Signing Their Rights Away Read online

  Thus, says one historian, Dayton’s presence at the convention was regarded as something of an insult to the profound legal thinkers present. One of the more charitable delegates noted that Dayton was “little known; having no other merit than to be the son of a good patriot.” Others were more direct, including Georgia delegate William Pierce, who claimed, “There is an impetuosity in his temper that is injurious to him.”

  In Dayton’s defense, plenty of evidence suggests that he was an active member of the convention. According to James Madison’s copious notes, Dayton angrily defended the right of small states to an equal say in their future government: “He considered the system on the table [the Virginia Plan] as a novelty, an amphibious monster; and was persuaded that it would never be received by the people.” To no one’s surprise, Dayton supported William Paterson’s New Jersey Plan, but he ultimately came around to the Great Compromise. He joined fellow delegates in signing the Constitution, went home to help push through ratification, and embarked on a promising career that would see him become one of New Jersey’s first U.S. representatives and senators. He had been elected Speaker of the House by the age of thirty-four.

  Like many a rising star, Dayton had a weakness: investing in real estate and other astounding speculative ventures. He was “notorious from Boston to Georgia,” wrote one historian who studied Dayton’s wheeling and dealing. “The deeds of other men in Congress were scarcely known beyond the circle of their respective states, but the speculations of this man have rung throughout the western world.” A month after the convention, Dayton teamed up with a syndicate of other men to buy up tremendous amounts of land—one million acres—on the Miami River in Ohio. The plan was to lure New Jersey farmers out west and sell them the land at a profit. (Dayton, Ohio, was named by its first settlers in his honor.) But when the syndicate ran into trouble paying back the borrowed money, Dayton sweet-talked creditors into more favorable terms. Unlike fellow signers Robert Morris and James Wilson, he managed to avoid debtor’s prison.

  Still, his decline continued. He next invested $18,000 worth of congressional cash into yet another land speculation deal. Although Congress tracked down the money and Dayton returned it, his reputation was forever tarnished. Few people trusted him—except the man who would lead to his downfall.

  Aaron Burr befriended Dayton when the two were students at Princeton. The friendship blossomed when Burr became vice president under Thomas Jefferson, but then events took an outrageous turn. Burr allegedly lured Dayton into a strange scheme to invade Spanish-held lands in the western part of the continent. The motives for the plot are sketchy even today; many speculate that Burr wanted to carve out his own mini-empire in the west. Whatever the reason, Dayton did lend his friend some money, creating a financial paper trail that proved to be his undoing. (It’s not clear if he intended to participate in Burr’s plan.)

  When Thomas Jefferson got wind of the scheme, he ordered the capture of all alleged conspirators. Dayton was arrested for treason in 1807 and posted bail but was never brought to trial. Burr stood trial. Despite Jefferson’s angry exhortations to Chief Justice John Marshall to convict, Burr was found not guilty.

  Yet, guilt by association was enough to ruin Dayton’s already tarnished political career. He continued to serve in the New Jersey legislature but never again stepped foot onto the national stage. He became something of a pathetic figure later in life. Active in various veteran organizations, he was known for wearing tricorn hats and colonial dress long after they’d gone out of style. “The last of the cocked hats,” people called him.

  When the dear old Marquis de Lafayette returned to the United States at the invitation of President James Monroe for a tour of the nation he’d helped liberate, Dayton was high on the list of men who feted him. Incessant carousing exhausted Dayton and wrecked his health. He died in 1824, just before his sixty-fourth birthday. He is buried in the churchyard of St. John’s Church in Elizabeth, but you’ll never find his plot there. When the church was rebuilt in 1860, elders saw fit to erect the new structure right over his grave.

  VI. Pennsylvania

  The Signer Known throughout the World

  BORN: January 17, 1706

  DIED: April 17, 1790

  AGE AT SIGNING: 81

  PROFESSION: Printer, scientist, philosopher

  BURIED: Christ Church Burial Ground, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  After nine years of serving in France as his nation’s minister, Benjamin Franklin returned to Philadelphia with a golden sedan chair—a carriage designed to be hefted by four strong men. Franklin was pushing eighty years old and suffering from gout, and he had no patience for walking the muddy streets of Philadelphia. Instead, prisoners on loan from the local jail carried him aloft, seated in his sedan, as if he were a god.

  And though he was no deity, he was undoubtedly the world’s best-known American. In his eight decades, Franklin had stood in the presence of five kings and summoned thunderbolts from the heavens. He was a printer, a publisher, a writer, a scientist, a philosopher, an inventor, and a philanthropist, all in a single lifetime. Franklin had none of Thomas Jefferson’s patrician advantages, and yet this self-made man ended his life wealthier, more famous, and more adored than all his contemporaries. Even today, he remains the most famous of the founding fathers.

  Franklin began life as a lowborn son of a Boston candlemaker. He ran away from his first job to Philadelphia, where he prospered at the press of a printer. He traveled to England to apprentice and returned to print his own newspaper, The Pennsylvania Gazette, and an annual, Poor Richard’s Almanack. These publications were chock full of maxims you still hear uttered today, including, “A penny saved is a penny earned” and “Early to Bed, and early to rise, makes a Man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” Poor Richard’s soon became the second most popular book in the country (after the Bible). Farmers craved its planting advice, and all colonists wanted its useful calendar. The pamphlet was cheap and written for ordinary people. While many signers condescended to the common man (John Adams called the populace “rabble”), Franklin was sympathetic—even though, by age forty-two, he was rich enough to leave his business in the hands of a partner and devote himself to philanthropic work and the building of a new nation.

  He improved life in Philadelphia by creating the first American hospital, library, and volunteer fire department. He worked to create the academy that would later grow into the University of Pennsylvania, and he traveled throughout the colonies seeking to better the colonial mail system. In recognition of his efforts, Parliament appointed him postmaster general. He also cranked out inventions, including such useful items as the Franklin stove, the lightning rod, and bifocals.

  Franklin is so closely associated with Philadelphia and early colonial life that it’s somewhat shocking to realize that he spent nearly three decades living in Europe. Following his early visit to England as a printer’s apprentice, he returned in 1757 for another ten years to serve as an agent of Pennsylvania. He became embroiled in a scandal concerning leaked antirebel letters written by the royal governor of Massachusetts; these letters were stolen for Franklin by another future signer of the Constitution: Hugh Williamson, of North Carolina.

  Back in America in 1775, Franklin decided that he supported a total break with the motherland. He helped draft the Declaration of Independence and became the document’s oldest signer, at age seventy.

  In the fall of 1776, Franklin left once again for Europe, hopping a ship on a secret mission to beseech France for troops and funds to fight the war. Franklin charmed the pants off France, which kicked in cash and forty-four thousand troops, effectively clinching the war for the Americans. Franklin spent the rest of the Revolution in France (while his finances, unlike those of his fellow signers, tripled) and helped craft the U.S.–Britain peace accord, known as the Treaty of Paris, which he, among others, signed in 1783.

  Though Franklin had never been a great speaker and the niceties of law eluded him, the organizers of the 178
7 convention knew that his presence would lend the debates an air of respectability. If Washington and Franklin—then serving as Pennsylvania’s governor—took part, it would send a signal that the convention was far more important than whatever Congress was working on in New York, which was then the seat of government.

  But old age had done a number on Franklin. He was then eighty-one years old. Everything ached. He often propped up his gout-swollen feet and napped through the deliberations. When too tired to speak, he would pass notes to his friend, legal logician James Wilson, who read them aloud in his distinctive Scottish accent.

  It’s not clear that Franklin contributed any great ideas toward the creation of the Constitution. What we do know is that he told humorous stories and parables, which lightened the mood, broke logjams, and often prompted the angry delegates to resume conversations. On one memorable occasion, he interrupted a heated discussion by signaling a motion to hire a local preacher to lead the delegates in prayer every morning. It was fine idea, but it forced the delegates to confront an embarrassing fact: the U.S. government was so broke, it couldn’t afford the fee! Had wise Franklin made the motion to shame the men into negotiating in earnest? Or was he tossing out random ideas to keep from dozing off?

  But his endless storytelling made some delegates nervous. The deliberations were supposed to be kept completely secret—if Americans learned that delegates were constantly bickering, rumors might spread that the union was unraveling. Believing Franklin could keep a secret about as well as a thirteen-year-old blogger, the convention assigned two men to tail him each night and ensure he didn’t blab publicly about the day’s events.

  Franklin supported a unicameral, or single-house, legislature, and a weak president, or possibly a council of men to act together as chief executive. He disliked the idea of entrusting a single person with so much power, and he was against paying politicians for their services. Handsome wages would attract only greedy, narrow-minded men who lusted for power and money, he said. In time, such good-for-nothings would raise taxes in a ceaseless bid to milk the government dry.

  But when Charles Pinckney, a delegate from South Carolina, suggested that only men with a net worth of at least $100,000 be allowed to serve in government, Franklin protested. He argued that some of the biggest rogues he’d ever met were wealthy men, and he warned that immigrants might stop moving to the United States because it would be perceived not as a land of opportunity, but as a domain of the rich.

  On another occasion, when delegates were clashing over how best to represent the states in Congress, Franklin told a story of a woodworker building a table. What happens when the pieces of wood don’t match up perfectly? he asked. The craftsman takes a little from each piece until they dovetail beautifully; he doesn’t give up until he makes it work. The message was obvious: Do likewise, gents, or we are doomed. Shortly after, delegates from Connecticut proposed the Great Compromise.

  At the end of the convention, before the document had been signed, Franklin was invited to make the closing remarks. He labored over a beautiful speech, which was read by James Wilson. The speech unwittingly handed delegates the message they would parrot to their constituents back home: This document may not be perfect, but it’s the best we can do.

  “I cannot help expressing a wish,” added Franklin, “that every member of the Convention who may still have objections to it, would with me, on this occasion, doubt a little of his own infallibility, and to make manifest our unanimity, put his name to this instrument.”

  The thirty-nine signed, his words still ringing in their ears.

  A final anecdote: Franklin spent much of the convention scrutinizing George Washington’s chair, the back of which was decorated with the motif of a sun, with shafts of light radiating outward. Franklin couldn’t shake the chair from his mind. Did it depict dawn or dusk? He could not decide. On the last day of the convention, after the men had signed the document, he told the delegates of his little dilemma and concluded, “But now at length I have the happiness to know that it is a rising and not a setting sun!”

  The oldest signer of the U.S. Constitution lived to see the document ratified and his friend Washington elected as the first president of the United States. In 1790, Franklin became the first signer of the Constitution to die. He passed away at age eighty-four and is buried in Philadelphia.

  The Signer Who Was Ruined by Drink

  BORN: January 10, 1744

  DIED: January 20, 1800

  AGE AT SIGNING: 43

  PROFESSION: Merchant, soldier, politician

  BURIED: Trinity Lutheran Churchyard, Lancaster, Pennsylvania

  In revolutionary times, it was commonly believed that alcohol gave people strength—and our founding fathers needed all the strength they could get. They drank nearly every day—morning, noon, and night. Some historians estimate that the average person living in revolutionary America guzzled six gallons of pure alcohol every year (today that number is probably closer to two).

  Stephen Hopkins, a signer of the Declaration of Independence, was famous for imbibing rum in congressional chambers. Luther Martin, a brilliant Baltimore attorney who ultimately did not sign the Constitution, gave one of his most famous, albeit craziest, convention speeches while absolutely tanked. Yet both men ended life with their reputations relatively intact.

  So what happened with Thomas Mifflin? How could this constitutional delegate (and future governor of Pennsylvania) be ruined by alcohol? The answer lies in the mores of the time. For while heavy drinking was acceptable in revolutionary America, flagrant public drunkenness was not. And, alas, Mifflin’s frequent tipsiness made him an easy mark for political enemies.

  Born in Philadelphia, Mifflin was the son of wealthy merchant parents. He studied at the future University of Pennsylvania, clerked at a local business, toured England and France, and opened a store in Philadelphia with his brother. He became active in politics while still in his twenties and identified strongly with patriots, who were in the minority in Pennsylvania. Though affluent all his life, he seemed to have the common touch and formed a strong bond with the state’s poorer citizens, farmers and laborers alike. One writer described him as “very popular and handling with a surprising ease the hundred-headed monster known as the people.” But he was also a brooding, temperamental man who longed to contribute to his country’s formation. At the first Continental Congress, a delighted Mifflin was among the group of men who chose Washington to lead the Continental forces. Later, Mifflin himself was picked as the general’s aide-de-camp. As he kissed his beloved wife, Sarah, goodbye and dashed off to war, his Quaker brethren voted to boot him out of the meetinghouse for bearing arms.

  Mifflin fought with distinction at the battles of Long Island, Trenton, and Princeton. He was eventually promoted to the rank of major general but spent much of his time, at Washington’s request, working as the army’s quartermaster in charge of locating supplies and outfitting troops. Though he was allowed to collect a commission on goods he bought and sold, and his sharp mind for logistics and mercantile background made him an obvious choice for the post, Mifflin likely detested the job and considered it a waste of his talents. He preferred to be out in the field or raising morale among the troops and is credited with persuading many soldiers to remain in the service. Ironically, after the disastrous seizure of Philadelphia by the British in 1777, Mifflin tried to resign his job, claiming he was too ill to continue. Historians think he just wanted to ditch the outfitter gig. Yet, he remained in the military and ended up working for the Board of War, the Congressional committee in charge of army matters. That post no doubt bored him to tears as well.

  At some point, Mifflin grew fed up with being sidelined and involved himself with the notorious Conway Cabal, a plot to oust and replace Washington with another military hero, General Horatio Gates. When Washington’s supporters learned of the plan, they demanded to see the financial records Mifflin had kept while quartermaster, insisting that he had misused government money in what
one historian calls a “highly unethical, albeit legal way.” Unfortunately, Mifflin’s records were a mess. Washington wanted to court-martial him for insubordination, but Mifflin escaped the general’s wrath by ignominiously resigning from the military. To silence his foes, in 1782 Mifflin published his “economic autobiography” in a local newspaper, which has provided historians with a fascinating account of one man’s astute accumulation of wealth—through real estate, ships, and army commissions—during wartime.

  Cut to 1783. The war is over. George Washington, now regarded as nothing short of a saint, returns to resign his commission before Congress. Who should Washington see sitting in the exalted seat of power, as president of Congress, but his old nemesis, Thomas Mifflin. In an absurdly flowery speech, Mifflin ate crow and thanked Washington for, um, winning the war and stuff.

  Mifflin was still president of Congress when the nation formally ended the Revolutionary War. After leaving Congress, he was active in Pennsylvania’s legislature and even served as the state’s president, a precursor to the governorship. It’s true that he went to the Constitutional Convention in 1787, but no one has found any record of his participation, beyond seconding a motion and signing the document on September 17. In 1790, he was elected the first governor of the Keystone State by an incredible margin of 10–1. Some wags later gossiped that he’d bought off the election by pandering to his beloved lower-class voters. One can picture the “handsome rotund” Mifflin glad-handing the rabble in Philly’s taverns, tankard in hand. He stayed in office nine years, during some of the worst times in the state’s history. He presided over the horrors of the yellow fever epidemics and later sent Pennsylvania’s militia into the state’s frontier territory to quell the 1794 Whiskey Rebellion. In raising troops for the militia, he addressed the common people and invoked the document forever linked with his name: “Are you willing to serve your country; to save your Constitution, and to assist in securing from anarchy, as you did from despotism, the freedom and independence of America?”