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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another consequence would follow the proposed change. The office of Vice-President would be degraded. Roger Griswold clearly foresaw this eventuality. “The office will generally be carried into the market,” said he, “to be exchanged for the votes of some large States for President; and the only criterion which will be regarded as a qualification for the office of Vice-President will be the temporary influence of the candidate over the electors of his State.” Notwithstanding these and many less obvious objections, the amendment was adopted by a party vote in Congress and promptly ratified by thirteen out of the sixteen States before the fall elections.

The campaign of 1804 was uneventful. The congressional caucus of the Republican party dropped Burr as a candidate and nominated George Clinton, of New York. Jefferson was the unanimous choice of his party. The depressed Federalists supported Charles Cotesworth Pinckney, of South Carolina, and Rufus King, of New York, as their candidates. Jefferson was triumphantly reelected with the loss of only two States, Connecticut and Delaware, and of two electoral votes in Maryland. Well might he exult at the discomfiture of his enemies. “The two parties,” he wrote to Volney, “are almost melted into one.”

Below the calm surface of Republican politics, however, dangerous counter-currents swirled. For a time the controversy over the Yazoo land claims seemed likely to be a reef on which Republican unity would be shattered. Both the United States and Georgia laid claim to the great Western tract which is now occupied by the States of Mississippi and Alabama. But Georgia with a stronger prima facie case evinced little regard for the claims of the Federal Government. In 1795, while a mania for land speculation was sweeping over the country, the legislature yielded to corrupt influences and sold some thirty-five million acres in the disputed territory for the sum of $500,000 to four land companies. In the following year, the people of Georgia rose in their wrath, turned out the corrupt legislators, and forced the passage of a rescinding act. Meantime, sales had been made by the Yazoo speculators to guileless purchasers, who now appealed to Congress for relief. In 1798, Congress enacted a law providing for commissioners who should confer with Georgia regarding these conflicting claims. At the same time the Territory of Mississippi was organized.

Such was the status of the Yazoo land claims when Jefferson became President. It fell to him to appoint the federal commissioners. They wrestled manfully with the perplexing details of the controversy, and in 1802 reported what they believed to be a fair settlement of the claims of all parties. Georgia was to cede her Western lands to the United States in return for a payment of $1,250,000 and an agreement on the part of the Federal Government to extinguish all Indian titles within her limits as soon as might be. In the course of time this Western territory was to be admitted as a State. Five million acres were to be set aside to satisfy the claims of those who had suffered loss by the rescinding act of Georgia.

The morbid imagination of John Randolph could see nothing but jobbery in this proposal to satisfy claims which had been fraudulently obtained from the Legislature of Georgia. There can be little doubt that Randolph’s hatred for Madison, who was a member of the federal commission, influenced his subsequent action. On two occasions, in 1804 and again in 1805, he assailed the proposed compromise, and twice he secured a postponement, though he could not defeat the bill which embodied the conclusions of the commission. From this time on Randolph was never more than an uncertain ally of the Administration. The few politicians who still followed his lead were styled rather contemptuously “Quids.” Even Republicans with slender classical training grasped the significance of a tertium quid. Yet Randolph was still a power in the House.

The Yazoo affair dragged on for years. In 1810, a decision of the Supreme Court gave aid and comfort to the opposition. In the case of Fletcher v. Peck, the court held that the original Act of 1795, conveying the Yazoo grants, was a contract within the meaning of the Constitution which might not be impaired by subsequent legislation. It was not until 1814 that Congress voted $8,000,000 to the claimants under this act and so settled one of the most obstinate controversies in the history of Congress.

In the fall of 1805, Jefferson seemed about to realize what had been the object of his diplomatic endeavors ever since the acquisition of Louisiana. Intimations came from Talleyrand that the Floridas might be obtained by purchase if the United States would prevail upon Spain to refer the whole dispute to Napoleon. On December 3, 1805, he sent a message to Congress which seemed to break completely with all Jeffersonian precedents. It recounted the failure of negotiations with Spain, and spoke sternly of the depredations committed in the new Territories by Spanish officers and soldiers. The Administration had found it necessary to order the troops on the frontier to be in readiness to repel future aggressions. Some of the injuries committed admitted of a peaceable remedy. Some of them were “of a nature to be met by force only, and all of them may lead to it.” Coupled with these admonitions were suggestions for the fortification of seaports, the building of war-vessels, and the organization of the militia.

Coming from the pen of one who had written that peace was his passion and who had hitherto avoided war with Quaker-like submission, this message caused bewilderment on all sides. The West, however, took the President literally and looked forward with enthusiasm to a war which was bound to end in the overthrow of Spanish dominion in the Southwest. Three days later a secret message was delivered to the House of Representatives announcing that Spain was disposed to effect a settlement “so comprehensive as to remove as far as possible the grounds of future collision and controversy on the eastern as well as the western side of the Mississippi.” Only a show of force was needed “to advance the object of peace.”

Randolph for one was thoroughly disgusted by “this double set of opinions and principles”; and his ill-temper gave vent to biting invective when he learned, that as chairman of the Committee of Ways and Means he was expected to propose an appropriation of $2,000,000 for the purchase of Florida. He refused flatly to assume the responsibility “of delivering the public purse to the first cut-throat that demanded it,” for Madison had said in private conversation that the money was destined for Napoleon. The opposition of Randolph caused weeks of delay. It was not until March 13 that Madison could authorize Armstrong, minister to France, to offer $5,000,000 for Florida and Texas. It was then too late. Either Armstrong had been misled or Napoleon had changed his mind: in either case, the favorable moment had passed. The purchase of Florida was indefinitely deferred.

During these months, when relations with Spain were strained to the breaking point, Aaron Burr was weaving the strands of one of the most intricate and baffling intrigues in American history. Shortly after relinquishing the office of Vice-President, Burr undertook an extensive tour through the West. In the course of his voyage down the Ohio he landed on Blennerhassett’s Island, which an eccentric Irish gentleman of that name had transformed into an estate. At Cincinnati he was the guest of Senator John Smith; and there he met also Jonathan Dayton, who had just finished his term as Senator from New Jersey. Both of these individuals played an uncertain part in Burr’s plans. At Nashville he visited General Andrew Jackson; at Fort Massac he spent four days in close conference with General James Wilkinson, who was in command of the Western army-one of the most precious rascals in the annals of the country; and at New Orleans he put himself in touch with the Mexican Association, which had been formed by ardent individuals who looked forward to war with Spain and the liberation of Mexico.

To men like Andrew Jackson and Daniel Clark, of New Orleans, whose loyalty is beyond question, Burr announced his purpose to devote his life to the overthrow of the Spanish power in America. It was a mission which commended itself to the Spanish-hating people of the Mississippi Valley. Western newspapers announced that he meditated some extraordinary enterprise; and one editor hinted that he was plotting a revolution which would end in the formation of a separate government for the region bordering on the Ohio and the Mississippi.

Returning to the East, Burr left no stone unturned in his efforts to find funds to finance this mysterious enterprise. He was in conference with Merry, the British minister, and with Yrujo, the Spanish minister; and each received a different impression as to the scope of his plans. At one time Burr talked madly of seizing the government at Washington. The kaleidoscopic changes of his plans baffle consistent explanation. One thing only is clear: he needed funds. These he obtained in part from his son-in-law, Joseph Alston, a wealthy planter in South Carolina, and in part from the credulous Blennerhassett, who was persuaded to purchase a million acres on the Washita River in northern Louisiana. Thither the expedition which started out from Blennerhassett’s Island was ostensibly directed. How far Burr’s plans went beyond the occupation of this tract is a matter of conjecture. One of Blennerhassett’s servants may inadvertently have told the truth when he said that they were “going to take Mexico, one of the finest and richest places in the whole world.”

If Burr seriously contemplated a filibustering expedition against Mexico, he was favored by circumstances. Spanish troops had taken up a position east of the Sabine River, on what was American soil; and only an overt act was needed to precipitate war. Every frontiersman was preparing for a tussle with the hated Spaniard. In the event of war Burr knew well enough that an expedition against Mexico would be countenanced by the government at Washington. Whether or no war with Spain would occur depended upon the cooperation of General Wilkinson, for he had been charged by the Secretary of War to take command of the troops at New Orleans with as little delay as possible and “to repel any invasion of the territory of the United States east of the river Sabine, or north and west of the bounds of what has been called West Florida.”

The delay of Wilkinson in following these orders of May 6, 1806, has been explained on the supposition that he was awaiting the development of Burr’s plans. Be that as it may, his hesitation was fatal to the conspirators. On September 27, the Spanish troops retired beyond the Sabine, thus removing an excellent pretext for war. From this time on Wilkinson’s hand is against Burr. His conduct is enveloped in an atmosphere of intrigue. At one moment he is sending alarmist dispatches to the President, warning him against a mysterious expedition which was being prepared-by what authority he professed not to know-against the Spanish province of Mexico; at the next moment he is intriguing with the Spanish authorities, warning them against Burr and assuring them of his protection. This valuable information Wilkinson thought was worth about $111,000; but his aid-de-camp seems to have returned empty-handed from the City of Mexico. His further exploits in New Orleans, which he kept in a state of perpetual alarm and finally put under martial law, read like a chapter from a melodrama.

It was not until October, 1806, that President Jefferson expressed any serious concern about Burr’s intrigues. Even then he concluded to send only a confidential agent to watch the conspirator and to arrest him if necessary. In November, dispatches from Wilkinson convinced the President of the need of more summary action. On November 27, he issued a proclamation, stating that sundry persons were confederating and conspiring together to begin a military expedition or enterprise against the dominions of Spain. Honest and well-meaning citizens were being seduced under various pretenses to engage in the criminal enterprises of these men. All faithful citizens and the civil and military authorities were therefore enjoined to be vigilant in preventing the expedition and in bringing the conspirators to punishment.

The President’s proclamation wrought a transformation in the temper of the West. People reasoned that the danger must be greater than any one had suspected. The newspapers began to print wild stories. The Legislature of Ohio authorized the governor to take proper measures to prevent acts hostile to the United States. The governor promptly seized the bateaux which were being constructed at Marietta and called out the militia to overpower Blennerhassett and his followers. On the Virginia side of the river, the militia were in readiness for a descent upon the island. On the night of December 10, Blennerhassett and a handful of men left the island in such boats as they could find. Wild rumors followed the expedition as it floated peacefully down the Ohio. The Western Spy told its readers that Blennerhassett had passed Cincinnati in keel boats loaded with military stores; that more were to follow; and that twenty thousand men had been enlisted in an expedition against Mexico.

Meantime, Burr had met with embarrassing delays. The promised recruits had not come in, since war had not been declared. Only two of the five boats which Jackson had agreed to build were ready. Nevertheless, Burr left Nashville on December 23, as he had planned, and on the next day joined Blennerhassett at the mouth of the Cumberland. The combined strength of this flotilla which was causing such public consternation was nine bateaux, carrying less than sixty men.

The voyage of the expedition down the Ohio and the Mississippi was without incident until January 10, when the expedition put into Bayou Pierre, in the Mississippi Territory. There Burr was put under arrest and brought before a grand jury. Luck again favored him. As in Kentucky, so here the jurors failed to find any ground for indictment. Nevertheless, the judge bound Burr over to appear from day to day. Holding this proceeding unauthorized by law, Burr forfeited his bond and made his escape; but near Fort Stoddert, he was again apprehended. On March 5, 1807, he was sent with a guard of six men from Fort Stoddert to Richmond, Virginia.

The commitment, indictment, and trial of Aaron Burr form a fittingly inconclusive sequel to a strange tale of intrigue and misadventure. Not merely the fate of the accused man, but the personalities involved, gave a spectacular character to the legal proceedings at Richmond. Arrayed as counsel on the side of Burr were three notable attorneys from Virginia, and Luther Martin of Maryland. The foreman of the grand jury was John Randolph. The chief witness for the prosecution was General Wilkinson. The presiding judge was Chief Justice John Marshall, within whose circuit Blennerhassett’s Island lay. And behind the prosecution, straining every nerve to secure the conviction of the conspirators, was President Thomas Jefferson.

From first to last the Chief Justice made the task of the prosecution exceedingly difficult by a rigorous definition of treason. Treason involved an overt act, he insisted; the actual levying of war by an assembling of armed men. To convict of treason, the testimony of two witnesses was required by the Constitution. Now, Burr was hundreds of miles away from Blennerhassett’s Island when the alleged overt act of treason was committed. The court would not admit any testimony relative to the conduct and declarations of Burr elsewhere and subsequent to the transactions on Blennerhassett’s Island. Such testimony was in its nature merely corroborative, the Chief Justice ruled, and inadequate to prove the overt act in itself, and therefore irrelevant until the overt act was proved by the testimony of two witnesses. On September 1, the prosecution abandoned the case, and the jury returned a verdict of not guilty. The Government now sought to secure the conviction of Burr on the charge of misdemeanor; but less than a week was needed to reveal the weakness of the testimony put forward by the prosecution. On September 15, Burr was again acquitted.