Quilling illustration for Federalist No. 85
Federalist No. 85

Conclusion

Federalist 85

According to the plan I laid out in my first paper, two subjects still remain: how the proposed government resembles your own State constitution, and the added security its adoption would give to republican government, to liberty, and to property. But the work so far has already covered both so thoroughly that anything I added now would only restate, at greater length, what has already been said; and the late stage of the debate, together with the time already spent on it, forbids that.

It is striking that the convention’s plan resembles New York’s own constitution not only in its real merits but in many of its supposed faults. Among the alleged defects are these: the President’s eligibility for re-election, the lack of a council, the absence of a formal bill of rights, and the omission of any clause securing the liberty of the press. These objections, and several others raised in the course of our inquiries, apply just as much to this State’s existing constitution as to the one proposed for the Union. A man has slender claim to consistency who rails at the new plan for imperfections he readily excuses in his own State’s charter. Indeed, there is no clearer proof of the insincerity of some zealous opponents among us, men who profess to admire the very government they live under, than the fury with which they have attacked the convention’s plan on points where our own constitution is equally, or perhaps more, vulnerable.

The added security to republican government, to liberty, and to property comes chiefly from several sources. Preserving the Union will restrain local factions and insurrections, and check the ambition of powerful men within single States, who might otherwise, through leaders and favorites, gain enough credit and influence to become the people’s despots. Union will narrow the openings for foreign intrigue that the Confederacy’s dissolution would invite; it will prevent the extensive military establishments that wars between disunited States would inevitably produce; it guarantees each State a republican form of government; and it absolutely and universally excludes titles of nobility. It also guards against a repetition of those State practices that have undermined property and credit, sown mutual distrust among all classes of citizens, and brought morals to near-universal ruin.

Thus, fellow-citizens, I have completed the task I set myself; what success it has had, your conduct must decide. I trust you will at least grant that I have kept the promise I gave about the spirit of these endeavors. I have addressed myself purely to your judgment, and have carefully avoided the bitterness that so often disgraces political disputants of every party, bitterness that the opponents of the Constitution did much to provoke.

The charge that the plan’s advocates have conspired against the people’s liberties is too wanton and too malicious not to rouse the indignation of any man who feels its falsehood in his own breast. The endless harping on the wealthy, the well-born, and the great has disgusted every sensible man, and the concealments and misrepresentations used in various ways to keep the truth from the public deserve the condemnation of every honest one. It may be that these circumstances betrayed me at times into sharper expressions than I intended; I have certainly felt a frequent struggle between feeling and restraint, and if feeling sometimes prevailed, my excuse is that it did so neither often nor by much.

Let us now pause and ask ourselves whether, over the course of these papers, the proposed Constitution has been satisfactorily cleared of the slanders thrown at it, and shown to deserve the public’s approval and to be necessary to its safety and prosperity. Every man is bound to answer these questions to himself, by the best of his conscience and understanding, and to act on the sober dictates of his judgment. No motive can excuse him from this duty; all the obligations that bind society together call on him to discharge it sincerely. No partial motive, no private interest, no pride of opinion, no passing passion or prejudice can justify, to himself, his country, or his posterity, a wrong choice of the part he must play. Let him beware of stubborn loyalty to party; let him reflect that what he decides is not some particular interest of the community but the very existence of the nation; and let him remember that a majority of America has already endorsed the plan he is to approve or reject.

I will not pretend otherwise: I feel complete confidence in the arguments that recommend this system to you, and I can see no real force in those raised against it. I am persuaded that it is the best our political situation, habits, and opinions will allow, and superior to anything the revolution has produced.

The plan’s friends have conceded that it falls short of perfection, and its enemies have made much of the admission. “Why,” they ask, “should we adopt an imperfect thing? Why not amend it and make it perfect before it is fixed beyond recall?” This sounds plausible, but it is only plausible. First, the extent of these concessions has been greatly exaggerated. They have been cast as an admission that the plan is fundamentally defective, and that without major changes the community’s rights and interests cannot safely be trusted to it. So far as I understand those who make the concessions, this entirely twists their meaning. No advocate of the measure can be found who will not declare it his view that the system, though imperfect in some parts, is on the whole a good one; the best the country’s present views and circumstances permit; and one that promises every kind of security a reasonable people could want.

I answer next that it would be the height of imprudence to prolong the precarious state of our national affairs, and to expose the Union to the hazard of one experiment after another, in the fanciful pursuit of a perfect plan. I never expect to see a perfect work from imperfect man. Whatever any collective body produces must be a mixture: of the errors and prejudices, as well as the good sense and wisdom, of the individuals who compose it. A compact meant to bind thirteen distinct States in a common union must likewise be a compromise among that many different interests and inclinations. How can perfection spring from such materials?

The reasons given in an excellent little pamphlet lately published in this city are unanswerable in showing how unlikely it is that a new convention could be assembled under circumstances anywhere near as favorable to a good outcome as those in which the late convention met, deliberated, and concluded. I will not repeat its arguments, since I assume the pamphlet has circulated widely; it is certainly worth every patriot’s reading. There is, however, one further angle on the subject of amendments that has not yet been set before the public, and I cannot bring myself to conclude without first surveying it.

It seems to me capable of absolute proof that later amendments to the Constitution will be far easier to obtain than prior ones. The moment any alteration is made in the present plan, it becomes, for purposes of adoption, a new plan, and must be decided afresh by each State. To establish it fully throughout the Union would therefore require the agreement of all thirteen States. If, instead, the Constitution as it stands were once ratified by all the States, alterations could thereafter be made by nine. The odds, then, run thirteen to nine in favor of amending afterward rather than adopting an entire system at the outset.

Nor is that all. Any Constitution for the United States must consist of a great variety of particulars, in which thirteen independent States must be accommodated in their interests or their views of interest. We may therefore expect that any body framing it from scratch will divide differently on different points: many who form a majority on one question become the minority on a second, and a still different grouping forms the majority on a third. Hence the need to mould and arrange every particular so as to satisfy all the parties to the compact, and hence an immense multiplication of difficulties in obtaining their collective assent to a final act, a multiplication that grows with the number of particulars and the number of parties.

But every amendment to the Constitution, once it is established, would be a single proposition, brought forward on its own. There would be no need for management or compromise on any other point, no giving and taking. The will of the required number would at once settle the matter. Whenever nine, or rather ten, States united in wanting a particular amendment, that amendment must infallibly take place. There is therefore no comparison between the ease of making an amendment and that of establishing a complete Constitution in the first instance.

Against the likelihood of later amendments, it has been urged that those entrusted with running the national government will always be loath to give up any of the power they hold. For my part, I am thoroughly convinced that any amendments later judged useful will bear on the government’s structure, not on the mass of its powers; on that ground alone the objection carries no weight. I also think it weak on another ground: the sheer difficulty of governing thirteen States, even apart from any ordinary measure of public spirit and integrity, will constantly force the national rulers into a spirit of accommodation toward their constituents’ reasonable expectations.

But there is a further consideration that proves the objection futile beyond doubt: whenever nine States concur, the national rulers will have no choice in the matter. Under the fifth article of the plan, Congress is obliged, “on the application of the legislatures of two thirds of the States (which at present amount to nine), to call a convention for proposing amendments, which shall be valid, to all intents and purposes, as part of the Constitution, when ratified by the legislatures of three fourths of the States, or by conventions in three fourths thereof.” The words are peremptory: Congress “shall call a convention.” Nothing here is left to its discretion, and so all the declamation about an unwillingness to change vanishes into air. Hard as it may be to unite two thirds or three fourths of the legislatures on amendments that touch local interests, there is no reason to fear such difficulty when the points concern only the general liberty or security of the people. We may safely rely on the inclination of the State legislatures to raise barriers against encroachments by the national authority.

If this argument is a fallacy, then I am certainly deceived by it myself, for in my view it is one of those rare cases in which a political truth can be brought to the test of a mathematical proof. Those who see the matter as I do, however eager they may be for amendments, must agree that prior adoption is the surest road to their own object.

The zeal to amend before the Constitution is established ought to cool in every man ready to accept the truth of these observations from a writer at once solid and ingenious: “To balance a large state or society,” he says, “whether monarchical or republican, on general laws, is a work of so great difficulty, that no human genius, however comprehensive, is able, by the mere dint of reason and reflection, to effect it. The judgments of many must unite in the work; experience must guide their labor; time must bring it to perfection, and the feeling of inconveniences must correct the mistakes which they inevitably fall into in their first trials and experiments.” These judicious reflections, drawn from Hume’s essay on the rise of arts and sciences, hold a lesson of moderation for every sincere lover of the Union. They ought to put such men on guard against risking anarchy, civil war, a lasting estrangement of the States from one another, and perhaps the military despotism of a victorious demagogue, all in pursuit of what they are unlikely to win except through time and experience.

It may be a defect of political courage in me, but I confess I cannot share the calm of those who pretend the dangers of remaining longer in our present situation are imaginary. A nation without a national government is, to my eyes, an awful spectacle. To establish a Constitution in a time of profound peace, by the voluntary consent of a whole people, is a prodigy, and I look toward its completion with trembling anxiety. I can reconcile it with no rule of prudence to let go the hold we now have, in so arduous an enterprise, on seven of the thirteen States, and, after covering so much of the ground, to begin the course again. I dread the consequences of fresh attempts all the more because I know that powerful men, in this and other States, are enemies to a general national government in every possible form.