stated  that  it  would  delay  until  public  opinion  might  be 
better  known.  This  deference  to  public  opinion  is  a  significant  aspect 
of  the  Revolution  in  Virginia,  and  the  responses  it  elicited  indicated 
a  generalized  concern  for  the  welfare  of  society  in  Virginia.  No  longer 
was  religious  establishment  to  be  taken  for  granted.  Nor  was  the 
theorizing  on  the  role  of  religion  something  to  be  reserved  to  those 
in  power— whether  church  or  state.  Rather,  there  could  be  gen- 
eralized public  discussion  and  petitioning  which  could  influence 
legislation. 

In  the  course  of  this  discussion  and  petitioning,  many  of  the  same 
ideas  which  had  been  emerged  in  the  more  limited  pre- Revolutionary 
discussions  were  expressed.  The  proponents  of  a  general  assessment 
argued  primarily  from  a  civil  viewpoint,  stressing  the  close  relation- 
ship between  religious  establishment  and  general  social  stability. 
They  believed  that  establishment  was  necessary  to  guarantee  the 
growth  of  the  type  of  religion  which  would  contribute  to  civil  order. 
The  opponents  of  assessment  stressed  the  distinctive  origin  and 
functions  of  church  and  state  to  show  that  only  harm  could  come 
to  each  through  their  alliance.  Few,  however,  expressed  a  starkly 
secular  concept  of  society.  Most  believed  that  religion  could  effec- 
tively contribute  to  social  well-being  if  it  were  left  free  of  alliance 
with  the  state. 

A  full  appreciation  of  the  Revolution  as  a  social  movement  in 
Virginia  must  include  an  understanding  of  the  uncertainty  con- 
cerning the  future  of  religious  establishment  in  1776,  the  conti- 
nuity of  pre- Revolutionary  thought  on  the  church-state  alliance  with 
that  expressed  in  support  of  general  assessment,  and  the  significance 
of  the  enlivened  public  discussion  and  petitioning  elicited  by  the 
assembly  in  its  attempt  to  base  the  institutions  of  Virginia  on 
proper  principles. 


63 


FOOTNOTES 

1  J.  Franklin  Jameson,  The  American  Revolution  Considered  as  a  Social 
Movement  (Princeton,  1926),  85-90.  William  McLoughlin,  "The  Role  of 
Religion  in  the  Revolution:  Liberty  of  Conscience  and  Cultural  Cohesion  in 
the  New  Nation,"  in  Stephen  G.  Kurtz  and  James  H.  Hutson,  eds.,  Essays 
on  the  American  Revolution  (Chapel  Hill,  N.C.,  1973),  255. 

2  William  H.  Foote,  Sketches  of  Virginia,  Historical  and  Biographical 
(Philadelphia,  1864);  Robert  B.  Howell,  The  Early  Baptists  of  Virginia,  rev. 
ed.  (Philadelphia,  1864);  Charles  F.  James,  Documentary  History  of  the 
Struggle  for  Religious  Liberty  in  Virginia  (Lynchburg,  Va.,  1900);  Robert  B. 
Semple,  A  History  of  the  Rise  and  Progress  of  the  Baptists  in  Virginia,  rev. 
and  extended  by  G.W.  Beale  (Richmond,  1894). 

3  Hamilton  J.  Eckenrode,  Separation  of  Church  and  State  In  Virginia:  A 
Study  in  the  Development  of  the  Revolution,  Special  Report  of  the  Depart- 
ment of  Archives  and  History,  Virginia  State  Library  (Richmond,  1910). 

4  Marvin  K.  Singleton,  "Colonial  Virginia  as  First  Amendment  Matrix: 
Henry,  Madison,  and  Assessment  Establishment,"  ,4  Journal  of  Church  and 
State,  VIII  (Autumn,  1966),  361. 

5  Ibid.,  362.  Singleton  saw  in  Henry  "a  certain  lack  of  fixed  principle  evi- 
denced by  the  contrast  between  his  Two-Penny  position  and  his  assess- 
ment views." 

6  This  discussion  of  Warburton's  views  is  based  on  Arthur  W.  Evans,  War- 
burton  and  the  Warburtonians:  A  Study  in  Some  Eighteenth  Century  Con- 
troversies (London,  1932). 

7  The  Clergy  of  Virginia  to  the  Bishop  of  London,  November  29,  1755,  in 
William  S.  Perry,  ed.,  Historical  Collections  Relating  to  the  American 
Colonial  Church  (Hartford,  Conn.,  1870),  I,  434. 

8  MS  letter  of  James  Maury,  October  25,  1759,  in  the  Maury  Family  Papers, 
University  of  Virginia  Library. 

9  The  quotations  are  from  a  summary  of  Henry's  argument  given  in  William 
Wirt  Henry,  Patrick  Henry:  Life,  Correspondence  and  Speeches  (New  York, 
1891),  I,  40-41. 

10  Purdie  and  Dixon's  Virginia  Gazette,  June  6,  1771. 

11  Thomas  Gwatkin,  A  Letter  to  the  Clergy  of  New  York  and  New  Jersey, 
Occasioned  by  an  Address  to  the  Episcopalians  of  Virginia  (Williamsburg, 
1772),  passim. 

12  Samuel  Henley,  The  Distinct  Claims  of  Government  and  Religion,  a 
Sermon  Preached  before  the  Honourable  House  of  Burgesses  at  Williams- 
burg in  Virginia,  March  1,  1772  (Cambridge,  1112),  passim. 

13  Purdie  and  Dixon's  Virginia  Gazette,  Supplement,  May  20,  1773. 

14  Purdie  and  Dixon's  Virginia  Gazette,  June  3,  1773. 


64 


JONATHAN  BOUCHER: 
THE  LOYALIST  AS  REBEL 

By 
Carol  R.  Berkin* 

"There  was  nothing  quite  ordinary  or  indifferent  about  me," 
Jonathan  Boucher  noted  with  self-consciousness  and  a  touch  of 
pride.  "My  faults  and  my  good  qualities  were  all  striking.  All  my 
friends  (and  no  man  ever  had  more  friends)  really  loved  me;  and  all 
my  enemies  as  cordially  hated  me."  The  accuracy  of  Boucher's  state- 
ment grew  as  the  years  passed.  For  if  Boucher's  contemporaries 
were  perhaps  less  struck  by  the  extremities  of  his  personality  and 
his  private  history  than  he  imagined,  historians  of  the  Revolutionary 
era  have  hardly  been  indifferent.  Unlike  other  exiles  and  refugees, 
he  has  not  suffered  the  ignominity  of  oblivion;  rather  he  has  served 
as  the  symbolic  Loyalist,  alternately  praised  as  a  true  defender  of 
King,  country,  church,  and  social  order,  or  vilified  as  a  social  elitist 
and  political  reactionary.  Much  of  Boucher's  appeal  has  seemed  to 
be  the  promise  of  clarity:  here  is  a  man  who  could,  after  all,  be  pinned 
down.  His  political  attitudes  could  be  traced  directly  to  Sir  Robert 
Filmer.  His  social  conservatism  was  linked  to  his  class.  His  loyalty 
to  the  Crown  was  a  logical  product  of  his  English  birth  and  his  in- 
stitutional affiliation  with  the  Church.  Whether  praised  or  con- 
demned, Jonathan  Boucher  could  at  least  be  said  to  be  understood, 
and  insofar  as  historians  sought  to  understand  the  Loyalists,  this 
was  sufficient.1 

Yet  if  history  does  not  change,  historians  do.  The  Loyalists  are 
today  rescued  from  oblivion,  and  any  search  for  the  nature  and 
causes  of  the  Revolution  is  admitted  to  require  an  examination  of 
the  opposition  as  much  as  the  movement  itself.  Thus  as  the  Revolu- 
tion becomes  more  complex  and  richer  in  texture,  the  temptation 
to  write  about  Jonathan  Boucher  for  all  the  old  reasons  remains:  in 
the  confusing  variations  of  motivation,  material  circumstances, 
self-perception,  and  political  ideology  among  individuals  and  groups, 
the  long  acclaimed  logic  and  consistency  of  Boucher's  commitment 
to  loyalty  seems  a  refuge.  Even  this  small  luxury  is  now  denied  us, 
however,  for  the  recent  biographers  of  Boucher  have  shown  tradi- 
tional interpretation  to  be  as  inaccurate  as  it  was  always  neat. 
Boucher's  Filmerism  has  proven  to  be  a  complex  constitutional  mon- 
archism,  while  his  firm  support  of  Parliament  and  royal  policy  in 


*The  author  gratefully  acknowledges  assistance  for  her  research  by  the  Re- 
search Foundation  of  City  University  and  the  American  Council  of  Learned 
Societies. 

65 


the  1770's  contradicted  his  early  opposition  to  royal  policies;  more- 
over, his  alleged  social  conservatism  has  been  questioned  because 
of  his  concern  for  the  education  of  blacks  and  his  toleration  of  Indian 
populations,  which  were  far  in  advance  of  most  Southern  patriot 
leaders.2 

Boucher,  then,  is  not  the  perfect  Loyalist,  not  the  archetype 
against  which  we  can  conveniently  measure  the  Loyalism  of  others. 
But  if  he  cannot  be  made  to  stand  for  Loyalism  in  the  old,  simple 
manner,  perhaps  he  has  not  lost  his  value  to  us.  Boucher's  history 
in  America  reminds  us  that  the  Revolution  has  a  psychological  di- 
mension worth  examining.  In  his  struggle  to  assimilate  and  interpret 
the  nature  of  the  revolutionary  conflict,  and  in  his  struggle  to  define 
his  own  role  in  that  conflict,  Boucher's  experience  illuminates  vividly 
the  personal  crisis  of  men  and  women  in  revolutionary  times. 

Jonathan  Boucher  was  born  in  Cumberland,  England,  in  1738. 3 
Although  his  parents  cherished  memories  of  the  grandeur  and 
nobility  of  ancestors,  their  immediate  reality  was  a  steady  decline 
into  mean  poverty.  "I  remember,"  Boucher  later  wrote  from  the 
safety  of  secure  surroundings,  "only  that  we  lived  in  such  a  state  of 
penury  and  hardship  as  I  have  never  since  seen  equalled,  no  not  even 
in  parish  almshouses."4  Boucher's  father  was  an  amiable  drunk  and 
a  charming  ne'er-do-well,  qualities  his  son  recollected  more  with 
wonder  than  anger  or  disapproval.  To  his  son,  James  Boucher  was 
simply  a  man  who  lacked  discipline  and  will,  and  whose  charm 
seemed  to  preclude  such  ordinary  virtues  as  self-restraint. 

As  a  boy,  Boucher  lived  the  life  of  the  hardworking,  rural  poor. 
Yet  he  wrote  of  himself  that  he  was  mischievous  and  "naturally  lazy" 
and  likely,  as  his  neighbors  predicted,  to  come  to  a  bad  end. 
Boucher's  harsh  judgment  of  himself  rested  on  measurements  of 
degree  rather  than  kind.  He  knew  that  he  was  not  always  lazy  or 
mischievous  or  self-indulgent,  but  for  him  consistency  seemed  the 
requisite  for  any  virtue.  Boucher  lacked  a  sense  of  harmon}'  or 
balance;  in  himself  he  saw  only  struggle  and  contradiction.  In  the 
rhythms  of  discipline  and  self-indulgence,  work  and  play,  he  read  a 
fatal  inability  on  his  part  to  establish  a  steady  character. 

Whether  laziness  or  a  reasonable  discontent  with  manual  labor 
spurred  him,  by  age  fifteen  Boucher  had  determined  to  flee  the  farm. 
He  could  envision  no  alternatives  to  farm  work  save  school-keeping, 
however,  and  by  1754  he  was  teaching  thirty-two  young  boys  during 
the  day  and  instructing  adults  in  the  evening.  Boucher's  own  edu- 
cation kept  him  only  a  few  steps  ahead  of  his  pupils.  Still,  he  was 
earning  money  by  his  wits  rather  than  his  hands. 

In  the  next  few  years,  as  he  struggled  to  improve  his  skills  and 
his  prospects,  Boucher  encountered  two  significant  figures  in  his 

66 


life.  Both  were  Anglican  clergy,  both  teachers,  and  both  had  the 
steadiness  of  character  that  Boucher  sought  for  himself.  The  first,  a 
Reverend  Ritson  of  Workington,  tutored  Boucher  in  mathematics. 
The  second,  Reverend  John  James,  hired  Boucher  in  1756  to  assist 
him  at  his  small  school,  St.  Bee's.  Boucher  worshipped  the  hard- 
working and  methodical  James,  under  whose  wing  the  younger  man 
felt  himself  developing  a  steady  and  rational  existence.  Yet  in  1759, 
when  Boucher  learned  of  a  teaching  post  in  Virginia,  he  eagerly 
sought  and  won  it.  Willingly,  Boucher  laid  aside  the  secure  and 
ordered  sanctuary  of  St.  Bee's,  attracted  obviously  by  the  extrava- 
gant salary  of  £  60  a  year  and  by  the  opportunity  for  advancement 
America  seemed  to  offer.  But  there  were  other  less  tangible  benefits. 
The  Virginia  post  provided  a  chance  to  gratify  once  more  that  rest- 
less and  undisciplined  side  of  his  character  he  could  hold  in  check 
but  never  conquer.  Unable  to  resolve  the  contradictions  of  his  per- 
sonality, Boucher  relieved  his  tensions  by  shifting  to  extremes. 
To  Boucher's  eyes,  Virginia  was  a  different  world  from  Cumber- 
land. It  was  a  land  of  plenty  and  abundance,  "most  invitingly  de- 
lightful," whose  people  lived  well  and  enjoyed  life  "without  any 
Labour."  They  were,  he  conceded,  rather  shallow  people,  inclined 
to  levity  rather  than  serious  conversation,  but  their  susceptibility 
to  the  easy  life  struck  a  chord  in  him.5  Above  all  Virginia  was  an 
exotic  place.  Its  air  in  deep  summer  was  so  thick  it  seemed  to  per- 
vade people's  very  characters.  The  heat  "fevers  the  Blood  and  sets  all 
the  animal  Spirits  in  an  Uprore,"  he  told  James.  All  restraints 
melted,  and  Virginians  were  rendered  "Strangers  to  that  Cool  Steadi- 
ness w'c  you  in  Engl'd  justly  value  yourselves  upon.  ..."  No  wonder 
that  Boucher  admonished  James  to  "drop  all  Reserve"  in  his  corres- 
pondence and  be  more  critical.  "Be  so  much  my  Friend  as  to  be  in 
appearance  my  Enemy,"  he  urged,  an  ocean  away  from  the  safety 
of  St.  Bee's.6 

Captain  Dixon  introduced  Boucher  into  the  social  world  of  the 
"toddy  drinkers."  He  quickly  made  friends  among  these  local 
grandees.  By  February  of  1760  Boucher  no  longer  wrote  of  coping 
with  his  situation  in  Virginia.  He  now  admitted  to  an  enjoyment 
of  it.  The  people  had  accepted  him  as  one  of  them,  if  not  wholly,  at 
least  enough  to  satisfy  him  for  the  time  being.  Yet  here  in  an  atmo- 
sphere in  which  self-restraint  was  not  valued,  Boucher  began  to 
discover  a  reservoir  of  natural  sobriety  and  delicacy  within  himself. 
His  new  friends  had  dubbed  him  the  "parson"  because  of  what  they 
judged  his  unaccountable  "splenetic  grave  manner."  In  truth, 
Boucher  told  James,  the  colonists  considered  him  dull.7  There  was 
surely  an  irony  to  be  enjoyed  in  all  this.  Boucher,  the  English  prof- 
ligate; Boucher,  the  Virginia  parson. 


67 


What  could  be  made  of  Boucher's  mixed  reactions  to  his  new 
surroundings?  His  vacillation  between  homesickness  and  excitement 
was,  after  all,  only  the  behavior  to  be  expected  of  a  newcomer  ad- 
justing to  a  society  unlike  his  own.  Yet  it  was  peculiar  to  Boucher 
that,  from  start  to  end,  his  comparison  of  the  two  societies  rested 
on  a  projection  of  total  opposition:  England  stood  for  order,  sanity, 
personal  restraint;  America  was  the  land  of  indulgence  and  animal 
madness. 

"Parson"  Boucher  gave  little  thought  to  a  career  in  the  Church 
that  first  year  in  Virginia.  His  energies  were  focused  entirely  on  the 
world  of  trade,  but  his  maiden  project  to  sponsor  a  shipment  of  goods 
met  with  disaster.  The  philandering  Captain  Dixon  demanded  an 
ungentlemanly  quid  pro  quo  for  a  loan,  and  Boucher's  only  link  to 
the  commercial  world  suddenly  went  bankrupt.  Within  a  few  short 
weeks  his  promising  career  was  aborted. 

Boucher  was  disillusioned  by  these  events.  It  was  all  too  clear  that 
passions  were  not  controlled  in  this  country,  nor  were  consequences 
faced  squarely  by  men.  Prosperous  enterprises  crumbled  without 
warning.  He  was  still  as  determined  to  rise  quickly  in  the  world  — 
but  now  he  wondered,  how?  He  was  twenty-two  and  the  truth  was 
that  he  had  no  respectable  or  promising  profession.  Then  in  1761,  one 
of  his  new  friends,  Reverend  Giberne,  offered  to  recommend  Boucher 
for  the  vacant  post  of  Rector  of  Hanover  Parish  in  Virginia.  The 
offer,  Boucher  knew,  could  not  be  dismissed  out  of  hand.  Though 
the  clergy  were  not  accorded  great  prestige  they  were  given  land, 
and  there  was  a  certain  security  in  joining  the  church's  ranks.  Mer- 
cantile firms  came  and  went,  but  the  Church  of  England  endured. 
Boucher  decided  to  accept  the  offer,  though  it  meant  a  return  to 
England  for  ordination.  It  was  an  expensive  trip  for  a  man  whose 
assets  were  potential  rather  than  real.  When  he  sailed  for  England 
in  the  winter  of  1761,  after  two  years  in  the  land  of  opportunities, 
Boucher  had  succeeded  only  in  tripling  his  debts. 

Following  ordination,  Boucher  returned  to  America  accepting  a  po- 
sition at  Hanover  Parish.  His  parishioners  liked  him,  and  his  school 
attracted  several  young  men  of  good  family.  His  wealth  increased 
as  he  acquired  slaves,  cattle,  and  horses.  Yet  Boucher  was  miserable 
and  restless.  When  St.  Mary's  in  Caroline  County,  Virginia,  became 
vacant,  Boucher  eagerly  took  this  new  parish. 

His  tenure  at  St.  Mary's  was  long  and  successful,  but  Boucher 
leaves  a  record  of  unhappiness.  He  threw  himself  into  his  work, 
furiously  writing  sermons,  expanding  his  necessary  but  always 
repugnant  duties  as  schoolmaster,  managing  his  plantation  and 
household.  His  early  years  here  were,  like  those  at  St.  Bee's,  years 
of  "industry  and  exertion  [that]  were  extraordinary."8  Yet  no  peace 


68 


of  mind  came  from  this  industrious  life.  His  parishoners  cared  no 
more  for  intellectually  challenging  sermons  than  his  sociable  com- 
panions for  serious  conversation.  Although  he  filled  his  days  with 
work,  his  self-discipline  faltered  at  night,  and  evenings  were  spent 
in  hard-drinking. 

Boucher  was  perhaps  most  disturbed  by  his  inability  to  embrace 
the  theological  foundations  of  his  own  calling.  Looking  for  answers 
to  his  own  questions,  he  began  to  devour  the  works  of  modern, 
popular  critics  of  the  Church.  These  writers  challenged  ritual  and 
credo,  exposing  internal  contradictions  or  inherent  illogic  in  the 
traditional  tenets  of  faith.  Boucher's  mind  swirled.  Such  bold  attacks 
seemed  to  him  affirmations  of  modernity,  testimony  to  intellectual 
intensity,  and,  even  more  appealingly,  assertions  of  personal  inde- 
pendence of  thought.  This  spirit  of  independence  struck  a  chord  in 
him,  and  the  rebellious  posture  fitted  an  image  he  held  of  himself. 
It  pleased  Boucher  to  think  that  lack  of  internal  discipline  could  be 
a  virtue  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  and  that  receptivity  to  ideas 
seemed  to  be  the  reward  of  the  disorderly  mind. 

As  Boucher's  doubts  about  his  Church's  theology  gave  way  to 
conscious  rebellion,  his  church  services  grew  increasingly  unorth- 
odox. He  thanked  his  American  circumstances  for  the  freedom  to 
act  with  such  independence.  Not  surprisingly  Boucher's  independent 
spirit  was  reflected  in  his  politics  as  well.  England's  new  colonial 
policies  evoked  thoroughly  Whiggish  sentiments  from  him.  He  hotly 
denounced  the  Stamp  Act  as  "oppressive,  impolitic,  and  illegal."9 
Boucher's  political  views  did  not,  of  course,  spring  directly  from 
midnight  struggles  with  theological  demons.  The  grandees  whose 
attention  he  craved  and  whose  sons  he  tutored  were  good  Whigs 
themselves.  If  Boucher  would  belong  socially  he  must  naturally  be 
correct  in  his  politics. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  1760's  Boucher  began  to  retreat  from  his 
rebellion.  When  he  spoke  of  it  later,  the  entire  episode  of  doubt  and 
denial  was  described  as  no  more  than  a  formal,  internal  debate, 
surely  not  a  crisis,  and  he  claimed  that  he  had  never  been  so  caught 
up  as  to  fail  to  be  a  judicious  student  of  the  issues.  He  had  set  about 
to  read  both  sides  and  to  continue  to  be  an  "orthodox  believer"  until 
he  resolved  his  own  position.  Resolution  came,  he  recorded,  through 
a  return  to  the  Scriptures,  and  to  their  injunction  to  put  faith  above 
efforts  to  understand.  Thus  five  years  of  questioning  and  challenge 
were  reduced  to  a  moment  of  doubt.10  By  the  end  of  the  decade 
Boucher  had  chosen  a  new  role  for  himself.  He  now  embraced  the 
authority  he  had  once  resisted.  He  had  reached  a  watershed,  for  at 
thirty  Boucher  began  to  set  his  philosophical  and  psychological 
houses  in  strictest  order. 

The  acceptance  of  orthodoxy  marked  the  beginning  of  a  personal 

69 


maturity  for  Boucher.  In  resolving  his  religious  crisis,  he  had  chosen 
to  follow  the  steady  path  without  the  aid  of  a  respected  authority  like 
John  James.  His  whole  focus  now  shifted:  he  discovered  that  the 
source  of  strength  for  men  and  women  lay  not  in  the  magical 
influence  of  special  individuals  but  in  the  structure  of  major  social 
institutions  and  in  their  traditions. 

Change  did  not  come  at  once  in  all  areas  of  Boucher's  life.  In 
politics  he  remained  a  supporter  of  colonial  protest  and  challenge 
well  into  1770.  In  personal  behavior,  he  retained  his  blend  of  im- 
petuosity and  compulsive  self-control.  But  Boucher's  devotion  to  the 
institutional  framework,  which  sustained  order  and  offered  an 
individual  a  meaningful  and  secure  place  within  it,  was  now  estab- 
lished. In  the  next  three  years,  as  patrons  and  bureaucrats  in  Mary- 
land frequently  made  promises  of  appointment  which  could  not  be 
kept,  Boucher's  respect  for  persons  in  authority  diminished.  But 
his  concern  for  the  dignity  of  their  offices  did  not.  As  a  result,  he 
began  to  see  that  once  attractive  openness  of  American  society  in  a 
less  favorable  light.  He  perceived  that  the  colonial  branches  of 
church  and  state  were  dangerously  weak  and  felt  that  without  these 
institutions  people  would  be  forced  to  depend  only  upon  their  indi- 
vidual steadiness  of  character  to  sustain  their  society  and  themselves. 

Boucher  sought  to  strengthen  both  secular  and  religious  insti- 
tutions, for  he  was  convinced  of  the  intricate  interdependence  of 
these  two  spheres.  He  saw  an  order  in  things  established  in 
scriptural  and  constitutional  laws,  and  sustained  by  a  hierarchical 
structure  that  reached  from  the  smallest  social  unit,  the  patriarchal 
family,  to  the  largest  units  of  church  and  nation.  The  family  was  any 
society's  base,  and  in  it  religious  and  political  authority  were  united 
in  one  figure:  the  father.  In  the  larger,  more  complex  society  of  many 
families,  the  unity  appeared  to  dissolve,  and  state  and  church  insti- 
tutions specialized  in  the  regulation  of  social  and  spiritual  man  and 
woman.  But  the  separation  was  functional,  not  organic.  The  two 
were  merely  branches  of  the  whole.  For  Boucher,  compelling  proof 
of  this  unity  lay  in  the  fact  that  identical  human  responses  were 
necessary  to  sustain  or  destroy  either  hierarchy.  Obedience,  faith, 
respect,  submission,  all  the  virtues  which  needed  nurturing,  secured 
both  church  and  state,  while  pride,  the  restless  spirit  of  innovation, 
human  fickleness,  all  the  flaws  of  the  human  character,  threatened 
them  equally.  A  blow  to  one  must  be  felt  by  the  other.  His  American 
sermons  repeat  this  theme  of  interdependence,  and  embellish  it: 
schism,  irreligion,  and  deism  find  their  counterparts  in  factionalism, 
republicanism,  and  radicalism.  "A  levelling  republican  spirit  in  the 
Church,"  Boucher  warned,  "naturally  leads  to  republicanism  in 
the  state."11 

In  such  a  vision  of  the  organic  wholeness  of  the  spiritual  and  social 

70 


realms,  there  was  nothing  particularly  original  or  unusual  for  an 
Anglican  clergyman.  Nor  did  it  represent  the  reactionary  hysteria 
by  which  Boucher  was  later  labeled.  It  was  simply  an  attempt  of 
a  maturing  man  to  shape  a  coherent  view  of  the  larger  world  in  which 
he  lived. 

In  all  likelihood,  Boucher's  intellectual  maturation  would  not  have 
taken  root  had  not  his  material  circumstances  undergone  change 
as  well.  In  1769  his  long  awaited  appointment  came  — and  it  was  a 
plum.  Boucher  was  to  become  rector  of  St.  Anne's  in  Annapolis,  the 
"genteelist  town  in  America,"  inhabited  by  men  "highly  respectable, 
as  to  station,  fortune,  and  education."  Two  years  later,  appointed 
to  Queen  Anne's  Parish  in  Prince  George  County,  Jonathan  Boucher 
had,  at  last,  attained  success.12  His  wealth,  on  paper,  steadily 
increased.  His  preferment  was  worth  £250;  his  marriage  to  Eleanor 
Addison  in  1772  brought  property  worth  £2,500;  he  was  a  plantation 
owner,  a  master  of  slaves,  a  speculator  in  land.  By  November  of  1773, 
Boucher  reckoned  himself  worth  £3,000.  If,  somehow,  he  never 
seemed  to  have  money  in  his  purse,  it  was  negligence  and  an  incur- 
able urge  to  take  risks  that  caused  him  to  be  empty-handed.13  Still 
Boucher  had  enough  to  begin  to  re- acquire  his  family's  land  in 
England,  to  support  his  ne'er-do-well  brother-in-law's  family,  and  to 
pay  penance  for  an  indiscretion  by  supporting  and  educating  two 
young  girls.  His  social  position  was  fully  secured,  not  so  much  by 
reason  of  his  profession  or  property,  but  by  his  marriage  to  Nelly 
Addison.  The  union  brought  more  than  wealth  and  happiness.  It 
joined  him  to  that  network  of  the  Dulanys  and  Addisons,  the  most 
powerful  elements  in  Maryland  society. 

Boucher  was  not  a  little  proud  of  his  success.  He  had  fulfilled 
the  colonial  world's  promise  of  opportunity.  Moreover,  his  political 
position  in  relation  to  patronage  was  far  more  desirable  than  it  had 
been  in  Virginia.  He  would  never  again  be  a  beggar  of  favors  in 
America,  for  he  had  acquired  influence  with  the  new  young  governor 
of  Maryland,  Sir  Robert  Eden.  But  the  sweetness  of  success  came 
also  from  the  recognition  and  the  affirmation  that  Boucher  was  a 
mature  and  responsible  man.  He  believed  his  material  gains  mani- 
fested this  image.  During  the  years  of  waiting  in  Virginia  the  desire 
to  be  so  acknowledged  had  grown  sharp.  He  had  resolved  that  his 
public  reception  must  be  made  to  match  his  private  confidence;  the 
outer  trappings  must  correspond  to  the  inner  growth.  And  in  this 
new  colony  —  despite  the  tempest  that  immediately  surrounded 
him  — an  equilibrium  of  public  and  private  image  was  achieved. 

"I  flatter  myself,"  Boucher  remarked  in  1771,  that  "I  may  quietly 
repose  myself  for  the  Remainder  of  my  Life,  under  my  own  vine, 
Bless 'd  with  that  Ease,  Competence,  and  Independence,  which  I 
have  so  long  been  in  search  of."  But  such  a  placid  life  was  never  his. 

71 


The  tumult  of  the  1770's— the  debate  over  the  episcopacy,  the 
acrimonious  battle  in  Maryland  between  administration  and  as- 
sembly over  the  form  of  subsidy  to  the  Church,  and  the  gradual  but 
steady  recasting  of  all  political  issues  in  the  1770's  as  conflicts  of 
local  and  imperial  interests— was  the  reality  of  Boucher's  world.  Yet 
the  struggles  between  imperial  authority  and  local  will  seemed  to 
bring  about  a  personal  crisis  in  Boucher's  life.  His  involvement  in 
this  struggle  was  a  logical,  though  not  inevitable,  outgrowth  of  his 
own  decision  to  actively  serve  the  institutions  he  had  recently 
affirmed.14 

In  this  congruence  of  the  external  and  internal,  Boucher  is  perhaps 
unusual  among  loyalists,  for  in  an  ideological  sense,  the  1770's 
caught  many  of  them  unaware  and  without  a  coherent  analysis  of 
their  society  or  their  own  circumstances.  Indeed,  many  were  struck 
a  sudden  blow,  forcing  inchoate,  unarticulated  notions  of  the  value 
and  appropriateness  of  the  structures  they  supported  into  hasty 
order. 

Boucher  had  earlier  dealt  with  these  very  questions  of  social  order 
and  organization.  If  his  most  extensive  written  discourses  on  the 
"American  problem"  were  composed  after  he  left  America  in  1775, 
still  his  analysis  was  not  retrospective:  Jonathan  Boucher  knew  what 
was  wrong  with  American  society  when  he  arrived  in  Maryland.  The 
current  crisis,  he  thought,  was  rooted  in  the  fact  that  Crown  and 
colonists,  in  their  rush  to  establish  an  American  empire,  had  allowed 
threats  to  social  order  to  grow  unchecked.  Now  the  colonial  society 
was  falling  victim  to  its  own  excesses  which,  tragically,  had  taken 
root  even  within  the  colonial  government  and  church.  Individual 
opportunity,  social  mobility,  the  presence  of  vast  natural  resources, 
as  well  as  the  benign  policy  of  the  Mother  Country  contributed  to 
the  instability  of  a  society  without  the  solid  foundations  needed  to 
sustain  it.  And  now  a  state  without  a  tradition  of  executive  vigor, 
an  established  church  less  secure  than  local  dissenting  sects,  and  a 
ruling  class  without  the  legitimation  of  time  or  continuity  were 
being  asked  to  restrain  republicanism  and  dissent.  Moreover,  the 
governing  classes  had  succumbed  to  the  appeal  of  individualism, 
and  demeaned  civil  government  by  their  own  example  as  factious 
politicans.  Their  authority  diminished  and  the  people  ruled  them, 
so  that  the  natural  political  leaders  were  required  to  learn  to  speak 
and  act  so  as  to  please  their  inferiors.  Other  dependent  leaders  — more 
evil  in  Boucher's  eyes  —  consciously  exploited  their  symbiotic  rela- 
tionship with  the  people.  These  rulers  gained  ascendancy  by  posing 
as  the  people's  champions,  but  they  manipulated  the  "humble  lot." 
Their  goal,  Boucher  was  certain,  was  the  total  destruction  of  legiti- 
mate government,  even  though  their  banners  read  "information 
of  abuses." 

72 


The  Church  in  America,  now  no  more  than  a  shadow  of  its  former 
self,  could  not  be  expected  to  restrain  these  "restless  men."  The 
crumbling  church  buildings  were  themselves  testimony  to  the 
institution's  decline.  The  ministry  too,  Boucher  admitted,  "was  as 
shabby  as  you  could  bear  to  look  at.  .  .  ,"16 

For  five  stormy  years  Boucher  struggled  to  improve  Maryland's 
institutions.  In  these  battles  his  social  vision  and  his  self-interest 
smoothly  overlapped;  and  while  his  fate  was  directly  linked  to  that 
of  his  Church,  it  was  not  from  such  narrow  personal  considerations 
that  Boucher  felt  he  acted.  It  was  his  commitment  to  a  vision  of  the 
good  society  that  propelled  him  into  an  active  role  in  the  religious 
conflicts  in  the  1770's.  During  this  period,  Boucher  unsuccessfully 
sought  to  shore  up  the  Church  through  the  implementation  of  two 
reforms.  He  attempted  to  convince  Mary  landers  of  the  wisdom  of 
an  Anglican  bishop  for  America,  but  the  suspicion  of  political  in- 
fluence remained  strong  among  the  colonists,  and  the  plan  was 
defeated.  He  also  sought  to  prevent  the  commutation  of  church 
subsidies  from  tobacco  to  cash.  At  stake  here  was  a  considerable 
decrease  in  income  for  men  like  himself.  Boucher  confessed  his 
concern  over  his  personal  stake,  but  he  claimed  to  be  equally 
troubled  by  the  consequences  of  this  impoverishment  of  the  clergy. 
By  degrading  the  man,  the  office  inevitably  was  degraded  as  well. 
Nevertheless,  a  "few  meddling,  half-learned,  popular  lawyers  of 
Maryland,"  led  by  men  like  Samuel  Chase  and  William  Paca,  carried 
the  assembly  battle  and  pressured  Governor  Eden  into  signing 
the  bill.17 

Boucher's  vigorous  campaigning  on  both  religious  issues  coupled 
with  his  conspicuous  role  as  Eden's  adviser,  earned  him  permanent 
and  powerful  enemies.  "All  the  forward  and  noisy  patriots,"  Boucher 
noted,  now  viewed  him  as  obnoxious.  By  1773  he  felt  himself  the 
object  of  continual  harassment.  Even  in  his  own  parish  Boucher  was 
kept  in  a  "constant  fever,"  for  here  there  was  no  bond  of  affection 
between  churchgoer  and  spiritual  leader,  and  the  radicals  were 
numerous  and  well  organized.  Nor  were  these  people  shy  in  express- 
ing themselves.  It  was  a  struggle  for  him  to  wrest  even  the  most 
sullen  truce  from  these  "singularly  violent,  purse-proud,  and  factious 
people."18 

Throughout  the  early  seventies,  Boucher's  situation  grew  steadily 
worse.  "I  daily  met  with  insults,  indignities,  and  injuries,"  he  later 
recalled.  The  campaign  against  him  developed  an  increasingly 
ominous  tone  as  the  popular  party  formed  extralegal  organizations 
that  began  to  overshadow  legitimate  government,  and  various  en- 
forcement committees  took  up  Boucher's  case.  Although  he  con- 
tinued to   suffuse  his  writings   and  his   sermons  with   an   air  of 

73 


authority  and  advisement,  he  was  now  clearly  on  the  defensive.  The 
opposition,  with  its  congresses,  its  provisional  governments,  and 
its  "banditti"  committees,  had  gained  the  upper  hand.  Boucher 
was  not  prescient  and  did  not  predict  the  Revolution's  date  or  its 
outcome,  but  by  the  summer  of  1774,  he  had  surely  begun  to  con- 
template his  defeat.  The  institutions  of  order  were  weaker  now  than 
they  had  ever  been.  By  the  mid-1770's  Boucher  believed  the  church 
in  Maryland  had  "received  its  death's  blow."  Legitimate  government, 
too,  had  been  brought  to  its  knees.  Republican  lawyers  who,  to 
Boucher's  consternation,  seemed  to  spring  up  spontaneously,  con- 
trolled the  press  and  the  assemblies  of  Maryland  and  Virginia— and 
all  of  New  England  life.  The  always  weak  American  institutions  were 
now  beyond  self-revitalization ;  only  a  drastic  razing  and  rebuilding 
would  do.  Nothing  would  be  set  right  "without  a  total  Revolution 
in  American  Politics."  Thus  while  the  American  opposition  still 
hesitated  to  name  their  goal,  Boucher  and  other  loyalists  throughout 
the  colonies  began  to  call  openly  for  revolution.  Boucher  recognized 
that  such  a  revolution— or  "new-modelling"— was  entirely  beyond 
his  powers  to  initiate  or  execute.  The  fate  of  America  must  finally  be 
decided  in  England.  In  this  new  phase  of  the  struggle,  loyal  Amer- 
icans could  play  no  more  than  marginal  roles.  Boucher  resigned  him- 
self to  the  role  of  critic  of  radical  arguments  and  activities.19 

Boucher's  emotional  confrontation  with  the  Coercive  Acts  crisis 
of  1774  was  less  easily  resolved.  He  did  not  blame  himself  for  the 
clear,  though  hopefully  temporary,  defeat  of  established  Church 
and  legal  State,  but  the  acknowledgement  that  social  order  was 
failing  must  have  provoked  anxiety  within  him.  The  maintenance 
of  his  own  inner  equilibrium  had  depended  heavily  upon  the  insti- 
tutions now  in  disarray  before  him.  He  resisted  the  impulse  to  flee, 
to  deny  the  change  in  the  balance  of  powers  around  him.  He  did  go 
so  far  that  summer  as  to  retreat  to  the  Lodge,  a  Potomac  plantation 
far  from  the  tensions  of  life  in  Queen  Anne's  Parish.  But  Boucher's 
energies  were  directed  to  assimilating  reality,  not  denying  it.  The 
problem  was  how  to  define  himself  in,  and  to,  a  world  rapidly  turning 
upside  down.  He  knew  that  the  institutions  that  had  sustained  him 
were,  for  the  moment,  dependent  upon  him.  Their  principles  could 
now  survive  only  through  individuals.  Boucher's  role  was  to  embody 
that  system  of  values  now  cut  adrift  of  its  institutional  moorings. 
His  importance  to  his  cause  rested  in  the  style  in  which  he  con- 
fronted his  enemies.  By  demanding  personal  respect,  he  would  insure 
his  cause  some  of  the  respect  it  was  due.  The  result  was  a  year  of 
confrontation  and  defiance.  Without  any  sense  of  irony,  Jonathan 
Boucher  slipped  once  again  into  the  role  of  rebel. 

Much  of  Boucher's  fame  or  notoriety  rests  upon  this  performance, 


74 


short  but  brilliant,  as  a  rebel  against  rebels.  Certainly  his  enemies 
gave  him  ample  opportunity  to  play  the  part  in  1774  and  1775.  The 
radicals  demanded  pledges  of  loyalty  to  their  cause;  repeatedly, 
and  firmly,  Boucher  resisted.  His  absolute  refusal  to  sign  an  oath 
of  loyalty  to  the  popular  cause  angered  Mary  landers,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  informations  were  signed  against  him,  naming  him  an 
enemy  to  America.  When  an  armed  escort  arrived  in  1774  to  take 
Boucher  before  a  local  Committee,  both  radicals  and  their  suspects 
seemed  ready  for  their  confrontation.  In  the  face  of  his  enemies, 
Boucher  was  the  image  of  self-confidence  and  haughty  disdain.  He 
denied  their  authority  and  dismissed  their  power  to  arrest.  He  went 
to  speak  with  their  Committee,  he  said,  as  one  gentleman  to  other 
gentlemen  assembled.  After  charges  were  read  against  him,  Boucher 
rose  to  respond;  but  he  did  not  address  himself  to  the  authorities 
before  him.  Rather,  he  pleaded  his  case  with  the  crowd  gathered  to 
observe  the  formalities.  Boucher,  the  impassioned  spokesman  against 
arbitrary  authority,  argued  his  right  to  resist  republicanism  by 
appealing  to  rank  and  file  republicans.  In  defense  of  legitimate  law 
and  order,  he  could  enjoy  the  new  power  of  the  demagogue  and  the 
old  role  of  the  stubborn  resister.20 

In  this  dangerous  game  of  reversing  the  tables,  Boucher  was  not 
always  successful;  but  in  this  instance  the  audience  voted  his 
acquittal,  and  Boucher  returned  home  unmolested.  Not  long  after, 
in  Alexandria,  Virginia,  he  persuaded  a  hostile  mob  that  they  were 
being  used  by  his  accuser  to  settle  a  purely  personal  grudge,  not  a 
political  issue.  Confrontations  like  this  may  have  delighted  the 
determined  and  dedicated  Boucher,  but  the  Alexandria  incident 
deeply  frightened  his  wife  Nelly.  Afterward,  she  wrung  from  her 
husband  a  promise  not  to  leave  his  Potomac  retreat  without  good 
reason.  In  March  1775,  Boucher  surrendered  his  post  in  Queen 
Anne's  Parish  and  took  up  duties  in  Henry  Addison's  church  near 
his  home.  Still,  if  Boucher  was  not  available  for  confrontation  in  the 
streets,  he  continued  to  speak  his  mind  in  the  pulpit.  Challenging 
the  mood  of  his  congregants,  Boucher  preached  the  importance  of 
"peaceableness."  Immediately,  angry  parishioners  stood  and  left 
the  church.  Threats  only  hardened  Boucher's  resolve,  and  thereafter 
the  minister  who  urged  peaceableness  and  passive  resistance  preached 
with  loaded  pistols  beside  his  sermon  notes.21 

When  the  provisional  government  declared  May  11  a  day  of 
fasting,  Boucher  set  himself  on  a  collision  course  with  his  enemies. 
He  thought  his  duty  clear:  "God  was  a  God  of  order,"  not  revolution. 
He  would  preach  that  day  at  Queen  Anne's,  and  speak  out  against 
the  use  of  the  pulpit  for  such  obviously  inappropriate  political  ends. 

Boucher  was  greeted  at  his  own  Church  by  200  armed  men,  deter- 

75 


mined  to  prevent  him  preaching.  Despite  their  threats,  Boucher 
moved  toward  the  pulpit.  A  friend  prevented  him  from  reaching  it, 
certain  that  ascending  the  pulpit  would  mean  Boucher's  death.  The 
mob  encircled  the  two  men  and,  for  once,  Boucher's  enemies'  victory 
appeared  complete.  But,  suddenly,  and  in  characteristic  fashion, 
Boucher  outmaneuvered  them.  He  grabbed  their  leader  by  his  collar, 
aimed  a  loaded  pistol  at  the  startled  man's  head,  and  loudly  threat- 
ened to  blow  his  brains  out  unless  a  path  to  the  church  door  was 
cleared.22 

It  was  Boucher's  last  act  of  public  defiance.  Friends  urged  him 
to  leave  the  colony  immediately.  Enemies  were  equally  persuasive. 
It  was  only  a  matter  of  time  before  the  radicals  proscribed  him  for 
refusing  to  take  an  oath  of  loyalty  to  their  rebel  government.  All 
summer  Boucher  wrestled  with  the  pros  and  cons  of  self-imposed 
exile.  The  fate  of  his  investments  and  his  property  was  uncertain, 
even  if,  as  he  assured  Nelly,  "the  Storm  would  blow  over"  in  six 
months.  The  best  plan  would  be  to  leave  Nelly  Boucher  at  the  Lodge 
on  the  Potomac,  there  to  take  care  of  her  own  fragile  health  and  of 
Boucher's  material  wealth  as  best  she  could.  In  September,  however, 
the  radicals  — and  his  wife  — took  matters  out  of  his  hands.  Early  that 
month  the  Committee  of  Safety  resolved  to  confront  Boucher.  He 
knew  it  was  imperative  that  he  flee,  but  with  the  moment  of  sepa- 
ration actually  upon  her,  Nelly  B  cher  refused  to  stay  behind.  She 
was  coming  with  her  husband  to  England.  Boucher  managed  to 
make  good  their  escape,  and  on  Saturday,  September  9th,  he  packed 
the  few  belongings  they  were  to  take;  the  following  day  he  and  his 
wife  boarded  a  small  schooner  that  would  take  them  to  the  awaiting 
frigate  Choptank.  Monday,  the  Committee  of  Safety  arrived  at  the 
Lodge  to  find  the  Reverend  Jonathan  Boucher  was  not  at  home. 

Boucher  never  returned  "home.''  Perhaps  he  never  expected  to. 
He  spoke  of  a  six-month  absence  from  America,  but  added  that  a 
little  self-delusion  on  such  occasions  is  not  to  be  discouraged.  "I 
wished  to  believe  we  should  return.  .  .  ."23 

There  are  few  more  vivid  examples  of  the  complexity  of  human 
response  to  the  Revolutionary  crisis  than  the  life  of  Jonathan 
Boucher  in  America.  No  one  was  a  more  formidable  opponent  of  the 
colonial  rebellion  than  he;  no  loyalist  presented  a  more  coherent  and 
comprehensive  critique  of  the  Lockean  principles  upon  which  that 
rebellion  was  based.  And  although  many  loyalists  interpreted  the 
Revolution  as  a  battle  of  anarchy  against  order,  Boucher  most  elo- 
quently developed  this  theme.  Yet  his  own  life  is  testimony  to  the 
fact  that  rebellion  can  be  a  psychic  posture  as  well  as  a  political  one. 
Despite  his  conservative  — some  have  argued,  reactionary  —  ideology, 
Boucher,  in  the  crisis  of  1774,  responded  to  events  and  circumstances 

76 


by  adopting  a  role  both  familiar  and  attractive  to  him:  the  rebel. 
Boucher  did  not  and  could  not  create  a  Revolution  so  that  he  might 
play  the  rebellious  role  again  with  impunity  from  his  own  conscience. 
To  the  contrary,  all  that  we  can  discover  about  him  indicates  that, 
after  his  own  personal  crisis  in  the  late  1760's,  he  never  again  sought 
that  role.  The  historical  truth  is  that  1774  thrust  the  part  upon  him, 
as  it  did  potentially  upon  loyalists  everywhere.  Men  and  women  — 
staunch  supporters  of  a  conservative  status  quo  — faced  a  radically 
altered  reality  in  which  they  might  find  themselves  rebelling  against 
rebels,  defying  authorities  they  did  not  acknowledge  in  the  name  of 
authority  overturned,  resisting  the  pull  of  a  new  social  order  in  the 
interests  of  preserving  an  old  one.  For  some  the  role  was  impossible 
to  sustain,  for  it  contradicted  their  nature  just  as  the  rebellion  ran 
contrary  to  their  political  convictions.  In  these  men  and  women, 
personality  and  ideology  were  at  one.  But  Boucher's  response  makes 
us  acknowledge  that  such  perfect  congruence  was  not  always  the 
case.  Some  of  his  strongest  personal  impulses  and  his  deepest  in- 
tellecutal  commitments  came  into  harmony  when  he  emerged  a  rebel 
in  the  name  of  orthodoxy. 

The  fascination,  and  perhaps  much  of  the  importance  of  the 
Revolutionary  era  remains,  in  part,  the  fact  that  it  was  an  extra- 
ordinary moment  in  history,  a  crisis  period  which  forced  into  the 
sharpest  focus  conflicts  and  contradictions  within  individuals  that 
in  calmer  times  seemed  negligible.  If  the  larger  social  crisis  is  ulti- 
mately only  an  aggregate  of  these  individual  crises,  the  very  par- 
ticular lives  of  people  like  Jonathan  Boucher  gain  importance  to 
historians.  With  exquisite  irony,  the  Revolution  fulfilled  Boucher. 
But  in  many  men  and  women  it  seems  likely  that  the  same  Revo- 
lution forced  a  less  bearable  juxtaposition  of  personality  and  ide- 
ology. One  thing  seems  certain:  the  American  Revolution  prompted 
in  many  an  internal  war,  a  war,  if  we  will,  of  intellect  and  emotion. 

FOOTNOTES 

1  Jonathan  Boucher,  ed.,  Reminiscences  of  an  American  Loyalist,  1738-1789 
(Boston  and  New  York,  1927),  80.  Among  the  many  works  in  which  Boucher 
is  discussed,  see  Vernon  Parrington,  Main  Currents  in  American  Thought: 
1620-1800,  the  Colonial  Mind  (New  York,  1927);  Claude  Van  Tyne,  The 
Loyalists  in  the  American  Revolution  (New  York,  1902);  Max  Savelle,  Seeds 
of  Liberty:  The  Genesis  of  the  American  Mind  (New  York,  1948);  Richard 
Gummere,  "Jonathan  Boucher,  Toryissmus,"  Maryland  Historical  Maga- 
zine, LV  ( 1960),  138-145;  Moses  Coit  Tyler,  Literary  History  of  the  American 
Revolution,  1736-1783  (New  York,  1897);  William  Nelson,  The  American 
Tory  (Boston,  1964);  James  E.  Pate,  "Jonathan  Boucher,  An  American 
Loyalist,"  Maryland  Historical  Magazine,  XXV  (1930),  305-319. 

2  Anne  Y.  Zimmer,  "Jonathan  Boucher:  Moderate  Loyalist  and  Public  Man" 

77 


(unpublished  doctoral  dissertation,  Wayne  State  University,  1966).  See  also 
Anne  Y.  Zimmer  and  Alfred  H.  Kelly,  "Jonathan  Boucher:  Constitutional 
Conservative,"  Journal  of  American  History,  XVIII  (March,  1972),  897-922; 
Michael  Clark,  "Jonathan  Boucher:  The  Mirror  of  Reaction,"  Huntington 
Library  Quarterly,  XXXIII  (November,  1969),  19-32. 

3  The  most  complete  account  of  Jonathan  Boucher's  life  (although  not 
always  the  most  accurate)  is  his  own  autobiography,  Reminiscences.  The 
narrative  of  this  essay  draws  largely  from  this  autobiography,  and  from  the 
Jonathan  Boucher  Papers,  East  Pelham  Record  Office,  Lewes,  England, 
partially  reprinted  in  the  Maryland  Historical  Magazine. 

4  Boucher,  Reminiscences,  9. 

5  Boucher  to  John  James,  August  7,  1759,  Md.  Hist.  Mag.,  VII  (1912),  2-8. 

6  Boucher  to  James,  September  14,  1759,  August  7,  1759,  ibid.,  VII,  8-11, 
2-8. 

7  Boucher  to  James,  February,  1760,  ibid.,  VII,  21-26. 

8  Boucher,  Reminiscences,  41. 

9  Boucher  to  James,  December  9,  1765,  November  28,  1767,  Md.  Hist.  Mag., 
VII,  294-300,  351-356. 

10  Boucher,  Reminiscences,  43,  45. 

11  Jonathan  Boucher,  A  View  of  the  Causes  and  Consequences  of  the  Amer- 
ican Revolution;  in  Thirteen  Discourses,  Preached  in  North  America 
between  the  Years  1763  and  1775:  With  an  Historical  Preface  (London, 
1797),  104;  for  emphasis  on  this  theme,  see  Discourse  II,  IV,  VII,  and  VIII 
of  the  volume. 

12  Boucher  to  James,  November  26,  1768,  July  25,  1769,  Md.  Hist.  Mag., 
VII,  34-43;  Boucher,  Reminiscences,  65. 

13  Boucher,  Reminiscences,  65. 

14  Boucher  to  James,  April  4,  1771,  Md.  Hist.  Mag.,  VIII,  176-178.  For  good 
discussions  of  Maryland  before  the  Revolution,  see  Zimmer,  "Jonathan 
Boucher",  unpublished  dissertation,  and  Charles  Albro  Barker,  The  Back- 
ground of  the  Revolution  in  Maryland  (New  Haven,  1940). 

15  Boucher,  Reminiscences,  103;  Boucher,  A  View,  310,  393. 

16  Boucher  to  James,  August  25,   1770,  Md.  Hist.  Mag.,  VIII,   171-176. 

17  See  Zimmer,  "Jonathan  Boucher,  Unpublished  dissertation;  Boucher, 
A  View,  222,  234. 

18  Boucher,  Reminiscences,  74,  93,  96. 

19  Boucher,  Reminiscences,  105,  128-136;  Boucher  to  William  Smith,  May  4, 
1775,  Md.  Hist.  Mag.,  VIII,  237-240;  Jonathan  Boucher,  A  Letter  from  a 
Virginian  to  the  Members  of  the  Congress  to  be  Held  at  Philadelphia  on  the 
first  of  September,  1774  (Boston,  1774). 

20  Boucher,  A  View,  204,  212;  Boucher,  Reminiscences,  106-108;  Boucher 
to  Smith,  May  4,  1775,  Md.  Hist.  Mag.,  VIII,  237-240. 

21  Boucher,  Reminiscences,  110-112,  113. 

22  Ibid.,  121-122. 
2:i  Ibid.,  127. 

78 


THE  LABOR  FRONT 
DURING  THE  REVOLUTION 

By 

Elizabeth  Cometti 

"The  greedy  Merchant  begins  first  to  devour,  and  then  the  once 
called  honest  Farmer,  plays  on  the  string  of  avarice,  calling  it  self 
defence:  and  we  who  work  for  wages,  are  cut  between  the  wheted 
wheel,"  complained  a  workingman  during  the  Revolution.1  Yet 
his  position  was  not  without  advantages.  Work  was  plentiful  and 
wages  were  good,  perhaps  even  better  than  they  had  been  in  the 
past.  At  the  same  time,  however,  the  cost  of  living  rose  sharply,  thus 
reducing  the  real  wage.2 

Following  the  adoption  of  the  Continental  Association  in  1774,  it 
was  generally  expected  that  non-importation  would  continue  for 
several  years,  war  or  no  war.  This  led  the  advocates  of  American 
industrialism  to  utilize  the  political  crisis  for  their  ends.  The  man- 
agers of  the  United  Company  of  Philadelphia  contended  that  Penn- 
sylvanians  could  save  £250,000  sterling  annually  by  manufacturing 
their  own  cloth.  Besides  advancing  the  cause  of  liberty,  the  enter- 
prise would  provide  employment  for  many  poor  people  and  encour- 
age immigration  of  foreign  artisans.  The  promoters  denied  that 
increased  labor  demands  would  draw  workers  from  agriculture; 
industry,  they  said,  could  tap  two  fresh  sources  of  manpower— women 
and  children.  Shortly  after  its  organization,  the  United  Company 
employed  four  hundred  people  and  sought  additional  capital  in  order 
to  advance  "private  interest,  charity  to  the  poor,  and  the  public 
good."  Some  merchants  imported  experienced  women  spinners  in 
lieu  of  the  proscribed  British  commodities.  Most  of  the  several 
thousand  women  engaged  in  textile  manufacturing  in  the  Phila- 
delphia area  did  the  work  in  their  homes  under  the  putting-out 
system.3 

To  further  offset  the  effects  of  non-importation  and  to  prepare 
for  war,  the  revolutionary  governments  passed  numerous  resolutions 
for  encouraging  the  production  of  wool,  flax,  cotton,  hemp,  madder, 
cloth  paper,  chemicals,  buttons,  glass,  salt,  nails,  stockings,  tin- 
plate,  powder,  fire-arms,  malt  liquors,  wool  combs,  and  other  goods 
of  current  or  anticipated  scarcity.  These  resolutions  in  turn  inspired 
local  bodies  to  offer  rewards  for  the  production  of  essential  articles. 
A  Philadelphia  establishment  even  announced  a  prize  of  £15  for  sixty 
thousand  or  more  cocoons  raised  in  Pennsylvania  at  one  crop  within 
a  single  family.4 

With  the  outbreak  of  hostilities  emphasis  shifted  from  civilian 

79 


to  military  production.  Producers  of  war  materials  were  offered 
financial  inducements  such  as  interest-free  loans  from  public  funds 
and  guarantees  of  profits.  The  Connecticut  Assembly  promised 
monetary  premiums  for  every  stand  of  arms  manufactured  before 
October,  1775,  and  for  gun  locks,  saltpeter,  and  sulphur.  A  later  act 
offered  a  bounty  of  £30  for  the  first  five  hundred  pounds  of  gun- 
powder produced  in  the  colony  and  £10  for  every  hundred  pounds 
of  saltpeter  on  condition  that  the  manufacturer  agree  to  reveal  the 
materials  and  process  used  for  making  the  latter.  Newspapers  carried 
directions  for  producing  saltpeter  and  the  New  York  Committee  of 
Safety  printed  three  thousand  leaflets  containing  "the  most  plain 
and  easy  experiments"  for  its  manufacture.  These  generous  incen- 
tives for  military  production  led  some  manufacturers  of  consumer 
goods  to  seek  similar  assistance  on  the  ground  that  their  under- 
taking would  provide  work  for  "the  industrious  poor."5 

Whetted  by  rosy  prospects  of  guaranteed  profits,  bounties,  pre- 
miums, prizes,  and  other  inducements,  the  provincials  enthusi- 
astically went  to  work  manufacturing  fire-arms  and  saltpeter, 
casting  mortars  and  shells,  erecting  rolling  and  slitting  mills,  and 
scrabbling  for  basic  materials.  Faulty  methods  were  immediately 
discarded  for  better  ones.  Confidence  was  high.6 

Provision  of  an  adequate  supply  of  laborers— both  skilled  and 
unskilled— was,  nevertheless,  a  persistent  problem.  The  abnormal 
demand  for  skilled  labor  created  by  industrial  expansion  was  par- 
tially met  by  the  importation  of  foreign  artisans  and  the  increased 
use  of  apprentices.  Still  the  manpower  shortage  became  so  acute  in 
Virginia  that  a  Williamsburg  textile  firm  feared  that  visitors  to  the 
factory  might  induce  the  people  employed  there  to  leave.  Appren- 
tices were  engaged  to  work  at  the  public  gun  factory  in  Fredericks- 
burg, and  the  local  gentry,  including  ladies,  even  lent  a  hand  in 
making  bullets.7  Moreover,  children  and  blacks,  thought  to  be  more 
dependable  sources  of  labor  than  older  male  apprentices,  many  of 
whom  entered  the  armed  forces  either  from  patriotic  motives  or 
from  a  desire  to  obtain  the  bounties  offered  for  long-term  enlist- 
ments, were  frequently  trained  to  be  skilled  artisans.8  While  Con- 
gress asked  the  workers,  among  them  apprentices,  not  to  desert  their 
present  essential  occupation  for  the  military  service,  the  Continental 
Congress  and  some  of  the  states  did  not  oppose  the  enlistment  of 
apprentices,  provided  the  masters  gave  their  consent  or  received 
compensation.9 

The  demand  for  workers  was  so  great  that  anyone  could  find 
employment  regardless  of  experience  or  nationality.  A  Philadelphia 
advertisement  in  1778,  written  in  French,  English,  and  German, 
offered   employment   to   all   except  deserters  from   the   American 

80 


Army  or  the  French  Navy.  Applicants  were  promised  good  wages, 
lodgings,  fuel,  candles,  washing,  and  enough  clothing  to  "repel  the 
Rigours  of  Winter."  Victuals  were  to  consist  of  a  "crust  of  good 
bread"  or  a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of  the  "best"  rum  before  work;  fruit, 
potatoes  and  broiled  meat  for  breakfast;  soup  and  boiled  meat  for 
dinner;  soup  and  roasted  meat  for  supper,  with  beer  and  cider  from 
time  to  time.10 

The  use  of  enemy  deserters  and  prisoners  helped  to  ease  the  labor 
shortage  in  some  areas.  Many  Hessians  were  employed  in  Penn- 
sylvania during  the  summer  of  1777  at  the  official  rate  of  one  shilling 
a  day,  considerably  less  than  the  wages  commanded  by  free  labor. 
The  Germans  worked  in  the  fields,  at  the  forge  and  loom,  and  at 
other  essential  tasks.  Hessian  prisoners  among  the  Convention 
troops  stationed  in  Virginia  were  sought  as  artisans,  but  their 
officers  discouraged  their  "deserting"  to  accept  employment  by 
threatening  to  withhold  their  clothing,  wages,  and  money  due 
them  for  special  services.  In  spite  of  the  greater  availability  of 
Hessians,  some  employers  preferred  to  hire  British  prisoners  because 
of  their  knowledge  of  the  English  language  and  their  superior  in- 
dustrial skill.11 

The  hiring  out  of  prisoners,  however,  was  not  without  its  critics 
and  its  dangers.  The  army,  for  instance,  complained  that  lack  of 
vigilance  enabled  hired  prisoners  to  escape  after  the  soldiers  had 
risked  their  lives  in  capturing  them.  Prisoners  were  also  suspected 
of  conveying  "prejudiced  Stories  in  favour  of  their  Country"  to  the 
"ignornant"  people  with  whom  they  mixed.12 

The  southern  states  felt  compelled  to  draft  slave  labor  for  defense 
and  other  public  work.  Compensation  went  to  the  owners,  who 
received  for  each  black  drafted  ten  shillings  a  day  in  South  Carolina 
and  three  shillings  in  Georgia.  Virginia  masters  were  quite  reluctant 
to  hire  out  their  slaves,  and  when  they  did  it  was  at  such  exorbitant 
rates  that  the  Virginia  Board  of  War  eventually  proposed  that  the 
state  purchase  blacks  at  auctions  of  loyalist  property.  The  Virginia 
Committee  of  Safety  sent  some  of  the  hapless  slaves  involved  in  an 
aborted  wartime  insurrection  to  work  in  the  lead  mines  in  Fincastle 
County.13 

The  capture  of  slaves  by  the  British  and  desertions  among  bond- 
servants created  a  dearth  of  domestic  help,  particularly  in  combat 
areas.  During  the  Yorktown  campaign  many  wealthy  Virginians, 
accustomed  to  the  labor  of  numerous  servants,  experienced  a  rude 
change  in  their  normally  comfortable  existence.  In  one  household 
the  master  lost  all  his  serving  men.  In  another  a  child  was  deserted 
by  its  nurse.  A  helpless  mistress  left  without  a  cook  was  "obliged 
to  have  recourse  to  her  neighbours  to  dress  her  dinner  for  her." 

81 


Farther  north  servants  were  equally  scarce.  "Maids  have  become 
Mistresses,"  complained  an  outraged  Philadelphia  matron  after  her 
new  servant  had  entertained  a  visitor  all  day  and  .  .  .  invited  him  to 
lodge  with  her,  without  asking  leave."  The  presence  of  many  lonely 
soldiers  in  Philadelphia  during  the  British  occupation  enabled  young 
women  of  indifferent  scruples  to  pay  off  their  indentures  in  sur- 
prisingly short  time.14 

Various  expedients  were  sought  to  mitigate  the  labor  problems. 
The  revolutionary  governments  often  granted  exemptions  from 
military  duty  to  many  workers  in  essential  production  and  services. 
These  exemptions  might  be  limited  to  such  time  as  was  required  to 
complete  a  certain  task,  such  as  providing  wood  for  the  shivering 
forces  in  Massachusetts  or  grinding  flour  urgently  needed  for  the 
famished  army  at  Valley  Forge.  Or  a  producer  of  scarce  commodities, 
like  salt  and  military  equipment,  might  obtain  exemption  for  a 
specified  number  of  workmen.  In  general,  iron  workers,  blacksmiths, 
armorers,  saddlers,  teamsters,  wood-cutters,  charcoal  burners, 
carpenters,  wheelwrights,  leather  workers,  and  those  engaged  in 
manufacturing  clothing  were  exempt  from  service  for  as  long  as  they 
continued  in  these  categories  of  work.15  Keepers  of  beacons  did  not 
have  to  serve  in  New  Jersey.  When  the  firemen  of  New  York  pro- 
tested to  the  Provincial  Congress  that  they  could  not  "tend"  to  the 
"fire-engines"  and  serve  as  minute  men  at  the  same  time,  they  were 
relieved  of  the  latter  service.16 

Still,  the  need  for  workers  became  more  pressing  as  the  war  con- 
tinued. As  early  as  1776  the  supply  of  shoemakers  was  insufficent, 
but  that  of  iron  workers,  being  supplemented  by  new  additions  from 
less  remunerative  occupations,  was  at  the  moment  adequate.  By 
1779,  though,  the  labor  scarcity  had  become  general  and  contractors 
were  sharing  with  army  recruiters  the  frustrations  resulting  from 
insufficient  manpower.  Employers  were  also  complaining  that  workers 
were  not  as  dependable  and  industrious  as  they  once  were.  A  New 
England  minister  wrote  that  for  want  of  labor  his  apples  were  rotting 
and  wasting,  and  flaxseed  lay  unwinnowed  on  the  barn  floor.17 

Labor  costs  escalated  as  the  war  persisted.  Wages  were  higher 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  armies  than  in  the  more  peaceful  areas.  One 
congressman  thought  labor  costs  were  as  much  as  "150  percent" 
greater  in  New  York  and  Philadelphia  than  in  North  Carolina.  In- 
deed, he  suggested,  the  labor  of  blacks  could  not  be  bought  at  any 
price,  while  most  good  craftsmen  were  either  in  the  army  or  were 
working  for  Congress  at  excessively  high  wages.18 

The  labor  laws  that  prevailed  in  the  colonies  were  generally 
modeled  after  those  in  England.  The  English  statute  of  1562-63, 
which  fixed  the  term  of  apprenticeship  at  seven  years,  was  adopted 

82 


in  the  colonies  with  slight  modifications.  As  in  England,  idleness 
was  discouraged  by  laws  providing  for  penalties  for  vagrants  and 
idlers;  and  poor  children  were  required  to  be  taught  a  trade  and 
forced  to  work.19  In  accordance  with  the  mercantilist  convictions  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  the  young  colonial  governments,  par- 
ticularly those  of  New  England,  attempted  to  regulate  wages  and 
prices.  By  the  next  century,  however,  such  legislation  was  on  the 
decline,  but  did  not  entirely  disappear.  Regulation  of  public  or  quasi- 
public  services  continued  to  the  Revolution,  and  so  did  the  corvee.20 

The  Continental  Congress,  whose  policy  of  currency  inflation  was 
the  major  factor  in  price  appreciation,  encouraged  regulation  on  the 
part  of  the  states.  In  late  1776,  committees  from  the  New  England 
states  convened  at  Providence  to  prepare  schedules  for  prices  and 
wages.  These,  with  some  variations,  were  adopted  by  the  four  gov- 
ernments. Following  a  spirited  debate  in  Congress  on  the  Providence 
recommendations,  that  body  advised  the  other  states  to  consider 
taking  similar  measures  and  to  call  regional  meetings  for  that  pur- 
pose. Only  the  York  Convention,  representing  the  Mid-Atlantic 
states,  materialized,  and  its  results  were  negative.  Undaunted  by 
this  lack  of  success,  the  New  England  states  and  New  York  met  in 
Springfield  in  1777  to  deal  with  the  twin  problems  of  currency 
depreciation  and  price  controls.  Again,  nothing  effectual  was  accom- 
plished. Convinced  that  if  such  regulation  was  to  be  successful  it 
had  to  be  general,  Congress  called  for  three  regional  conventions  to 
meet  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  Fredericksburg,  and  New 
Haven.  Only  the  last  meeting  took  place  and  its  recommendations 
were  meagerly  implemented  and  short-lived.  Regulation  was  next 
attempted  on  the  local  and  intra-state  level,  but  again  the  results 
were  disappointing.  Still,  the  spokesmen  for  regulation  persevered. 
On  October  20,  1779,  commissioners  from  the  New  England  states 
met  at  Hartford  to  take  into  consideration  the  rapid  depreciation 
of  the  currency  and  the  rise  in  the  cost  of  living.  Whistling  the  same 
old  tune,  they  attributed  the  previous  failures  of  regulation  to  its 
"partial  extent"  and  proposed  that  all  the  states  as  far  southward 
as  Virginia  meet  in  convention  at  Philadelphia  in  1780.  Although 
this  meeting  took  place  its  results  followed  the  earlier  pattern.  Ob- 
viously, the  self -proclaimed  so*-  eign  states  were  not  yet  ready  for 
common  action  on  economic  matters;  laissez  faire  was  fast  gaining 
the  upper  hand.21 

Although  the  attempts  at  regulation  dealt  with  both  wages  and 
prices,  the  former  lagged  behind  the  rapidly  increasing  costs  of 
commodities.  In  1778,  for  instance,  the  New  Haven  Convention  fixed 
wages  at  75  per  cent  above  what  they  had  been  in  1774.  The  same 
rate  of  increase  was  allowed  for  all  unspecified  articles  of  Ameri- 

83 


can  manufacture  and  production  except  salt,  fuel,  meat,  poultry, 
vegetables,  fibers,  and  sundry  imported  commodities.  These  loop- 
holes, of  course,  depressed  real  wages.22 

Wages  also  reflected  the  depreciation  of  the  continental  currency, 
which  circulated  at  approximately  two  to  one  of  specie  early  in 
1777,  four  to  one  in  January  1778,  eight  to  one  in  January  1779, 
around  forty -five  to  one  in  January  1780,  and  one  hundred  to  one  in 
January  1781.  Therefore,  if  a  laborer's  wage  in  terms  of  continental 
currency  doubled  between  1778  and  1779,  the  increase  was  only 
nominal.  Frequently,  however,  wage  adjustments  provided  for  fringe 
payments  in  scarce  commodities,  such  as  sugar,  rum  and  salt,  or, 
in  some  key  occupations,  in  specie.  To  simplify  and  adjust  trans- 
actions, farmers  and  tradesmen  in  rural  areas  found  it  convenient 
to  exchange  services  and  goods  at  pre-war  rates,  usually  those  pre- 
vailing in  1774.  Workers  also  increased  their  total  earnings  by  en- 
gaging in  more  than  one  occupation.23 

Various  factors  influenced  the  wage  scale.  Carpenters  under  army 
contract  in  the  New  York  Department  in  1775-1776,  received  wages 
ranging  from  10  shillings  a  day  for  foremen  to  4  shillings  for  appren- 
tices. Laborers  received  6  shillings  a  day  regardless  of  race  or  sex. 
The  work  day  was  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  with  one  hour  off  for 
breakfast  and  one  and  a  half  hours  for  dinner.  Rations  consisted  of 
slightly  more  than  a  pound  of  m^at  and  flour,  as  well  as  one-half 
pint  of  rum  per  day;  in  addition,  workers  received  four  pints  of  peas 
and  one  pint  of  molasses  per  week  and  an  allowance  of  one  day's 
wage  for  every  twenty  miles  of  travel  from  home.  "Finding  oneself"  — 
that  is,  providing  one's  own  tools— was  an  important  consideration 
in  determining  wages.  A  Rhode  Island  act  of  1777  allowed  ship  car- 
penters 7  shillings  a  day  if  they  found  themselves,  and  5  shillings  if 
they  did  not.  Wages  of  blacksmiths  differed  as  much  as  25  per  cent 
depending  on  whether  or  not  they  supplied  their  iron  and  tools.24 

Wages  also  variet  according  to  season  and  place.  Farm  labor  was 
almost  twice  as  lucrative  in  summer  as  in  winter.  Some  regulatory 
committees  sanctioned  disparities;  for  instance,  Rhode  Island  com- 
mittees limited  the  charge  of  Providence  tailors  to  £17  for  making 
a  suit,  Greenwich  tailors  to  £16,  and  those  in  other  parts  of  the  state 
to£15.25 

As  might  be  expected,  legal  wages  were  not  always  enforced.  A 
Philadelphia  employer  complained  in  the  summer  of  1777  that  his 
spinners  and  weavers  were  receiving  double  their  former  wages, 
although  an  act  passed  during  the  subsequent  winter  limited  all 
wages  to  50  per  cent  more  than  what  they  were  in  1774.26 

The  southern  states  held  themselves  aloof  from  these  spasmodic 
efforts  to  regulate  commodities  and  services.  Not  that  costs  were 

84 


static  below  the  Mason-Dixon  Line.  In  Maryland  wages  nominally 
increased  2500  per  cent  between  August  1777  and  the  end  of  1780. 
Laborers  in  Virginia  received  from  2  to  5  shillings  a  day  in  1775,  90 
shillings  a  day  in  1779,  and  up  to  £18  in  1780.  The  reappearance  of 
gold  and  silver  for  settling  wages  reduced  them  to  from  3  to  6  shil- 
lings a  day.  The  hire  of  blacks  also  advanced  enormously  during  the 
crisis,  as  did  the  nominal  pay  of  state  employees.27 

Few  Americans  could  look  at  regulation  objectively.  It  was  either 
an  insidious  evil  or  a  wonder-working  panacea,  depending,  generally, 
on  how  controls  affected  the  individual  purse.  Less  enthusiastic 
supporters  of  economic  intervention  likened  the  policy  "to  an  out- 
ward application  in  a  fever. . .  [of]  a  temporary  expedient  that 
[might]  give  some  check  to  the  disorder,  till  the  more  slowly- 
operating  internal  applications  can  have  their  proper  effect."28 

Labor  was  quick  to  justify  its  demands  and  to  oppose  any  at- 
tempts to  limit  its  wages,  although  the  artisans  were  not  of  one 
mind.  When  angry  Philadelphians  attempted  to  reduce  prices  of 
articles  manufactured  by  tanners,  curriers,  and  cordwainers  in  the 
summer  of  1779,  James  Roney,  chairman  of  a  group  of  these  trades- 
men, contended  that  the  proposed  regulation  would  place  their 
earnings  far  behind  the  cost  of  other  commodities.  Since  prices  for 
their  goods  were  fixed  according  to  those  current  at  the  time  of 
delivery  and  not  at  the  time  of  payment,  these  tradesmen  often 
suffered  heavy  losses  because  of  the  rapidly  declining  value  of  the 
currency.  Could  they  stay  in  business  and  pay  their  journeymen  a 
living  wage,  he  asked,  when  their  commodities  were  more  severely 
limited  than  those  of  other  tradesmen.  Not  "until  a  general  regula- 
tion of  all  other  articles  [should]  take  place,  by  common  consent," 
the  protesting  craftsmen  warned,  would  they  consider  themselves 
bound  by  the  new  price  ceilings.  But  leather  workers  of  Philadelphia 
accused  Roney 's  faction  of  seeking  to  obstruct  and  defeat  the  good 
intentions  of  the  regulating  committee,  and  still  another  group  of 
cordwainers  publicly  declared  that  they  would  sell  their  shoes  and 
other  articles  for  what  they  had  previously  charged  if  the  price  of 
their  raw  materials  and  household  commodities  remained  stable.29 

Skilled  craftsmen  resisted  controls  in  Boston,  too.  The  public 
denunciation  of  Sarson  Belcher,  a  hat  maker,  for  having  sold  above 
the  ceiling  price  brought  a  united  protest  from  all  the  hatters.  When 
the  authorities  remained  firm  before  this  concerted  opposition  and 
threatened  to  punish  all  the  hatters  as  violators  of  price  regulations, 
the  tradesmen  held  their  ground  and  were  accordingly  denounced 
along  with  Belcher,  whom  they  defended  as  helping  to  ease  the 
hat  shortage.30 

Even  among  the  well-disciplined  Moravians  there  was  some  op- 

85 


position  to  wage  ceilings.  In  April,  1778,  a  Salem  Conference 
adjusted  wages  at  4  shillings  a  day  for  the  single  brethren.  The 
Conference  acknowledged  that  no  one  could  "become  rich  or  have 
an  easy  time"  on  this  income,  but  added  that  neither  wealth  nor  ease 
was  the  object  of  "living  together  in  a  congregation."  On  the  day 
following  the  announcement,  twelve  of  the  brethren  left  their  work 
with  "the  godless  intention"  of  forcing  "a  larger  increase  in  their 
wages,  and  to  make  the  officials  dance  to  their  piping."  The  Mora- 
vian leaders  saw  the  walkout  "with  sorrow,  but  believed  that  the 
congregation  would  support  those  in  authority,"  as  indeed  it  did. 
To  everyone's  relief,  the  young  men  soon  returned  to  work,  "very 
much  ashamed  of  their  outbreak,"  for  which  they  were  earnestly 
censured  and  suspended  from  certain  church  services.31 

All  workers  were  not  employed  by  private  enterprise.  Some  arti- 
ficers toiled  for  the  continental  and  state  armed  forces,  or  for  their 
manufacturing  establishment;  but  as  a  rule,  these  workers  did  not 
fare  as  well  as  employees  in  private  enterprise.  The  latter  were  better 
paid  and  not  subject  to  military  law.  It  was  precisely  to  obtain  a 
cheap  and  dependable  labor  supply  that  companies  of  artisans  were 
recruited  and  organized  in  their  own  little  hierarchies.  Inducements 
for  joining  such  companies  or  for  working  on  state  or  continental 
projects  varied  during  the  Revolution.  In  1778,  Pennsylvania  offered 
to  teamsters  enlisting  for  three  years  a  bounty  of  twenty  dollars,  a 
suit  of  clothes  per  year,  £6  Pennsylvania  currency  per  month,  one 
ration  a  day,  and  a  great  coat  and  a  pair  of  boots.  The  following  year 
the  Massachusetts  Board  of  Works  advertised  for  a  number  of  car- 
penters, wheelwrights,  blacksmiths,  armorers,  sadlers,  harness  or 
shoemakers,  gun  stockers,  tanners,  and  nail  makers,  who  were 
promised  for  three  years  of  service,  a  bounty  of  two  hundred  dollars, 
a  monthly  wage  of  sixty  dollars,  a  suit  of  clothes  per  year,  one  and  a 
half  rations  a  day,  and  "every  encouragement"  allowed  the  troops. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  war  New  York  was  offering  wages  payable  in 
specie  and  a  month's  pay  in  advance.32 

These  seemingly  substantial  incentives  for  long  term  enlistment 
in  non-combatant  units  of  the  armed  forces  had  two  serious  dis- 
advantages—the pay  was  fixed  at  the  time  of  enlistment,  and  both 
the  "National  government"  and  the  states  were  exceedingly  poor 
paymasters.  As  a  result,  artisans  in  government  service  had  to 
petition  time  and  again  for  wage  adjustments  and  back  earnings. 
On  the  eve  of  peace  a  group  of  artillery  workers  complained  that 
for  two  years  they  had  received  only  their  nominal  pay,  a  pittance 
indeed  in  the  light  of  current  prices.  Three  years  after  the  war  army 
breadmakers  were  still  asking  compensation  for  work  performed 
during  the  war.  The  petitions  of  the  munition  makers  told  the  same 

86 


story.  Some  of  their  group  informed  Congress  in  1782  that  they  had 
received  nothing  for  nine  months;  their  families  were  starving  and 
they  were  daily  being  threatened  with  eviction  for  nonpayment  for 
rent  and  taxes.33 

Virginia's  credit  standing  was  so  poor  that  many  artisans  refused 
to  work  for  that  state,  thus  forcing  the  authorities  to  resort  to  wage 
bargaining.  The  employees  at  the  state  gun  factory  in  Fredericks- 
burg were  ready  for  a  general  walkout  in  1781  because  their  wages 
were  paid  in  paper  at  the  rate  of  five  hundred  to  one  of  specie,  while 
their  expenses  for  food  and  other  necessities  had  to  be  met  at  the 
unfavorable  rate  of  six  hundred,  eight  hundred,  and  even  a  thousand 
to  one.34 

Privateering,  a  lucative  business,  caused  the  labor  shortage  in 
the  maritime  areas  to  be  still  more  acute.  No  public  ship  could  be 
manned,  no  continental  battallion  could  be  filled,  no  farm  laborer 
could  be  hired,  as  long  as  a  privateer  was  in  search  of  a  crew.  For- 
tunately, if  the  need  for  manpower  became  sufficiently  urgent  the 
authorities  could  refuse  clearance  to  the  privateers.35 

The  government's  tardiness  in  making  payments  may  have  had 
something  to  do  with  the  poor  quality  and  the  high  cost  of  many 
commodities,  especially  shoes  and  clothing,  made  for  or  sold  to  the 
government.  Some  shoes  were  found  to  be  so  bad  that  they  could 
not  stand  one  day's  wear.  The  "Great  Fraud"  and  "Deceit"  per- 
petrated by  some  New  Hampshire  contractors  for  army  shoes  ac- 
counted for  a  law  providing  that  all  shoes  sold  to  the  army  bear  the 
mark  of  the  maker  on  the  soles;  if  the  shoes  failed  to  pass  inspection 
they  were  to  be  sold  at  auction  and  the  manufacturer  fined  four 
shillings  per  shoe.36 

In  the  three-sided  relationship  between  employer,  employee,  and 
public  the  first  and  last  of  these  groups  were  much  more  articulate 
than  the  second,  whose  statements  were  generally  confined  to 
petitions  for  higher  wages  or  back  pay.  The  public  generally 
concluded  that  labor  did  not  take  undue  advantage  of  its  favorable 
bargaining  position  during  the  Revolution.  Public  rancor  was 
directed  far  more  against  the  speculators,  "greedy  merchants,"  and 
irresponsible  army  purchasing  agents  than  against  labor.37  On  the 
other  hand,  employers  complained  not  only  of  the  wages  they  had 
to  pay,  but  also  of  the  quality  of  work  they  received,  and  quarter- 
masters harped  on  the  rapaciousness  and  unreliability  of  teamsters 
and  other  workers  with  whom  they  came  into  contact. 

Undoubtedly,  labor  took  advantage  of  the  manpower  shortage. 
Still,  the  increased  employment  of  women  and  children  and  the  use 
of  prisoners  of  war  and  slaves  to  perform  private  and  public  work 
did  not  give  labor  a  clear  field.  Toward  the  end  of  the  Revolution 

87 


some  workers  viewed  with  alarm  the  return  of  peace  and  normal 
economic  conditions,  but  in  such  cases  they  were  probably  forgetting 
that  if  wages  were  higher  than  they  had  been  at  the  start  of  the 
Revolution,  the  same  was  true  of  prices. 


FOOTNOTES 

1  Independent  Chronicle  and  Universal  Advertiser  (Boston)  June  26,  1777. 

2  For  Labor  conditions  on  the  eve  and  during  the  Revolution  see  Carl 
Bridenbaugh,  ed.,  "Patrick  M'Robert's  Tour  Through  Part  of  the  North 
Provinces  of  America,"  Pennsylvania  Magazine  of  History  and  Biography, 
LIX  (1935),  135-180;  Richard  B.  Morris,  Government  and  Labor  in  Early 
America  (New  York,  1946);  Anne  Bezanson,  Prices  and  Inflation  During  the 
American    Revolution,    Pennsylvania,    1770-1790    (Philadelphia,    1952). 

3  Peter  Force,  Comp.,  American  Archives  (8  Vols.,  Washington,  1837-1858), 
4th  ser.,  I,  1256-1258,  II,  140-144,  III,  820-821;  Woolsey  and  Salmon  to 
George  Salmon,  Dec.  8,  1775,  Woolsey  and  Salmon  Letterbook,  Library  of 
Congress;  Bezanson,  Prices,  17. 

4  Force,  Comp.,  Archives,  4th  ser.,  I,  1001-1002,  1169-1172,  1226-1227,  II, 
13-14,  170-172,  865;  North  Carolina  Gazette  (New  Bern)  Apr.  7,  Feb.  24, 
1775;  John  L.  Bishop,  A  History  of  American  Manufacture  from  1608  to 
1860  (2  Vols.,  Philadelphia,  1864)  I,  579;  Pennsylvania  Packet  (Philadel- 
phia), May  13,  1776. 

5  Force,  comp.,  Archives,  4th  ser.,  I,  1339,  II,  387-388,  563-564,  III,  1081- 
1082,  1291,  1424-1426,  IV,  71-73,  218,  517,  726,  730-732,  740,  1052-1053,  1071- 
1072,  1104-1105,  1304,  1572;  Minutes  of  the  Provincial  Congress  and  the 
Council  of  Safety  of  the  State  of  New  Jersey  (Trenton,  1879),  159-160,  230, 
440-442,  466;  Broadside  Collection  (Library  of  Congress),  Oct.  31,  1775, 
Port  38,  no.  28a. 

6  Hezekiah  Niles,  Principles  and  Acts  of  the  Revolution  (New  York,  1876), 
211-212. 

7  Force,  comp.,  Archives,  4th  ser.,  II,  1791,  III,  1116;  Pa.  Packet,  Sept.  24, 
1776;  Dixon's  Virginia  Gazette,  Dec.  13,  1776,  Feb.  7,  May  16,  June  20, 
1777;  Charles  Dick  to  Jefferson,  Jan.  4,  1781,  Julian  P.  Boyd,  et.  ai,  eds., 
The  Papers  of  Thomas  Jefferson  (19  vols.,  1950--),  IV,  308. 

8  Morris,  Government  and  Labor,  291-294;  Journals  of  Continental  Con- 
gress, 1774-1789  (Washington,  34  vols.,  1904-1939)  IV,  103,  147-148;  "Ex- 
cerpts from  Day-Books  of  David  Evans. .  .  ,"  Pa.  Mag.  of  Hist,  and  Biog., 
XXVII  (1903),  49. 

9  State  Records  of  North  Carolina  (26  vols.,  Goldsboro,  1886-1907)  XI, 
467-468;  William  W.  Hening,  Statutes  at  Large  (13  vols.,  New  York,  1823), 
X,  335. 

10  "Avis  au  public,"  Philadelphia,  1778,  Broadside,  New  York  Public 
Library;  Force,  comp.,  Archives,  4th  ser.,  II,  1342;  Pa.  Packet,  Apr.  22, 
1776;  Dixon's  Va.  Gaz.  June  22,  Jul.  29,  1776,  Nov.  7,  1777. 

88 


11  Edward  Burd  to  J.  Burd,  May  26,  1777,  Lewis  B.  Walker,  ed.,  The  Burd 
Papers  (Pottsville,  1899),  95;  Jacob  C.  Parsons,  ed.,  Extracts  from  the  Diary 
of  Jacob  Hiltzheimer  of  Philadelphia,  1765-1798,  (Philadelphia,  1893)  41; 
Richard  Claiborne  to  Jefferson,  Calendar  of  Virginia  State  Papers,  and  other 
Manuscripts  ...  (11  vols.,  Richmond  1875-1893),  Feb.  2,  1781;  I,  483;  James 
Wood  to  Jefferson,  Feb.  3,  1781,  ibid.,  I,  486;  Charles  Carroll  to  Richard 
Peters,  Oct.  22,  1777,  "Two  Letters  of  Charles  Carroll,"  Pa.  Mag.  of  Hist. 
andBiog.,  XXVIII  (1904),  216. 

12  Michael  Hillegas  to  Matthias  Slough,  May  9,  1780,  "Selected  Letters  of 
Michael  Hillegas,  Treasurer  of  the  United  States,"  Pa.  Mag.  of  Hist,  and 
Biog.,  XXIX  (1905),  239;  Jefferson  to  and  from  Joseph  Holmes,  Mar.  7, 
1871,  Boyd,  eds.,  Jefferson  Papers,  V,  84-85. 

13  J.  Reuben  Clark,  Jr.,  comp.,  Emergency  Legislation,  Passed  Prior  to 
December,  1913  (Washington,  1918),  280-283,  879-885,  886;  Thomas  Newton 
to  George  Muter,  Feb.  16,  1781,  Calendar  of  Virginia  State  Papers,  III,  229; 
Force,  comp.,  Archives,  4th  ser.,  IV,  85. 

14  St.  George  Tucker  to  Mrs.  Tucker,  July  11,  1781,  Tucker-Coleman  Papers 
(Earl  Swim  Library,  Williamsburg);  Elizabeth  (Sand with)  Drinker,  Ex- 
tracts from  the  Journal  of  Elizabeth  Drinker,  1 759- 1807  (Philadelphia,  1889) 
69-70,  109,  113,  124;  John  F.  Watson,  Annals  of  Philadelphia  and  Penn- 
sylvania, in  the  Olden  Time  (Philadelphia,  1857),  I,  176. 

15  Clark,  Emergency  Legislation,  981,  983;  Bishop,  Manufactures,  391-393; 
Force,  comp.,  Archives,  4th  ser.,  IV,  1222;  Minutes  of  Provincial  Congress 
and  Council  of  Safety  of  N.J.,  543;  Minutes  of  the  Council  of  Safety  of  the 
State  of  New  Jersey  (Jersey  City,  1872),  186,  215;  George  Muter  to  Jeffer- 
son, Feb.  13,  1781,  Boyd,  eds.,  Jefferson  Papers,  IV,  601;  Jefferson  to 
William  Call,  Apr.  13,  1781,  ibid.,  V,  413;  Petitions,  Apr.  12,  July  24,  1777, 
Papers  of  Continental  Congress,  No.  42,  I,  41,  45;  Pa.  Packet  (L),  May  6, 
1778;  Pennsylvania  Journal  and  Weekly  Advertiser  (Philadelphia),  June  25, 
1777;  Connecticut  Courant  (Hartford),  Feb.  17,  Apr.  14,  1778. 

16  Council  of  Safety  of  N.J. ,  185;  Force,  comp.,  Archives,  4th  ser.,  Ill,  580, 
669;  Charles  Dick  to  Jefferson,  Apr.  5,  1781,  Boyd,  eds.,  Jefferson  Papers, 
V,  355. 

17  Bezanson,  Prices  and  Inflation,  168;  Harrietta  M.  Forbes,  ed.,  The  Diary 
of  Rev.  Ebenezer  Parkman  of  Westborough,  Mass.  (Westborough,  1899), 
274 

18  Cornelius  Harnett  to  William  Wilkinson,  Oct.  10,  23,  1777,  State  Records 
of  N.C,  XI,  780-781,  785-786.  Iron  workers  were  also  scarce  in  North  Caro- 
lina. Samuel  Spencer  to  Governor  Caswell,  Aug.  15,  1777,  ibid.,  575-578. 

19  Morris,  Government  and  Labor,  1-54. 

20  Ibid.,  55-91. 

21  Ibid.,  92-135;  Elizabeth  Cometti,  "Regulation  of  Prices,"  unpublished 
manuscript. 

22  Records  of  Connecticut,  I,  607-620;  Bezanson,  Prices  and  Inflation, 
311-317. 

23  Bezanson,  Prices  and  Inflation,  36,  47,  168,  314;  Morris,  Government  and 
Labor,  211. 

89 


24  Schuyler  Papers,  Army  Contracts,  New  York  Public  Library.  Clark, 
Emergency  Legislation,  835-850;  Pa.  Packet,  Aug.  31,  1779. 

25  Clark,  Emergency  Legislation,  420-421,  429;  Providence  Gazette,  Oct.  2, 
1779. 

26  Bezanson,  Prices  and  Inflation,  293;  Pa.  Packet,  Dec.  31,  1777;  Clark, 
Emergency  Legislation,  729-731. 

27  Elizabeth  Cometti,  "Inflation  in  Revolutionary  Maryland,"  William  and 
Mary  Quarterly,  3rd  ser.,  VIII  (1951),  228-234;  Hooe  and  Harrison  Journal, 
1779-1782,  New  York  Public  Library. 

28  N.J.  Gazette,  Mar.  11,  1778. 

29  Pa.  Packet,  July  15,  20,  1779;  Bezanson,  Prices  and  Inflation,  314. 

30  Boston  Town  Records,  1778-1783,  87,  97;  Richard  B.  Morris,  "Labor  and 
Mercantilism  in  the  Revolutionary  Era,"  Richard  B.  Morris,  ed.,  The  Era 
of  the  American  Revolution,  (New  York,  1939),  129-130. 

31  Adelaide  L.  Fries,  ed.,  Records  of  the  Moravians  (4  vols.,  Raleigh,  1926, 
1930),  III,  1225-1227,  1259. 

32  Pa.  Packet,  Jan.  28,  May  6,  1778;  The  Continental  Journal  and  Weekly 
Advertiser,  (Boston)  Sept.  2,  1779;  New  York  Packet,  Supplement  Apr.  25, 
1782;  "Proceedings  of  the  Provincial  Congress  .  .  .  Relating  to  Military 
Matters,"  Berthold  Fernow,  ed.,  New  York  in  the  Revolution  (Albany,  1887), 
1,61. 

33  Memorials  and  Petitions,  Papers  of  the  Continental  Congress,  No.  41, 

I,  25;  No.  42,  I,  19;  No.  42,  II,  64;  No.  42,  III,  15;  No.  42,  IV,  44;  No.  41, 
IV,  55. 

34  John  Peyton  to  Col.  William  Davies,  Aug.  10,  1781,  Calendar  of  Virginia 
State  Papers,  II,  309;  Charles  Dick  to  Col.  Davies,  Sept.  10,  15,  1781,  ibid., 

II,  411,  439-440. 

35  Richard  F.  Upton,  Revolutionary  New  Hampshire  (Hanover,  1936), 
110-113;  Providence  Gaz.,  July  1,  1780. 

36  George  Elliott  to  Col.  Muter,  Jan.  31,  1781;  William  Armstead  to  Col. 
Davies,  Jan.  3,  1781;  Col.  Davies  to  Jefferson,  Feb.  1,  1781,  Calendar  of 
Virginia  State  Papers,  I,  476,  414,  481;  Acts  and  Laws  of  New  Hampshire. 
Apr.  7,  1781,  237-238. 

37  Morris,  "Labor  and  Mercantilism,"  Morris,  eds.,  Era  of  the  American 
Revolution.  132-133. 


90 


"THERE  OUGHT  TO  BE  NO  DISTINCTION:" 

THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION 

AND  THE  POWERLESS 

By 

Jerome  H.  Wood,  Jr. 

The  attack  on  the  consensus  interpretation  of  the  American  past, 
launched  by  the  so-called  "New  Left"  historians  in  the  1960's,  was 
made  largely  in  an  effort  to  rescue  from  oblivion  the  actions  and 
ideas  of  the  ordinary  people  in  our  history.  Insofar  as  the  American 
Revolution  is  concerned,  the  new  goal  was  to  view  that  great  event 
"from  the  bottom  up,"  to  chronicle  the  effects  on  non-elite  groups  of 
successive  British  measures  after  1763,  to  comprehend  the  radicals' 
response  to  these  measures,  to  discern  the  concerns  and  expectations 
that  lay  behind  popular  behavior  in  the  midst  of  the  crisis,  and, 
ultimately,  to  understand  the  character  of  the  Revolutionary  process 
and  settlement  by  evaluating  them  from  the  perspective  of  the 
expectations  of  ordinary  people.1  The  scholars  who  invited  their 
colleagues  to  study  the  winning  of  independence  from  this  new  point 
of  view  were  prompted  by  a  humanitarian  faith,  by  an  assumption 
"that  all  men  are  created  equal,  and  rational,  and  that  since  they  can 
think  and  reason  they  can  make  their  own  history."2 

Of  course,  there  was  nothing  new  about  a  concern  with  ordinary 
folk  in  relation  to  the  birth  of  the  nation.  An  earlier  generation  of 
"Progressive"  historians,  stressing  the  dual  character  of  the  Revo- 
lution as  a  struggle  to  gain  home  rule  and  to  determine  who  should 
rule  at  home,  emphasized  the  unfranchised,  subjected  to  the  rule  of 
a  wealthy  elite  interested  primarily  in  its  own  well  being,  denied 
economic  opportunity  by  "the  constricting  hand  of  monopoly," 
barred  from  becoming  free  simple  yeomen  farmers  by  the  laws  of 
primogeniture  and  entail  as  well  as  the  engrossing  appetities  of 
landlords  and  speculators,  and  prevented  from  making  a  new  start 
in  the  West  by  the  Proclamation  of  1763,  the  "dispossessed"  of  the 
colonies  fought  to  establish  a  democratic  order.3  There  was,  in  this 
older  interpretation,  an  assumption  that  those  on  the  bottom  of 
American  society  had  been  important  actors  in  the  movement  for 
independence.  The  "proletarian  element,"  as  one  adherent  to  this 
approach  expressed  it,  "was  not  inclined  by  temperament  to  that  self 
restraint  in  moments  of  popular  protest  which  was  ever  the  arriere 
pensee  of  the  merchant  class;  and  being  for  the  most  part  unfran- 
chised, they  expressed  their  sentiments  most  naturally  through 
boisterous  mass  meetings  and  mob  demonstrations."4  Success  was 


91 


said  to  have  attended  their  efforts.  The  extension  of  the  suffrage, 
the  elimination  of  impediments  to  partial  inheritance,  and  the  dis- 
tribution of  land  made  possible  by  the  confiscation  of  Loyalist 
estates,  the  attacks  on,  and  partial  success  in  the  elimination  of, 
slavery— all  were  achievements  gained  for  the  common  man  in  a 
levelling  democracy.5 

It  was  not,  then,  their  concern  for  ordinary  people  in  the  American 
Revolution  that  marked  the  originality  of  the  radical  historians  but 
rather  the  intensity  of  their  focus  and  elaboration.  Rather  than 
present  the  views  and  actions  of  common  people  through  the  prism 
of  their  "superiors"  perceptions,  historians  should  let  them  speak 
for  themselves.  "Having  determined  the  place  of  those  who  were 
ruled  in  the  ideology  of  those  who  ruled,  [the  new  approach  would] 
study  the  conduct  and  ideology  of  the  people  on  the  bottom:  this  is 
nothing  less  than  an  attempt  to  make  the  inarticulate  speak."6 
Bristling  at  the  claim  that  the  revolutionaries  fought  to  preserve  a 
social  order  rather  than  to  create  a  new  one— the  principal  argument 
of  the  consensus  school  that  had  dominated  the  historiography  of 
early  America  since  the  1950s— the  dissenting  historians  demanded 
a  study  of  "the  powerless,  the  inarticulate,  the  poor."  Strongly  im- 
plicit in  this  perspective  was  an  assumption  that,  having  undertaken 
the  search,  historians  would  be  rewarded  by  the  discovery  of  com- 
peting revolutionary  ideologies,  ~>mething  other  than  the  "Real 
Whig"  brand  of  republicanism  recently  stressed  as  the  intellectual 
context  and  dynamic  of  the  Revolution;  perhaps  they  would  even 
find  evidence  of  rebellion  against  the  Revolutions  elite  leaders.7 

A  review  of  the  literature  on  the  Revolutionary  era  published  in 
the  last  decade  suggests  that  few  historians  have  accepted  the 
challenge.8  For  the  most  part,  the  attitudes  and  actions  of  the 
"inarticulate"  must  be  ferreted  out  from  discussions  of  political, 
social,  and  economic  matters  not  directly  focused  on  them.  Indeed,  at 
least  one  distinguishec  authority  has  dared  even  to  reassert  a  con- 
sensus view.  "In  sum,"  he  maintains,  "the  evidence  of  Revolutionary 
class  conflict  is  scanty,  and  for  good  reason.  With  a  majority  of 
laborers  in  chains  and  with  the  most  discontented  freemen  venting 
their  discontent  in  loyalism,  the  struggle  over  who  should  rule  at 
home  was  unlikely  to  bear  many  of  the  marks  of  class  conflict.  Class 
conflict  was  indubitably  present,  but  it  did  not  surface  with  an 
effective  intensity  until  a  later  day,  after  the  Revolution  had  built 
a  consensus  that  could  both  nourish  and  contain  it,  and  after  social, 
political,  and  economic  change  had  produced  greater  provocations 
to  it."9 

Even  the  studies  devoted  specifically  to  the  "inarticulate"  of  the 
Revolutionary  era  have  not  led  uniformly  to  the  conclusions  that 

92 


might  have  been  expected  in  light  of  the  dissenting  historians' 
suggestions.  In  an  article  on  "Philadelphia's  White  Oaks,"  a  fra- 
ternity of  eighteenth  century  ship  carpenters,  James  H.  Hutson 
paints  the  picture  of  a  group  of  workingmen  who,  far  from  being 
alienated  from  their  society  and  its  values,  were  "ambitious  and 
achievement  oriented;  they  were  affirmative  about  their  society; 
they  wanted  to  make  their  way  up  in  it  and  share  in  the  bounty 
which  it  bestowed."  Inclined  to  lend  their  support  to  men  of  their 
own  background  who  had  "made  it,"  they  joined  with  Benjamin 
Franklin  in  the  movement  to  bring  royal  government  to  Pennsylvania 
and  came  to  the  rescue  of  John  Hughes,  the  Pennsylvania  stamp 
distributor  and  a  former  baker,  when  he  was  threatened  with 
physical  abuse.  The  White  Oaks  joined  with  their  fellow  mechanics 
in  support  of  the  nonimportation  movement  for  reasons  both  prin- 
cipled and  pecuniary;  the  embargo  on  British  goods  could  serve  as 
a  means  of  applying  political  pressure  on  Parliament,  but  it  was  as 
well  "a  blessing  for  their  little  businesses,  a  wonderful  opportunity 
for  them  to  get  ahead."10 

What  is  to  be  concluded?  Were  the  historians  who  pointed  the 
way  to  a  new  dimension  of  the  Revolution  only  conductors  to  a  dead 
end?  Is  their  faith  in  the  presence  of  a  revolutionary  ideology  among 
the  denied  sectors  of  the  population  chimerical?  To  assume  the  im- 
possibility of  an  open  road  is,  however,  to  act  prematurely.  There 
is  still  an  opportunity  and  a  necessity  to  ask  questions  which  will 
yield  useful  results.  What  is  needed  first,'  however,  are  clearer  defi- 
nitions and  an  appreciation  of  the  nature  and  effects  of  social  change 
and  political  development  in  pre-Revolutionary  America. 

The  directive  to  tell  the  story  of  the  Revolution  "from  the  bottom 
up"  was,  unfortunately,  accompanied  by  no  clear  definition  of  just 
who  constituted  the  suggested  object  of  study.  In  what  is  widely 
regarded  as  a  clarion  call  for  the  new  approach,  Jesse  Lemisch  im- 
plicitly grouped  together  into  a  single  category  employees,  sailors, 
"the  powerless,"  and  "those  who  were  ruled."11  But  surely  such 
classifications  and  comparisons  are  too  broad  and  too  vague  to  be 
useful;  moreover,  excepting  perhaps  the  case  of  the  sailors,  they  are 
not  strictly  synonymous  with  horizontal  layers  of  colonial  society. 
For  example,  should  farmers  and  urban  dwellers  of  middling  status 
who  possessed  enough  property  to  qualify  to  vote  in  provincial  or 
local  elections,  be  regarded  as  among  the  powerful?  Were  such  people 
in  a  position  to  make  determinative  decisions  about  the  distribution 
and  use  of  society's  resources?  If  judged  to  be  "powerless,"  should 
they  — in  light  of  their  status  as  property  owners  and  voters— be  put 
into  the  same  conceptual  category  as  sailors  or  slaves?  Moreover, 
if  we  were  to  take  as  one  and  the  same  "those  who  were  ruled"  and 

93 


those  on  the  bottom,  we  would  be  in  the  position  of  having  to  study 
the  vast  majority  of  early  Americans,  most  of  whom  had  a  social 
and  economic  status  that  was  sufficiently  high  to  make  comparison 
with  the  equally  non-ruling  recipients  of  poor  relief  and  slaves  in- 
appropriate. It  seems  more  useful  to  do  what  Lemisch  does,  in  fact, 
at  other  places  in  his  writings;  that  is,  to  direct  attention  to  more 
specific,  circumscribed  groups  who  were  clearly  among  the  un- 
privileged part  of  the  population,  such  as  Negroes  (slave  and  free), 
unfranchised  whites,  seamen  or  the  destitute. 

If  there  was  a  certain  vagueness  as  to  just  who  constituted  the 
bottom  of  early  American  society,  historians  clearly  misstated  these 
people  s  capacity  to  express  their  grievances,  in  the  notion  that  they 
were  somehow  "inarticulate."  No  one  who  has  read  the  petitions  for 
relief  directed  at  colonial  and  early  national  legislatures  by  slaves, 
voteless  or  unrepresented  whites,  and  the  poor  could  believe  that 
the  petitioners  were  mute,  dumb,  or  incapable  of  "the  normal  articu- 
lation of  understandable  speech."  Here  is  a  petition  of  May,  1774, 
directed  to  Governor  Thomas  Gage  of  Massachusetts  by  "a  Grate 
Number  of  Blackes  of  the  Province.  .  .  held  in  a  state  of  Slavery 
within  a  free  and  Christian  Country:"12 

Your  Petitioners  apprehind  we  have  in  common  with  all 
other  men  a  natural  right  to  our  freedoms  without  Being 
depriv'd  of  them  by  our  fellow  men  as  we  are  a  freeborn 
Pepel  and  have  never  forfeited  this  Blessing  by  aney  com- 
pact or  agreement  whatever.  But  we  were  unjustly  dragged 
by  the  cruel  hand  of  power  from  our  dearest  frinds  and 
some  of  us  stolen  from  the  bosoms  of  our  tender  Parents 
and  from  a  Populous  Pleasant  and  plentiful  country  and 
Brought  hither  to  be  made  slaves  for  Life  in  a  Christian 
land.  .  .  .  There  is  a  great  number  of  us  sencear  .  .  .  mem- 
bers of  the  Church  of  Christ  how  can  the  master  and  the 
slave  be  said  to  fulfil  that  command  Live  in  love  let  Broth- 
erly love  contuner  and  abound  Beare  yea  onenothers  Bor- 
denes.  How  can  the  master  be  said  to  Beare  my  Borden 
when  he  Beares  me  down  which  the  .  .  .  chanes  of  slavery. 

How  eloquently  these  supplicants  urged  the  abolition  of  slavery! 
It  was  not  their  inarticulateness  that  defined  those  on  the  bottom  of 
American  society.  It  was  their  lack  of  freedom,  their  poverty,  their 
character  as  victims  of  discriminatory  economic  and  social  legisla- 
tion, and,  perhaps  most  importantly,  their  lack  of  means  to  par- 
ticipate effectively  in  normal  electoral  and  political  processes,  which 
forced  them  on  occasion  to  the  only  political  arena  open  to  them  — 
the  street. 

94 


The  attempt  to  define  just  who  was  on  the  bottom  of  early  Amer- 
ican society  forces  us  to  look  at  the  changing  nature  of  that  society. 
To  approach  the  problem  in  terms  of  social  change  can  provide  a 
picture  not  only  of  the  nature  of  the  unprivileged  groups  but  also  a 
suggestion  as  to  their  number  and  proportion  within  the  population 
and  a  context  in  which  to  view  their  responses  to  the  events  of  the 
Revolutionary  era.  Recent  research  on  the  changing  social  structure 
of  early  America  permits  us  to  appreciate  the  reality  of,  and  to  under- 
stand the  nature  of,  a  dispossessed  class  among  the  colonists.  In 
major  urban  centers,  in  minor  ones,  and  in  the  rural  sections  of  the 
provinces,  the  picture  is  slowly  emerging  of  growing  economic  and 
social  stratification,  as  measured  by  the  distribution  of  wealth  and 
property  and  the  appearance,  for  the  first  time  in  some  places,  of 
designations  calculated  to  set  those  at  the  apex  of  their  societies 
apart  from  the  rest.  In  Boston,  Massachusetts,  for  example,  between 
1687  and  1771  there  has  been  noted  "a  growing  inequality  of  the 
distribution  of  wealth  among  the  propertied  segments  of  the  com- 
munity," and  "exclusiveness  and  predominance  of  a  mercantile  elite." 
Moreover,  in  the  former  year  14  per  cent  of  the  adult  male  population 
were  neither  owners  of  taxable  property  nor  dependents  in  a  house- 
hold assessed  for  the  property  tax.  By  the  eve  of  the  Revolution,  29 
per  cent  of  Boston's  adult  males  were  without  property.  Forming 
no  monolithic  proletarian  class,  however,  the  propertyless  bottom 
of  Boston  society  consisted  of  "a  congeries  of  social  and  occupational 
groups  with  a  highly  transient  maritime  element  at  one  end  of  the 
spectrum  and  a  more  stable  and  respected  artisan  segment  at  the 
other."13  Elsewhere  in  Massachusetts  a  notable  rise  in  transiency 
mobility  appeared  in  the  form  of  a  class  of  "strolling  poor"  requiring 
economic  assistance.  These  wandering  dependents  came  from  the 
bottom  of  the  social  scale  and  forced  the  colony  (later  the  state)  to 
develop  new  solutions  to  social  welfare  and  control.14 

The  middle  colonies  too,  provide  significant  evidence  of  increasing 
stratification  as  the  region  developed.  In  Lancaster,  Pennsylvania, 
a  minor  urban  center  and  the  largest  inland  town  in  the  British 
mainland  colonies,  there  was  growing  disparity  in  the  distribution 
of  wealth.  In  1751,  the  poorest  30  per  cent  of  the  heads  of  families 
possessed  13  per  cent  of  the  community's  assessed  taxable  wealth, 
while  the  wealthiest  10  per  cent  of  the  heads  of  families  controlled 
33  per  cent.  With  the  passage  of  time,  the  gap  between  rich  and  poor 
widened.  In  1778,  the  poorest  30  per  cent  of  the  heads  of  families  in 
the  borough  accounted  for  only  2.5  per  cent  of  the  assessed  taxable 
wealth,  but  the  most  affluent  10  per  cent  accrued  nearly  one-half. 
There  was  a  significant  number  of  propertyless  men  in  town  as  well, 
with  the  tenancy  rate  fluctuating  between  26  and  35  per  cent  of  the 

95 


heads  of  families  between  1756  and  1788.15  A  study  of  the  distri- 
bution of  wealth  in  nearby  Chester  County  over  the  course  of  the 
eighteenth  century  concludes  that  "the  comparatively  open  society, 
operating  in  a  stable,  pre-industrial  economic  environment,  encum- 
bered with  few  governmental  restraints,  and  subscribing  to  a  liberal 
ideology  .  .  .  led  to  increasing  social  stratification.  .  .  ." 16 

For  all  of  its  importance,  increasing  concentration  of  wealth  was 
merely  one  of  a  number  of  social  changes  that  American  society 
underwent  in  the  years  prior  to  the  Revolution.  Colonial  America 
was  transformed  into  a  society  characterized  by  increasing  popu- 
lation growth  and  density  (which  brought  with  it  the  exhaustion 
of  undivided,  cultivable  lands  in  many  places),  increasing  migration 
(including  itinerant  labor),  and  increasing  commercialization  (which 
brought  with  it  a  geographic  concentration  of  wealth).17  Among 
the  effects  of  these  dangers,  which  some  scholars  describe  as  the 
"Europeanization"  of  early  American  society,  was  the  introduction 
of  an  element  of  human  instability  into  the  American  social  order, 
the  appearance  of  a  "lumpen-proletariat"  of  propertyless  men  — 
mostly  seamen,  laborers,  or  journeymen  artisans  — who  bargained 
their  services  for  wages.  Unrestrained,  for  the  most  part,  by  the 
bounds  of  family  government,  this  peripatetic  part  of  the  population, 
drifting,  often  unemployed,  despised,  was  responsible  for  much  of 
the  violence  in  the  eighteenth  century  urban  centers.18 

Clearly,  then,  there  were  many  colonists  who  did  not  enjoy  that 
"pleasing  uniformity  of  decent  competence"  which  Hector  St.  Jean 
de  Crevecoeur  ascribed  to  the  American.  How  did  these  dependent 
classes  of  the  colonies  respond  to  their  situation?  Did  their  debased 
position  in  society  find  expression  through  political  activity?  To  be 
sure,  historians  of  early  American  society  have  only  begun  to  explore 
the  relation  between  social  structure  and  political  behavior,  but  there 
exists  suggestive  evidence,  and  at  least  one  study,  that  are  relevant 
to  this  question.  It  should  be  kept  in  mind  that  the  kind  of  people 
under  scrutiny  here— the  unemployed,  men  without  property,  the 
voteless,  and  the  unfree  — were  denied  access  to  the  normal  channels 
of  political  expression.  Consequently,  they  were  forced  to  make  their 
plight  known  through  collective  and  disruptive  action,  especially 
riot  and  rebellion.  During  the  1760's  in  New  York,  for  example, 
tenants  who  purchased  Indian  tracts  which  their  landlords  had 
acquired  fraudulently,  combined  in  an  anti-rent  movement  that 
pitted  them  against  sheriffs  attempting  to  carry  out  eviction  orders; 
the  struggle  brought  them  into  confrontation  with  a  judicial  system 
biased  in  favor  of  the  landed  magnates.19  In  the  seaport  towns,  un- 
employed dock  and  shipyard  workers  caused  disturbances,  and 
seamen— angered  and  frightened  by  the  press  gangs  of  the  British 

96 


Navy— joined  with  merchants  and  others  in  violent  acts  of  resistance 
in  the  name  of  freedom  and  as  an  encouragement  to  trade.  The 
workers  of  colonial  America  who  were  outside  of  the  class  system 
because  they  were  unfree  — slaves  and  indentured  servants  — acted 
collectively  within  their  group  and  sometimes  jointly  in  rebelling 
simply  to  achieve  their  liberation  or  in  retaliation  for  harsh  usage.20 

Although  mob  action  and  rebellion  constituted  the  most  readily 
available  and  the  characteristic  outlet  for  the  expression  of  grievances 
by  the  depressed  members  of  colonial  society,  the  evolving  political 
processes  in  the  urban  centers  offered  another  channel  that  came  to 
be  used  increasingly.  In  the  half-century  prior  to  the  Revolutionary 
crisis,  a  radical  mode  of  politics  emerged  in  such  places  as  Boston, 
New  York,  and  Philadelphia,  the  result  of  a  transformation  which 
involved  "activation  of  previously  quiescent  lower  class  elements." 
These  activities  included  the  organization  of  political  clubs,  caucuses 
and  tickets,  the  involvement  of  the  clergy  and  the  churches  in 
politics,  and  the  organization  of  mobs  and  violence  for  political  ends. 
Ironically,  this  introduction  of  new,  lower-status  groups  into  public 
life  was  encouraged  by  strong  and  competing  elites  in  need  of  rein- 
forcement; and  the  results  of  their  action  were  a  broadened  spectrum 
of  individuals  participating  in  public  affairs  and  the  encouragement 
of  a  non -deferential  political  culture— anti -authoritarian,  sometimes 
violent,  and  often  destructive  of  elite  vajues.21  Insofar  as  lower  class 
participation  in  the  mob  activity  that  was  a  part  of  the  new  urban 
politics  is  concerned,  manipulation  by  elites,  rather  than  spon- 
taneous activity  in  behalf  of  class  interests,  appears  most  often  to 
have  been  the  energizing  force.22  Nonetheless,  the  elites'  courtship 
of  low  status  groups  represented  an  implicit  levelling,  the  suggestion 
of  a  kind  of  equality,  that  provided,  along  with  the  social  changes 
and  tensions  of  the  period,  a  significant  context  in  which  the  un- 
privileged classes  received  the  revolutionary  ideology. 

The  fateful  thirteen  years  that  followed  the  close  of  the  French 
and  Indian  War  were  seasons  of  protest,  reflection,  and  action  not 
only  for  the  elites  who  directed  the  revolutionary  movement  but  for 
the  powerless  groups  of  America  as  well.  If  the  merchants  and 
lawyers  had  reasons  to  react  strongly  to  British  measures  after  1763, 
groups  of  low  status  responded  in  their  own  ways  to  these  policies 
and  to  the  retaliatory  programs  of  American  leaders.  Surely,  the  poor 
and  the  powerless  had  grievances  of  their  own.  Corrupt  customs 
officials  seized  the  smallest  woodboats  engaged  in  purely  local  trade; 
the  chests  of  common  seamen  were  rifled  and  their  contents  con- 
fiscated. The  British  Army  was  the  cause  of  discontent  for  more  than 
one  reason:  troops  were  frequently  quartered  in  the  houses  of  the 
protesting  poor,  and  the  soldiers,  allowed  to  engage  in  civilian  em- 

97 


ployment  when  not  on  duty,  competed  with  Americans  for  work  at 
less  than  the  prevailing  wage  rate.  Impressment  of  hapless  Americans 
by  the  Royal  Navy,  a  long-standing  grievance,  sometimes  produced 
violent  outbursts,  as  in  the  Boston  Massacre  and  the  Battle  of 
Golden  Hill  in  New  York  City.23  The  response  of  American  leader- 
ship to  these  and  other  provocations  sometimes  met  with  resistance 
from  those  on  the  bottom  of  society.  The  boycott  strategy  used  to 
force  the  repeal  of  the  Stamp  Act  worked  to  the  detriment  of  the 
destitute  and  the  hungry  as  well  as  of  prisoners  whose  release  could 
not  be  secured  as  long  as  the  legal  process  was  halted.  In  Maryland, 
the  non-importation  movement  which  followed  the  enactment  of 
the  Coercive  Acts  led  to  economic  stagnation  and  depression,  evok- 
ing complaints  from  farmers  and  threats  to  "mob  the  merchants." 
In  Charles  and  Baltimore  counties,  indeed,  mobs  stormed  the  jails 
and  released  men  who  had  been  imprisoned  for  debt.  Unable  to  meet 
their  financial  obligations,  debtors  in  Charles  County  forced  a 
closing  of  the  courts.24 

In  their  war  of  propaganda  and  pressure  against  the  British, 
American  radicals  found  it  convenient  to  enlist  the  support  of  low 
status  groups.  The  Sons  of  Liberty,  for  example,  believing  in  the 
necessity  of  involving  "the  Body  of  the  People,"  sought  to  attract 
all  elements  of  the  population  to  their  mass  meetings  and  other 
activities.  Often,  men  of  the  middling  ranks  who  had  risen  to  their 
positions  from  less  respectable  levels,  utilized  their  past  experiences 
and  wooed  their  old  comrades  in  the  radical  cause.25  Once  absorbed 
into  the  movement,  however,  those  from  below  sometimes  proved 
incapable  of  being  controlled  by  their  middle  class  leaders.  In  Jan- 
uary, 1774,  a  Boston  crowd  composed  mainly  of  seamen  seized  a 
customs  official  long  charged  with  "venality  and  corruption  as  well 
as  .  .  .  extortion  in  office."  Mindful  of  the  way  in  which  "the  law" 
had  dealt  with  Captain  Thomas  Preston  and  his  soldiers  following 
the  Boston  Massacre,  the  mob  ignored  the  insistence  of  their 
"leaders"  that  established  legal  practice  must  be  followed  and 
proceeded  to  tar  and  feather  their  victim.26 

What  becomes  abundantly  clear  from  an  analysis  of  the  behavior 
of  low  status  groups  in  the  revolutionary  movement  is  that  their 
resentment  and  discontent  were  directed  not  exclusively  against  the 
British  but  toward  American  leadership  as  well.  The  criticisms  of 
the  various  boycott  strategies  and  the  affair  of  the  Boston  customs 
official  reveal  a  determination  on  the  part  of  these  colonists  to 
support  only  those  retaliatory  measures  that  were  not  detrimental 
to  their  livelihood.  Their  actions,  moreover,  reveal  a  distrust  of 
established  legal  and  political  institutions.  Gouverneur  Morris  for 
all  his  wrongheadedness,  was  absolutely  right:  "the  mob"  had  begun 

98 


Navy  —joined  with  merchants  and  others  in  violent  acts  of  resistance 
in  the  name  of  freedom  and  as  an  encouragement  to  trade.  The 
workers  of  colonial  America  who  were  outside  of  the  class  system 
because  they  were  unfree  — slaves  and  indentured  servants  — acted 
collectively  within  their  group  and  sometimes  jointly  in  rebelling 
simply  to  achieve  their  liberation  or  in  retaliation  for  harsh  usage.20 

Although  mob  action  and  rebellion  constituted  the  most  readily 
available  and  the  characteristic  outlet  for  the  expression  of  grievances 
by  the  depressed  members  of  colonial  society,  the  evolving  political 
processes  in  the  urban  centers  offered  another  channel  that  came  to 
be  used  increasingly.  In  the  half-century  prior  to  the  Revolutionary 
crisis,  a  radical  mode  of  politics  emerged  in  such  places  as  Boston, 
New  York,  and  Philadelphia,  the  result  of  a  transformation  which 
involved  "activation  of  previously  quiescent  lower  class  elements." 
These  activities  included  the  organization  of  political  clubs,  caucuses 
and  tickets,  the  involvement  of  the  clergy  and  the  churches  in 
politics,  and  the  organization  of  mobs  and  violence  for  political  ends. 
Ironically,  this  introduction  of  new,  lower-status  groups  into  public 
life  was  encouraged  by  strong  and  competing  elites  in  need  of  rein- 
forcement; and  the  results  of  their  action  were  a  broadened  spectrum 
of  individuals  participating  in  public  affairs  and  the  encouragement 
of  a  non -deferential  political  culture— anti -authoritarian,  sometimes 
violent,  and  often  destructive  of  elite  values.21  Insofar  as  lower  class 
participation  in  the  mob  activity  that  was  a  part  of  the  new  urban 
politics  is  concerned,  manipulation  by  elites,  rather  than  spon- 
taneous activity  in  behalf  of  class  interests,  appears  most  often  to 
have  been  the  energizing  force.22  Nonetheless,  the  elites'  courtship 
of  low  status  groups  represented  an  implicit  levelling,  the  suggestion 
of  a  kind  of  equality,  that  provided,  along  with  the  social  changes 
and  tensions  of  the  period,  a  significant  context  in  which  the  un- 
privileged classes  received  the  revolutionary  ideology. 

The  fateful  thirteen  years  that  followed  the  close  of  the  French 
and  Indian  War  were  seasons  of  protest,  reflection,  and  action  not 
only  for  the  elites  who  directed  the  revolutionary  movement  but  for 
the  powerless  groups  of  America  as  well.  If  the  merchants  and 
lawyers  had  reasons  to  react  strongly  to  British  measures  after  1763, 
groups  of  low  status  responded  in  their  own  ways  to  these  policies 
and  to  the  retaliatory  programs  of  American  leaders.  Surely,  the  poor 
and  the  powerless  had  grievances  of  their  own.  Corrupt  customs 
officials  seized  the  smallest  woodboats  engaged  in  purely  local  trade; 
the  chests  of  common  seamen  were  rifled  and  their  contents  con- 
fiscated. The  British  Army  was  the  cause  of  discontent  for  more  than 
one  reason:  troops  were  frequently  quartered  in  the  houses  of  the 
protesting  poor,  and  the  soldiers,  allowed  to  engage  in  civilian  em- 

97 


ployment  when  not  on  duty,  competed  with  Americans  for  work  at 
less  than  the  prevailing  wage  rate.  Impressment  of  hapless  Americans 
by  the  Royal  Navy,  a  long-standing  grievance,  sometimes  produced 
violent  outbursts,  as  in  the  Boston  Massacre  and  the  Battle  of 
Golden  Hill  in  New  York  City.23  The  response  of  American  leader- 
ship to  these  and  other  provocations  sometimes  met  with  resistance 
from  those  on  the  bottom  of  society.  The  boycott  strategy  used  to 
force  the  repeal  of  the  Stamp  Act  worked  to  the  detriment  of  the 
destitute  and  the  hungry  as  well  as  of  prisoners  whose  release  could 
not  be  secured  as  long  as  the  legal  process  was  halted.  In  Maryland, 
the  non-importation  movement  which  followed  the  enactment  of 
the  Coercive  Acts  led  to  economic  stagnation  and  depression,  evok- 
ing complaints  from  farmers  and  threats  to  "mob  the  merchants." 
In  Charles  and  Baltimore  counties,  indeed,  mobs  stormed  the  jails 
and  released  men  who  had  been  imprisoned  for  debt.  Unable  to  meet 
their  financial  obligations,  debtors  in  Charles  County  forced  a 
closing  of  the  courts.24 

In  their  war  of  propaganda  and  pressure  against  the  British, 
American  radicals  found  it  convenient  to  enlist  the  support  of  low 
status  groups.  The  Sons  of  Liberty,  for  example,  believing  in  the 
necessity  of  involving  "the  Body  of  the  People,"  sought  to  attract 
all  elements  of  the  population  to  their  mass  meetings  and  other 
activities.  Often,  men  of  the  middling  ranks  who  had  risen  to  their 
positions  from  less  respectable  levels,  utilized  their  past  experiences 
and  wooed  their  old  comrades  in  the  radical  cause.25  Once  absorbed 
into  the  movement,  however,  those  from  below  sometimes  proved 
incapable  of  being  controlled  by  their  middle  class  leaders.  In  Jan- 
uary, 1774,  a  Boston  crowd  composed  mainly  of  seamen  seized  a 
customs  official  long  charged  with  "venality  and  corruption  as  well 
as  .  .  .  extortion  in  office."  Mindful  of  the  way  in  which  "the  law" 
had  dealt  with  Captain  Thomas  Preston  and  his  soldiers  following 
the  Boston  Massacre,  the  mob  ignored  the  insistence  of  their 
"leaders"  that  established  legal  practice  must  be  followed  and 
proceeded  to  tar  and  feather  their  victim.26 

What  becomes  abundantly  clear  from  an  analysis  of  the  behavior 
of  low  status  groups  in  the  revolutionary  movement  is  that  their 
resentment  and  discontent  were  directed  not  exclusively  against  the 
British  but  toward  American  leadership  as  well.  The  criticisms  of 
the  various  boycott  strategies  and  the  affair  of  the  Boston  customs 
official  reveal  a  determination  on  the  part  of  these  colonists  to 
support  only  those  retaliatory  measures  that  were  not  detrimental 
to  their  livelihood.  Their  actions,  moreover,  reveal  a  distrust  of 
established  legal  and  political  institutions.  Gouverneur  Morris  for 
all  his  wrongheadedness,  was  absolutely  right:  "the  mob"  had  begun 

98 


to  think  and  reason  for  itself.  By  no  means  slow  to  arrive  at  this 
perception,  the  elite  leaders  of  the  revolutionary  movement  soon 
placed  a  new  emphasis  upon  internal  restraint.  "These  tarrings  and 
featherings,"  complained  John  Adams  in  1774,  "this  breaking  open 
of  houses  by  rude  and  insolent  Rabbles,  in  Resentment  for  private 
Wrongs  or  in  pursuance  of  private  Prejudices  and  Passions,  must 
be  discountenanced."  In  short,  the  people  must  not  get  ahead  of  their 
leaders.  Or,  as  Governor  Thomas  Hutchinson  unequivocally  ex- 
pressed it:  "The  spirit  of  liberty  spread  where  it  was  not  intended."2"7 

Acting  on  their  own,  or  in  collaboration  with  elite  radical  leader- 
ship, "the  mobile"  behaved  in  an  ideological  context  that  simul- 
taneously justified  their  immediate  deeds  and  encouraged  them  to 
expect  a  change  in  their  circumstances.  Having  heard  their  "betters" 
proclaim  a  desire  for  liberty,  and  having  listened  to  and  even  joined 
with  them  in  asserting  their  "natural  rights"  they  used  these  con- 
cepts to  formulate  their  own  demands.  They  were  aided  immeasurably 
by  the  egalitarian  implications  not  only  of  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence but  of  that  most  widely  known  of  revolutionary  pamphlets, 
Thomas  Paine's  Common  Sense:  "Where  there  are  no  distinctions, 
there  can  be  no  superiority;  perfect  equality  affords  no  temptation."28 
Here  was  a  goal  for  the  poor,  a  theology  for  the  slave,  a  platform  for 
the  voteless.  For  a  few,  the  egalitarian  notions  implicit  in  this  and 
other  literature  of  the  revolutionary  era  provided  a  credo  for  radical 
action,  which  often  took  the  form  of  attacks  on  private  property  and 
on  the  traditional  mechanisms  of  social  control.  In  May,  1775,  a 
deposition  presented  to  one  county  court  on  the  eastern  shore  of 
Maryland  recorded  that  a  wheelwright  refused  to  attend  a  militia 
muster  because  he  understood  that  "the  gentlemen  were  intending 
to  make  us  all  fight  for  their  lands  and  Negroes"  and  then  said 
"damn  them  (meaning  the  gentlemen)  if  I  had  a  few  more  white 
people  to  join  me  I  could  get  all  the  Negroes  in  the  County  to  back 
us  and  they  would  do  more  good  in  the  night  than  the  white  people 
could  do  in  the  day.  ..."  He  further  averred  that  they  could  find 
ammunition  and  that  "if  all  the  gentlemen  were  killed  we  should 
have  the  best  of  the  land  to  tend  and  besides  could  get  money  enough 
while  they  were  about  it  as  they  have  got  all  the  money  in  their 
hands."29  By  the  summer  of  1776,  indeed,  poor  whites,  Negroes,  and 
loyalists  on  the  eastern  shore  of  Maryland  were  rebelling  against 
the  revolutionary  leaders,  and  on  June  28th  a  reluctant  provincial 
convention  both  voted  independence  and  dispatched  troops  to  the 
scene  of  trouble.30 

Expectations  as  to  what  the  Revolution  might  accomplish  were 
doubtless  almost  as  numerous  as  colonists.  But  the  low  status 
groups  certainly  perceived  the  Revolution  as  affording  the  oppor- 

99 


tunity  to  acquire  land  (either  in  already  settled  areas  or  in  the  West), 
to  gain  political  rights,  and  — in  the  case  of  slaves  and  servants  — to 
be  free.  The  desire  for  political  democracy  —  as  represented  by  simple 
rather  than  complex  governments,  universal  manhood  suffrage,  and 
the  elimination  of  property  qualifications  for  office  holding— was 
probably  the  most  important  goal  since  it  could  be  a  means  to 
securing  the  other  objectives.  For  some,  independence  would  hope- 
fully mean  the  right  simply  to  be  left  alone,  as  a  horrified  Landon 
Carter  bemoaned  in  sending  along  this  definition  of  "Independency" 
to  his  friend  George  Washington:  "It  was  expected  to  be  a  form  of 
Government  that,  by  being  independent  of  the  rich  men,  every  man 
would  then  be  able  to  do  as  he  pleased."31 

For  the  African  slave,  the  revolutionary  ideology  seemed  to  bear 
a  promise  of  freedom.  Surely  the  liberty  which  Washington,  Jeffer- 
son, and  other  American  Whigs  demanded  for  themselves  could  be 
claimed  by  those  who  were  truly  in  bondage.  To  be  certain,  it  was  no 
new  thing  for  slaves  to  make  supplication  for  their  freedom.  Even 
prior  to  the  Revolution,  they  brought  suits  against  masters  who 
restrained  them  of  their  liberty  and  petitioned  legislatures  "to  be 
liberated  from  a  State  of  Slavery."  The  philosophy  expressed  in  the 
opening  passages  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  was  a  powerful 
engine  which  they  could  use,  negatively  or  positively,  to  drive  home 
the  contradiction  between  their  own  debased  status  and  "a  land 
gloriously  contending  for  the  sweets  of  freedom"  or  simply  to  chal- 
lenge the  right  of  one  man  to  hold  another.32  For  many  thralls, 
service  in  the  state  forces  or,  more  characteristically,  in  the  Conti- 
nental lines,  was  the  pathway  to  liberation.  And  the  very  names 
adopted  by  some  of  the  sable  soldiers  — Cuff  Liberty,  Dick  Freedom, 
Jube  Freeman,  or  Juperter  Free— were  as  clear  an  indication  of  their 
motivation  and  ideology  as  could  be  found  anywhere.  Although  they 
had  no  particular  fondness  for  monarchy  or  the  British  troops,  many 
slaves,  pursuing  freedom  in  whatever  quarter  it  seemed  to  beckon, 
voluntarily  sought  refuge  behind  His  Majesty's  lines.33 

Despite  the  threatened  attacks  on  private  property  and  the  occa- 
sional calls  for  levelling,  the  demands  of  the  poor,  the  voteless,  and 
the  landless  were  generally  not  of  such  a  nature  that  a  wholesale 
remaking  for  the  creation  of  greater  opportunities  for  mobility  within 
the  liberal,  open  society  of  eighteenth  century  America.  But  the 
slaves,  who  petitioned  for  their  freedom,  and  the  quasi-free  blacks 
who  sought  an  end  to  discriminatory  treatment,  did  demand  a  new, 
free,  society  in  which  all  men  would  be  able  to  strive  without  having 
imposed  upon  them  the  restraining  handicap  of  race.  If  any  single 
concept  may  be  said  to  have  animated  the  dispossessed  classes  in 
the  era  of  the  Revolution  it  was  the  idea  of  equality,  not  literally 

100 


to  think  and  reason  for  itself.  By  no  means  slow  to  arrive  at  this 
perception,  the  elite  leaders  of  the  revolutionary  movement  soon 
placed  a  new  emphasis  upon  internal  restraint.  "These  tarrings  and 
featherings,"  complained  John  Adams  in  1774,  "this  breaking  open 
of  houses  by  rude  and  insolent  Rabbles,  in  Resentment  for  private 
Wrongs  or  in  pursuance  of  private  Prejudices  and  Passions,  must 
be  discountenanced."  In  short,  the  people  must  not  get  ahead  of  their 
leaders.  Or,  as  Governor  Thomas  Hutchinson  unequivocally  ex- 
pressed it:  "The  spirit  of  liberty  spread  where  it  was  not  intended."27 

Acting  on  their  own,  or  in  collaboration  with  elite  radical  leader- 
ship, "the  mobile"  behaved  in  an  ideological  context  that  simul- 
taneously justified  their  immediate  deeds  and  encouraged  them  to 
expect  a  change  in  their  circumstances.  Having  heard  their  "betters" 
proclaim  a  desire  for  liberty,  and  having  listened  to  and  even  joined 
with  them  in  asserting  their  "natural  rights"  they  used  these  con- 
cepts to  formulate  their  own  demands.  They  were  aided  immeasurably 
by  the  egalitarian  implications  not  only  of  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence but  of  that  most  widely  known  of  revolutionary  pamphlets, 
Thomas  Paine's  Common  Sense:  "Where  there  are  no  distinctions, 
there  can  be  no  superiority;  perfect  equality  affords  no  temptation."28 
Here  was  a  goal  for  the  poor,  a  theology  for  the  slave,  a  platform  for 
the  voteless.  For  a  few,  the  egalitarian  notions  implicit  in  this  and 
other  literature  of  the  revolutionary  era  provided  a  credo  for  radical 
action,  which  often  took  the  form  of  attacks  on  private  property  and 
on  the  traditional  mechanisms  of  social  control.  In  May,  1775,  a 
deposition  presented  to  one  county  court  on  the  eastern  shore  of 
Maryland  recorded  that  a  wheelwright  refused  to  attend  a  militia 
muster  because  he  understood  that  "the  gentlemen  were  intending 
to  make  us  all  fight  for  their  lands  and  Negroes"  and  then  said 
"damn  them  (meaning  the  gentlemen)  if  I  had  a  few  more  white 
people  to  join  me  I  could  get  all  the  Negroes  in  the  County  to  back 
us  and  they  would  do  more  good  in  the  night  than  the  white  people 
could  do  in  the  day.  ..."  He  further  averred  that  they  could  find 
ammunition  and  that  "if  all  the  gentlemen  were  killed  we  should 
have  the  best  of  the  land  to  tend  and  besides  could  get  money  enough 
while  they  were  about  it  as  they  have  got  all  the  money  in  their 
hands."29  By  the  summer  of  1776,  indeed,  poor  whites,  Negroes,  and 
loyalists  on  the  eastern  shore  of  Maryland  were  rebelling  against 
the  revolutionary  leaders,  and  on  June  28th  a  reluctant  provincial 
convention  both  voted  independence  and  dispatched  troops  to  the 
scene  of  trouble.30 

Expectations  as  to  what  the  Revolution  might  accomplish  were 
doubtless  almost  as  numerous  as  colonists.  But  the  low  status 
groups  certainly  perceived  the  Revolution  as  affording  the  oppor- 

99 


tunity  to  acquire  land  (either  in  already  settled  areas  or  in  the  West), 
to  gain  political  rights,  and  — in  the  case  of  slaves  and  servants  — to 
be  free.  The  desire  for  political  democracy  —  as  represented  by  simple 
rather  than  complex  governments,  universal  manhood  suffrage,  and 
the  elimination  of  property  qualifications  for  office  holding— was 
probably  the  most  important  goal  since  it  could  be  a  means  to 
securing  the  other  objectives.  For  some,  independence  would  hope- 
fully mean  the  right  simply  to  be  left  alone,  as  a  horrified  Landon 
Carter  bemoaned  in  sending  along  this  definition  of  "Independency" 
to  his  friend  George  Washington:  "It  was  expected  to  be  a  form  of 
Government  that,  by  being  independent  of  the  rich  men,  every  man 
would  then  be  able  to  do  as  he  pleased."31 

For  the  African  slave,  the  revolutionary  ideology  seemed  to  bear 
a  promise  of  freedom.  Surely  the  liberty  which  Washington,  Jeffer- 
son, and  other  American  Whigs  demanded  for  themselves  could  be 
claimed  by  those  who  were  truly  in  bondage.  To  be  certain,  it  was  no 
new  thing  for  slaves  to  make  supplication  for  their  freedom.  Even 
prior  to  the  Revolution,  they  brought  suits  against  masters  who 
restrained  them  of  their  liberty  and  petitioned  legislatures  "to  be 
liberated  from  a  State  of  Slavery."  The  philosophy  expressed  in  the 
opening  passages  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  was  a  powerful 
engine  which  they  could  use,  negatively  or  positively,  to  drive  home 
the  contradiction  between  their  own  debased  status  and  "a  land 
gloriously  contending  for  the  sweets  of  freedom"  or  simply  to  chal- 
lenge the  right  of  one  man  to  hold  another.32  For  many  thralls, 
service  in  the  state  forces  or,  more  characteristically,  in  the  Conti- 
nental lines,  was  the  pathway  to  liberation.  And  the  very  names 
adopted  by  some  of  the  sable  soldiers  — Cuff  Liberty,  Dick  Freedom, 
Jube  Freeman,  or  Juperter  Free  — were  as  clear  an  indication  of  their 
motivation  and  ideology  as  could  be  found  anywhere.  Although  they 
had  no  particular  fondness  for  monarchy  or  the  British  troops,  many 
slaves,  pursuing  freedom  in  whatever  quarter  it  seemed  to  beckon, 
voluntarily  sought  refuge  behind  His  Majesty's  lines.33 

Despite  the  threatened  attacks  on  private  property  and  the  occa- 
sional calls  for  levelling,  the  demands  of  the  poor,  the  voteless,  and 
the  landless  were  generally  not  of  such  a  nature  that  a  wholesale 
remaking  for  the  creation  of  greater  opportunities  for  mobility  within 
the  liberal,  open  society  of  eighteenth  century  America.  But  the 
slaves,  who  petitioned  for  their  freedom,  and  the  quasi-free  blacks 
who  sought  an  end  to  discriminatory  treatment,  did  demand  a  new, 
free,  society  in  which  all  men  would  be  able  to  strive  without  having 
imposed  upon  them  the  restraining  handicap  of  race.  If  any  single 
concept  may  be  said  to  have  animated  the  dispossessed  classes  in 
the  era  of  the  Revolution  it  was  the  idea  of  equality,  not  literally 

100 


defined  and  precisely  distributed  but  realized  in  respect  for  the 
dignity  of  all  men.  So  strong  was  their  belief  in  equality,  so  much 
did  they  make  it  the  rule  by  which  they  judged  the  behavior  of  their 
leaders  and  more  affluent  neighbors  that  they  were  inclined  to  react 
strongly  to  its  denial  even  in  seemingly  inconsequential  matters. 
In  1779,  at  the  annual  independence  day  celebration  in  Lancaster, 
Pennsylvania,  a  group  of  militiamen,  "being  a  little  merry,"  attacked 
a  set  of  "the  chief  people  in  town"  who  were  diverting  themselves  at  a 
tavern.  Noting  that  the  gentlemen  were  drinking  alone,  the  troops 
felt  insulted  and  smashed  a  few  windows,  they  thinking  that  "there 
ought  to  be  no  distinction  but  all  get  drunk  together."34 

For  those  on  the  bottom  of  American  society  the  Revolution 
brought  only  a  partial  fulfillment  of  their  expectations;  for  some,  it 
was  an  experience  of  disappointment.  To  be  sure,  there  was  much 
in  the  way  of  social  and  political  democracy  associated  with  the 
movement,  but  in  significant  ways  it  offered  little  or  nothing  to 
people  in  need  of  much.35  For  the  propertyless,  the  states  proved 
unable  and  largely  unwilling  to  offer  assistance;  had  the  states 
engaged  in  land  distribution  programs  they  would  have  had  to 
forego  a  quick  profit  and  to  extend  credit,  but  they  were  badly  in 
need  of  cash  and  offered  credit  only  to  purchasers  with  good  security. 
The  confiscation  of  Loyalist  estates  benefited  few  who  lacked  prop- 
erty; at  least  three- fourths  of  the  property  seized  enriched  the 
affluent  who  alone  possessed  the  credit  or  capital  to  purchase  it.36 
Portions  of  the  great  proprietary  and  similar  tracts  did  become  the 
possession  of  former  tenants  but  most  of  this  land  was  acquired  by 
a  mixture  of  local  farmers,  new  settlers  and  speculators.  Among  the 
soldiers  who  gained  land  as  a  reward  for  their  services  or  in  exchange 
for  their  certificates  were  doubtless  some  who  had  not  previously 
owned  property.  In  removing  from  their  legal  codes  the  laws  sup- 
porting primogeniture  and  entail,  the  new  states  made  an  important 
symbolic  gesture  in  the  direction  of  facilitating  access  to  land,  but 
since  these  ancient  restrictions  had  been  largely  inoperative  they 
were  probably  of  no  real  consequence  for  the  propertyless.  The 
greatest  potential  boon  for  those  without  property  was  the  opening 
of  the  West.  Two  hundred  thousand  people  moved  onto  the  new 
lands  from  New  York  to  Georgia;  for  them,  advancement  into  "the 
garden  of  America"  provided  the  opportunity  not  only  to  become 
fee-simple  yeomen  but  to  find  new  hope  in  a  revitalized  social  order 
which  promised  a  higher  standard  of  living. 

It  was,  of  course,  no  part  of  the  aim  of  the  Revolution's  leaders 
to  bring  about  a  redistribution  of  wealth  in  America.  Nor,  for  that 
matter,  was  this  an  expectation  of  those  who  possessed  little  or  no 
money.  The  state  of  our  present  knowledge  does  not  permit  gen- 

101 


eralizations  as  to  how  the  Revolution  affected  the  lives  of  particular 
poor  people.  But  the  few  studies  that  treat  the  social  structure  of 
revolutionary  America  indicate  that  the  tendency  towards  greater 
inequality  in  the  distribution  of  wealth  noted  prior  to  1776  con- 
tinued—may well,  indeed,  have  been  accelerated— thereafter.37  Allan 
Kulikoff,  in  concluding  his  analysis  of  post-revolutionary  Boston, 
notes  that  "Rich  and  poor  were  divided  by  wealth,  ascribed  status, 
and  segregated  living  patterns.  Individuals  could  rarely  breach  a 
status  barrier  in  fewer  than  two  generations.  While  social  mobility 
may  have  been  relatively  easy  for  a  few  immediately  after  the 
Revolution,  these  extraordinary  opportunities  tended  to  disappear 
as  population  returned  to  its  pre-Revolutionary  size.  Since  political 
power  was  monopolized  by  the  wealthy,  the  poor  could  only  defer- 
entially appeal  for  aid."38 

For  the  majority  of  African  slaves  the  Revolution  was  an  experi- 
ence of  evanescent  expectations.  Certainly  the  implications  of  the 
philosophy  associated  with  the  winning  of  national  freedom  had 
occasioned  examinations  and  doubts  about  the  institution  of  slavery 
and  the  place  of  the  Negro  in  American  life.39  It  is  true  that  many 
slaves  were  manumitted  in  return  for  their  military  services;  others 
were  freed  as  a  result  of  actions  taken  by  conscience-striken  masters, 
or  as  a  consequence  of  the  legislative  acts  and  judicial  decisions 
which  either  immediately  or  gradually  brought  the  institution  to 
an  end  in  the  northern  states.40  The  prohibition  of  slavery  in  the 
Northwest  Ordinance  of  1787  was  based  mainly  on  the  revolutionary 
sentiment  in  favor  of  freedom  and,  as  such,  was  an  important  ba- 
rometer of  blacks;  the  Revolution  affected  no  change  in  their  status. 
It  is  hard  to  dispute  the  judgement  of  one  authority:  "Ironically 
enough,  America's  freedom  was  the  means  of  giving  slavery  itself 
a  longer  life  than  it  was  to  have  in  the  British  Empire."41  Even  the 
Negroes  who  escaped  the  shackles  of  bondage  in  the  Revolutionary 
era  found  their  taste  of  freedom  bitter-sweet  at  best.42 

The  unfranchised,  and  those  who  expected  American  political 
institutions  to  afford  equal  rights  and  true  majority  rule  as  a  result 
of  the  Revolution,  could  take  only  limited  comfort  in  the  event.  Most 
of  the  new  states  continued  the  property  requirements  for  voting 
which  had  been  universal  in  the  colonial  period,  although  some 
lowered  the  amounts  demanded.  Only  four  states  awarded  the  fran- 
chise to  all  taxpayers.  It  is  unlikely,  therefore,  that  the  number  of 
new  voters  increased  by  only  a  few  percentage  points.43  Moreover, 
the  movement  for  simple  republican  governments  composed  of  uni- 
cameral legislatures  failed.44  Only  in  the  bills  of  rights  which  served 
as  preambles  to  the  new  state  constitutions,  in  the  assurance  that  the 
citizen  had  certain  liberties  against  government,  was  much  of  the 

102 


defined  and  precisely  distributed  but  realized  in  respect  for  the 
dignity  of  all  men.  So  strong  was  their  belief  in  equality,  so  much 
did  they  make  it  the  rule  by  which  they  judged  the  behavior  of  their 
leaders  and  more  affluent  neighbors  that  they  were  inclined  to  react 
strongly  to  its  denial  even  in  seemingly  inconsequential  matters. 
In  1779,  at  the  annual  independence  day  celebration  in  Lancaster, 
Pennsylvania,  a  group  of  militiamen,  "being  a  little  merry,"  attacked 
a  set  of  "the  chief  people  in  town"  who  were  diverting  themselves  at  a 
tavern.  Noting  that  the  gentlemen  were  drinking  alone,  the  troops 
felt  insulted  and  smashed  a  few  windows,  they  thinking  that  "there 
ought  to  be  no  distinction  but  all  get  drunk  together."34 

For  those  on  the  bottom  of  American  society  the  Revolution 
brought  only  a  partial  fulfillment  of  their  expectations;  for  some,  it 
was  an  experience  of  disappointment.  To  be  sure,  there  was  much 
in  the  way  of  social  and  political  democracy  associated  with  the 
movement,  but  in  significant  ways  it  offered  little  or  nothing  to 
people  in  need  of  much.35  For  the  propertyless,  the  states  proved 
unable  and  largely  unwilling  to  offer  assistance;  had  the  states 
engaged  in  land  distribution  programs  they  would  have  had  to 
forego  a  quick  profit  and  to  extend  credit,  but  they  were  badly  in 
need  of  cash  and  offered  credit  only  to  purchasers  with  good  security. 
The  confiscation  of  Loyalist  estates  benefited  few  who  lacked  prop- 
erty; at  least  three-fourths  of  the  property  seized  enriched  the 
affluent  who  alone  possessed  the  credit  or  capital  to  purchase  it.36 
Portions  of  the  great  proprietary  and  similar  tracts  did  become  the 
possession  of  former  tenants  but  most  of  this  land  was  acquired  by 
a  mixture  of  local  farmers,  new  settlers  and  speculators.  Among  the 
soldiers  who  gained  land  as  a  reward  for  their  services  or  in  exchange 
for  their  certificates  were  doubtless  some  who  had  not  previously 
owned  property.  In  removing  from  their  legal  codes  the  laws  sup- 
porting primogeniture  and  entail,  the  new  states  made  an  important 
symbolic  gesture  in  the  direction  of  facilitating  access  to  land,  but 
since  these  ancient  restrictions  had  been  largely  inoperative  they 
were  probably  of  no  real  consequence  for  the  propertyless.  The 
greatest  potential  boon  for  those  without  property  was  the  opening 
of  the  West.  Two  hundred  thousand  people  moved  onto  the  new 
lands  from  New  York  to  Georgia;  for  them,  advancement  into  "the 
garden  of  America"  provided  the  opportunity  not  only  to  become 
fee-simple  yeomen  but  to  find  new  hope  in  a  revitalized  social  order 
which  promised  a  higher  standard  of  living. 

It  was,  of  course,  no  part  of  the  aim  of  the  Revolution's  leaders 
to  bring  about  a  redistribution  of  wealth  in  America.  Nor,  for  that 
matter,  was  this  an  expectation  of  those  who  possessed  little  or  no 
money.  The  state  of  our  present  knowledge  does  not  permit  gen- 

101 


eralizations  as  to  how  the  Revolution  affected  the  lives  of  particular 
poor  people.  But  the  few  studies  that  treat  the  social  structure  of 
revolutionary  America  indicate  that  the  tendency  towards  greater 
inequality  in  the  distribution  of  wealth  noted  prior  to  1776  con- 
tinued—may well,  indeed,  have  been  accelerated  — thereafter.37  Allan 
Kulikoff,  in  concluding  his  analysis  of  post-revolutionary  Boston, 
notes  that  "Rich  and  poor  were  divided  by  wealth,  ascribed  status, 
and  segregated  living  patterns.  Individuals  could  rarely  breach  a 
status  barrier  in  fewer  than  two  generations.  While  social  mobility 
may  have  been  relatively  easy  for  a  few  immediately  after  the 
Revolution,  these  extraordinary  opportunities  tended  to  disappear 
as  population  returned  to  its  pre-Revolutionary  size.  Since  political 
power  was  monopolized  by  the  wealthy,  the  poor  could  only  defer- 
entially appeal  for  aid."38 

For  the  majority  of  African  slaves  the  Revolution  was  an  experi- 
ence of  evanescent  expectations.  Certainly  the  implications  of  the 
philosophy  associated  with  the  winning  of  national  freedom  had 
occasioned  examinations  and  doubts  about  the  institution  of  slavery 
and  the  place  of  the  Negro  in  American  life.39  It  is  true  that  many 
slaves  were  manumitted  in  return  for  their  military  services;  others 
were  freed  as  a  result  of  actions  taken  by  conscience-striken  masters, 
or  as  a  consequence  of  the  legislative  acts  and  judicial  decisions 
which  either  immediately  or  gradually  brought  the  institution  to 
an  end  in  the  northern  states.40  The  prohibition  of  slavery  in  the 
Northwest  Ordinance  of  1787  was  based  mainly  on  the  revolutionary 
sentiment  in  favor  of  freedom  and,  as  such,  was  an  important  ba- 
rometer of  blacks;  the  Revolution  affected  no  change  in  their  status. 
It  is  hard  to  dispute  the  judgement  of  one  authority:  "Ironically 
enough,  America's  freedom  was  the  means  of  giving  slavery  itself 
a  longer  life  than  it  was  to  have  in  the  British  Empire."41  Even  the 
Negroes  who  escaped  the  shackles  of  bondage  in  the  Revolutionary 
era  found  their  taste  of  freedom  bitter-sweet  at  best.42 

The  unfranchised,  and  those  who  expected  American  political 
institutions  to  afford  equal  rights  and  true  majority  rule  as  a  result 
of  the  Revolution,  could  take  only  limited  comfort  in  the  event.  Most 
of  the  new  states  continued  the  property  requirements  for  voting 
which  had  been  universal  in  the  colonial  period,  although  some 
lowered  the  amounts  demanded.  Only  four  states  awarded  the  fran- 
chise to  all  taxpayers.  It  is  unlikely,  therefore,  that  the  number  of 
new  voters  increased  by  only  a  few  percentage  points.43  Moreover, 
the  movement  for  simple  republican  governments  composed  of  uni- 
cameral legislatures  failed.44  Only  in  the  bills  of  rights  which  served 
as  preambles  to  the  new  state  constitutions,  in  the  assurance  that  the 
citizen  had  certain  liberties  against  government,  was  much  of  the 

102 


potential  criticism  of  the  Revolution's  political  settlement  prob- 
ably blunted. 

A  most  useful  approach  to  the  study  of  the  powerless  and  the 
American  Revolution  is  one  which  takes  into  account  the  evolution 
of  the  colonial  social  structure  and  political  institutions.  Such  a 
perspective  can  provide  the  historian  with  an  understanding  of  the 
reality  and  nature  of  a  significant  number  of  denied  Americans  — 
slaves,  the  voteless,  seamen,  and  the  poor— as  well  as  the  involve- 
ment of  at  least  some  of  them  in  the  radicalization  of  pre-Revolu- 
tionary  politics.  From  this  viewpoint  it  becomes  clear  that  the 
Revolution  marked  not  the  initiation  but  rather  the  acceleration  of 
processes  of  social  and  political  change  which  had  begun  well  before 
its  occurrence  and  which  are  associated  with  the  modernization  of 
American  society.  The  movement  for  independence  was  incomplete 
in  that  it  did  not  fully  address  the  condition  of  the  dependent  sectors 
of  the  population.  But  the  failure  of  the  downtrodden  to  develop  an 
ideology  which  challenged  the  fundamental  bases  of  American  life 
does  not  negate  the  value  of  assessing  the  Revolution  from  the 
standpoint  of  those  on  the  bottom  of  society.  Indeed  it  helps  us  to 
understand  better  the  goals  and  concerns  of  the  leaders  of  that 
movement,  and  somewhat  ironically,  the  apparently  overwhelming 
identification  with  the  movement  even  on  the  part  of  those  who 
gained  but  little  from  it. 

If  the  Revolution  was  not  altogether  liberating,  it  was  surely 
liberal  and  apparently  promissory.  In  its  promissory  quality,  it  held 
out  the  hope  of  a  better  future  for  those  whose  present  was  less  than 
happy.  In  its  liberating  quality  it  marked  the  enshrinement  of  the 
privatistic,  competitive,  "democracy  in  cupidity"  — given  classic 
sanction  in  Madison's  "Federalist  Number  Ten"— which  evolved 
slowly  but  steadily  during  the  colonial  era  at  the  expense  of  holistic 
or  otherwise  restraining  philosophies.  Ultimately,  these  two  qualities 
were  incompatible;  they  produced  not  the  amelioration  but  rather 
the  exacerbation  of  social  tensions,  a  heightening  of  the  distinctions 
between  men  which  has  provided  the  occasion  for  almost  every 
subsequent  debate  in  American  political  history. 


FOOTNOTES 

1  Jesse  Lemisch,  "The  American  Revolution  Seen  from  the  Bottom  Up," 
in  Barton  Bernstein,  ed.,  Towards  a  New  Past:  Dissenting  Essays  in  Ameri- 
can History  (New  York,  1968),  3-45. 

2  Ibid.,  29. 

3  Louis    M.    Hacker,    "The    American    Revolution,    Economic    Aspects," 


103 


Marxist  Quarterly,  I  (1937),  46-47.  Other  expressions  of  this  point  of  view 
may  be  found  in  Carl  Becker,  The  History  of  Political  Parties  in  the  Pro- 
vince of  New  York  (Madison,  Wisconsin,  1909),  Louis  M.  Hacker,  The 
Triumph  of  American  Captialism  (New  York,  1940)  and  Arthur  M.  Schle- 
singer.  The  Colonial  Merchants  and  the  American  Revolution  (New  York, 
1918). 

4  Arthur  M.  Schlesinger,  "The  American  Revolution  Reconsidered,"  Politi- 
cal Science  Quarterly,  XXXIV  (1919),  61-78. 

5  J.  Franklin  Jameson,  The  American  Revolution  Considered  As  a  Social 
Movement  (Princeton,  New  Jersey,  1926). 

6  Lemisch,  "The  American  Revolution  Seen  from  the  Bottom  Up,"  6. 

7  Aside  from  Lemisch's  article  cited  above,  other  studies  showing  this 
perspective  include  his  "Jack  Tar  in  the  Streets:  Merchant  Seamen  in  the 
Politics  of  Revolutionary  America,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  3rd  Ser., 
XXV  (1968),  371-407  and  Staughton  Lynd,  Class  Conflict,  Slavery,  and  the 
United  States  Constitution  (Indianapolis,  Indiana,  1967). 

8  Among  those  studies  which  focus  directly  on  the  "inarticulate"  during  the 
Revolution  are  James  H.  Hutson,  "An  Investigation  of  the  Inarticulate: 
Philadelphia's  White  Oaks,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  3rd  Ser.,  XXVIII 
(1971),  3-26  and  Charles  S.  Olton,  "Philadelphia's  Merchanics  in  the  First 
Decade  of  Revolution,  1765-1775,"  Journal  of  American  History.  LIX  ( 1972), 
311-26.  Other  work  which  has  significant  bearing  on  the  denied  classes  and 
the  Revolution  includes  Merrill  Jensen,  "The  American  People  and  the 
American  Revolution,"  ibid.,  LVII  (1970),  5-35;  Roger  Champagne,  "New 
York's  Radicals  and  the  Coming  of  Independence,"  ibid..  XI  (1964),  21-39: 
David  C.  Skaggs,  "Maryland's  Impulse  Toward  Social  Revolution."  ibid., 
XIV  (1967),  771-86;  and  Allan  Kulikoff,  "The  Progress  of  Inequality  in 
Revolutionary  Boston,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly.  3rd  Ser.,  XXVIII 
(1971),  375-412. 

9  Edmund  S.  Morgan,  "Conflict  and  Consensus  in  the  American  Revolu- 
tion," in  Stephen  G.  Kurtz  and  James  H.  Hutson,  eds.,  Essays  on  the 
American  Revolution  (Chapel  Hill,  1971),  297. 

10  Hutson,  "An  Investigation  of  the  Inarticulate,"  William  and  Mary 
Quarterly,  XXVIII,  24-25. 

11  Lemisch,  "The  American  Revolution  Seen  from  the  Bottom  Up,"  3-29, 
passim. 

12  Sidney  Kaplan,  The  Black  Presence  in  the  Era  of  the  American  Revolu- 
tion (Greenwich,  Connecticut,  1973),  13. 

13  James  A.  Henretta,  "Economic  Development  and  Social  Structure  in 
Colonial  Boston,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  3d  Ser.,  XXII  (1965),  75-92. 

14  Douglas  Lamar  Jones,  "The  Strolling  Poor:  Transiency  in  Eighteenth- 
Century  Massachusetts,"  Journal  of  Social  History,   VIII   (1975),   28-49. 

15  See  my  forthcoming  book,  Conestoga  Crossroads:  Lancaster,  Pennsyl- 
vania, 1730-1790,  to  be  published  by  the  Pennsylvania  Historical  and  Mu- 
seum Commission. 

16  James  T.  Lemon  and  Gary  B.  Nash,  "The  Distribution  of  Wealth  in 

104 


potential  criticism  of  the  Revolution's  political  settlement  prob- 
ably blunted. 

A  most  useful  approach  to  the  study  of  the  powerless  and  the 
American  Revolution  is  one  which  takes  into  account  the  evolution 
of  the  colonial  social  structure  and  political  institutions.  Such  a 
perspective  can  provide  the  historian  with  an  understanding  of  the 
reality  and  nature  of  a  significant  number  of  denied  Americans  — 
slaves,  the  voteless,  seamen,  and  the  poor  — as  well  as  the  involve- 
ment of  at  least  some  of  them  in  the  radicalization  of  pre-Revolu- 
tionary  politics.  From  this  viewpoint  it  becomes  clear  that  the 
Revolution  marked  not  the  initiation  but  rather  the  acceleration  of 
processes  of  social  and  political  change  which  had  begun  well  before 
its  occurrence  and  which  are  associated  with  the  modernization  of 
American  society.  The  movement  for  independence  was  incomplete 
in  that  it  did  not  fully  address  the  condition  of  the  dependent  sectors 
of  the  population.  But  the  failure  of  the  downtrodden  to  develop  an 
ideology  which  challenged  the  fundamental  bases  of  American  life 
does  not  negate  the  value  of  assessing  the  Revolution  from  the 
standpoint  of  those  on  the  bottom  of  society.  Indeed  it  helps  us  to 
understand  better  the  goals  and  concerns  of  the  leaders  of  that 
movement,  and  somewhat  ironically,  the  apparently  overwhelming 
identification  with  the  movement  even  on  the  part  of  those  who 
gained  but  little  from  it. 

If  the  Revolution  was  not  altogether  liberating,  it  was  surely 
liberal  and  apparently  promissory.  In  its  promissory  quality,  it  held 
out  the  hope  of  a  better  future  for  those  whose  present  was  less  than 
happy.  In  its  liberating  quality  it  marked  the  enshrinement  of  the 
privatistic,  competitive,  "democracy  in  cupidity"  — given  classic 
sanction  in  Madison's  "Federalist  Number  Ten"— which  evolved 
slowly  but  steadily  during  the  colonial  era  at  the  expense  of  holistic 
or  otherwise  restraining  philosophies.  Ultimately,  these  two  qualities 
were  incompatible;  they  produced  not  the  amelioration  but  rather 
the  exacerbation  of  social  tensions,  a  heightening  of  the  distinctions 
between  men  which  has  provided  the  occasion  for  almost  every 
subsequent  debate  in  American  political  history. 


FOOTNOTES 

1  Jesse  Lemisch,  "The  American  Revolution  Seen  from  the  Bottom  Up," 
in  Barton  Bernstein,  ed.,  Towards  a  New  Past:  Dissenting  Essays  in  Ameri- 
can History  (New  York,  1968),  3-45. 

2  Ibid.,  29. 

3  Louis    M.    Hacker,    "The    American    Revolution,    Economic    Aspects," 


103 


Marxist  Quarterly,  I  (1937),  46-47.  Other  expressions  of  this  point  of  view 
may  be  found  in  Carl  Becker,  The  History  of  Political  Parties  in  the  Pro- 
vince of  New  York  (Madison,  Wisconsin,  1909),  Louis  M.  Hacker,  The 
Triumph  of  American  Captialism  (New  York,  1940)  and  Arthur  M.  Schle- 
singer,  The  Colonial  Merchants  and  the  American  Revolution  (New  York, 
1918). 

4  Arthur  M.  Schlesinger,  "The  American  Revolution  Reconsidered,"  Politi- 
cal Science  Quarterly,  XXXIV  (1919),  61-78. 

5  J.  Franklin  Jameson,  The  American  Revolution  Considered  As  a  Social 
Movement  (Princeton,  New  Jersey,  1926). 

6  Lemisch,  "The  American  Revolution  Seen  from  the  Bottom  Up,"  6. 

7  Aside  from  Lemisch's  article  cited  above,  other  studies  showing  this 
perspective  include  his  "Jack  Tar  in  the  Streets:  Merchant  Seamen  in  the 
Politics  of  Revolutionary  America,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  3rd  Ser., 
XXV  (1968),  371-407  and  Staughton  Lynd,  Class  Conflict,  Slavery,  and  the 
United  States  Constitution  (Indianapolis,  Indiana,  1967). 

8  Among  those  studies  which  focus  directly  on  the  "inarticulate"  during  the 
Revolution  are  James  H.  Hutson,  "An  Investigation  of  the  Inarticulate: 
Philadelphia's  White  Oaks,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  3rd  Ser.,  XXVIII 
(1971),  3-26  and  Charles  S.  Olton,  "Philadelphia's  Merchanics  in  the  First 
Decade  of  Revolution,  1765-1775,"  Journal  of  American  History,  LIX(1972), 
311-26.  Other  work  which  has  significant  bearing  on  the  denied  classes  and 
the  Revolution  includes  Merrill  Jensen,  "The  American  People  and  the 
American  Revolution,"  ibid.,  LVII  (1970),  5-35;  Roger  Champagne,  "New 
York's  Radicals  and  the  Coming  of  Independence,"  ibid.,  XI  (1964),  21-39; 
David  C.  Skaggs.  "Maryland's  Impulse  Toward  Social  Revolution,"  ibid., 
XIV  (1967),  771-86;  and  Allan  Kulikoff,  "The  Progress  of  Inequality  in 
Revolutionary  Boston,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  3rd  Ser.,  XXVIII 
(1971),  375-412. 

9  Edmund  S.  Morgan,  "Conflict  and  Consensus  in  the  American  Revolu- 
tion," in  Stephen  G.  Kurtz  and  James  H.  Hutson,  eds.,  Essays  on  the 
American  Revolution  (Chapel  Hill,  1971),  297. 

10  Hutson,  "An  Investigation  of  the  Inarticulate,"  William  and  Mary 
Quarterly,  XXVIII,  24-25. 

11  Lemisch,  "The  American  Revolution  Seen  from  the  Bottom  Up,"  3-29, 
passim. 

12  Sidney  Kaplan,  The  Black  Presence  in  the  Era  of  the  American  Revolu- 
tion (Greenwich,  Connecticut,  1973),  13. 

13  James  A.  Henretta,  "Economic  Development  and  Social  Structure  in 
Colonial  Boston,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  3d  Ser.,  XXII  ( 1965),  75-92. 

14  Douglas  Lamar  Jones,  "The  Strolling  Poor:  Transiency  in  Eighteenth- 
Century  Massachusetts,"  Journal  of  Social  History,   VIII   (1975),   28-49. 

15  See  my  forthcoming  book,  Conestoga  Crossroads:  Lancaster,  Pennsyl- 
vania, 1730-1790,  to  be  published  by  the  Pennsylvania  Historical  and  Mu- 
seum Commission. 

16  James  T  Lemon  and  Gary  B.  Nash,  "The  Distribution  of  Wealth  in 

104 


Eighteenth-Century  America:  A  Century  of  Change  in  Chester  County, 
Pennsylvania,  1693-1802,"  Journal  of  Social  History,  II  (1968),  1-24.  For  the 
South,  David  C.  Skaggs,  "Maryland's  Impulse  Toward  Social  Revolution," 
Journal  of  American  History,  LIV,  771-86,  has  important  material.  For  the 
social  structure  of  the  colonies,  1763-1783,  see  Jackson  Turner  Main,  The 
Social  Structure  of  Revolutionary  America  (Princeton,  New  Jersey,  1965). 

17  Kenneth  A.  Lockridge,  "Social  Change  and  the  Meaning  of  the  American 
Revolution,"  Journal  of  Social  History,  VI  (1973),  403-439. 

18  James  A.  Henretta,  The  Evolution  of  American  Society,  1700-1815  (Lex- 
ington, Massachusetts,  1973),  ch.  3.  See  also  Carl  Bridenbaugh,  Cities  in 
Revolt:  Urban  Life  in  America,  1 743- 1 776  (New  York,  1955). 

19  Merrill  Jensen,  The  Founding  of  a  Nation:  A  History  of  the  American 
Revolution,  1 763- 1 776  (New  York,  1968),  31-32. 

20  Bridenbaugh,  Cities  in  Revolt,  114;  Lemisch,  "Jack  Tar  in  the  Streets," 
William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  3d  Ser.,  XXV,  387;  John  Hope  Franklin,  From 
Slavery  to  Freedom:  A  History  of  American  Negroes  (New  York,  1956),  73, 
75,  79,  91-92,  106;  Richard  B.  Morris,  Government  and  Labor  in  Early 
America  (New  York,  1946),  ch.  3.  Lemisch  draws  attention  to  the  class  basis 
of  the  impressment  riots  by  pointing  out  the  divergent  motivations  of 
seamen  and  non-seamen  participants. 

21  Gary  B.  Nash,  "The  Transformation  of  Urban  Politics,  1700-1765," 
Journal  of  American  History,  LX  ( 1973),  605-632. 

22  Ibid. 

23  Lemisch,  "The  American  Revolution  Seen  from  the  Bottom  Up,"  21-22; 
John  Shy,  Toward  Lexington:  The  Role  of  the  British  Army  in  the  Coming 
of  the  American  Revolution  (Princeton,  New  Jersey,  1965),  165. 

24  Skaggs,  "Maryland's  Impulse  Toward  Social  Revolution,"  Journal  of 
American  History,  LIV,  781-82. 

25  Pauline  Maier,  From  Resistance  to  Revolution:  Colonial  Radicals  and  the 
Development  of  American  Opposition  to  Britain,  1765-1776  (New  York, 
1972),  86-89. 

26  Ibid.,  272-73. 

27  Ibid.,  274;  Jensen,  "The  American  Revolution  and  the  American  People," 
Journal  of  American  History,  LVII,  21. 

28  Nelson  F.  Adkins,  ed.,  Thomas  Paine:  Common  Sense  and  Other  Political 
Writings  (New  York,  1953),  30. 

29  Jensen,  "The  American  Revolution  and  the  American  People,"  Journal 
of  American  History,  LVII,  31. 

30  Ibid.,  32. 

31  For  the  significant,  but  frustrated  attempt  to  bring  political  democracy 
to  the  new  states  in  the  Revolution  see  Elisha  P.  Douglass,  Rebels  and 
Democras:  The  Struggle  for  Equal  Political  Rights  and  Majoriy  Rule 
During  the  American  Revolution  (Chapel  Hill,  1955);  Jensen,  "The  American 
Revolution  and  the  American  People,"  Journal  of  American  History,  LVII, 
30. 


105 


32  Benjamin  Quarles,  The  Negro  in  the  American  Revolution  (Chapel  Hill, 
1961),  38-40,  43-50. 

33  Ibid.,  51-52,  115. 

34  Journal  of  the  Lancaster  [Pa.  ]  County  Historical  Society,  LVIII  ( 1954),  5. 

35  On  political  democracy  and  the  American  Revolution  see  Merrill  Jensen, 
"Democracy  and  the  American  Revolution,"  Huntington  Library  Quarterly, 
XX  (1957),  321-41. 

36  Jackson  Turner  Main,  The  Sovereign  States,  1775-1783  (New  York, 
1973),  319,  331. 

37  Main,  Social  Structure  of  Revolutionary  America,  286-87;  Kulikoff,  "The 
Progress  of  Inequality  in  Boston,"  William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  3rd  Ser., 
XXVIII,  409-11. 

38  Kulikoff,  Ibid.,  409. 

39  Bernard  Bailyn,  ed.,  Pamphlets  of  the  American  Revolution  (Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  1965),  142-50;  Winthrop  D.  Jurdaon,  White  Over  Black: 
American  Attitudes  Toward  the  Negro  (Chapel  Hill,  1968),  ch.  9. 

40  Arthur  Zilversmit,  The  First  Emancipation  (Chicago,  1971). 

41  Franklin,  From  Slavery  to  Freedom,  143. 

42  Leon  Litwack,  North  of  Slavery:  The  Negro  in  the  Free  Staes,  1790-1860. 

43  Chilton  Williamson,  American  Suffrage:  From  Property  to  Democracy 
(Princeton,  New  Jersey,  1960). 

44  Douglass,  Rebels  and  Democrats;  Gordon  Wood,  The  Creation  of  the 
American  Republic,  1776-1787  (Chapel  Hill,  1969).  Wood  traces  the  conser- 
vative Whig  views  on  government  and  bicameralism. 


106 


demco