For one hundred years—roughly between the ratification of the United States Constitution and 1890—the “extended republic” James Madison described in The Federalist did indeed extend, from sea to shining sea. As American settlers populated each new swath of territory they sought and received recognition as states of the Union, equal to all states that preceded them, including the original thirteen. This great period of American empire-building far exceeded anything done subsequently (for example, the acquisition of territories from Spain in the late 1890s) and proved far more lasting than the ‘scramble for empire’ undertaken by the European states during that time. America became what Jefferson wanted it to be: an “empire of liberty,” that is, a union of free and equal states, with republican regimes securing the natural rights of all its citizens in principle and of most if not all in practice.

The question of the exact terms and conditions of American federalism, especially of the status of the states within it, was answered in principle by Publius and by George Washington in his Farewell Address. It was answered in principle and in practice by Andrew Jackson during the nullification crisis. It was answered most eloquently in principle and most forcefully in practice by Abraham Lincoln and the Union armies, respectively, in the Civil War. The pseudo-republican oligarchies of the states that formed the Confederacy were defeated, although they reconstituted themselves to a substantial degree, in different form, after Reconstruction ended. States’ rights could no longer serve as a carapace for slavery, although it would so serve for legal re-segregation for much of the next century. But the Union had survived.

The year 1890 saw another, less stark but still unsettling crisis. For the past century, the migration of Americans to the West had relieved the older states of the need to address the worst economic and social tensions modern industrial societies had faced. Now, however, the United States effectively had become an island, bordered by oceans on each side, the Caribbean in the south, and to some extent the Great Lakes in the north. It was a gigantic island, but an island nonetheless. With immigrants still coming in from Europe, with industrialism and urbanization intensifying in the east and Midwest, what would become of the country? Could the regime of commercial republicanism sustain itself against populist and socialist ideologue who sought to exploit these pressures? Could federalism withstand pressures to ‘nationalize’ everything—that is, bring it under the rule of the central government to the diminution of the state governments?

The historian Frederick Jackson Turner formulated perhaps the most high-level expression of this anxiety. In his 1893 paper presented to the American Historical Assocition’ annual meeting in Chicago, “The Significance of the Frontier in American History,” Turner argued that it was the settlement of the frontier, fostering the character of Americans as independent, self-governing yeoman farmers, which had (to coin a phrase) made American great. Not so much Christianity, not the principles of the Declaration of Independence, not the Constitution, and surely not any biologically-based racial superiority over the American Indians, but the frontier itself, the virtues the cultivators cultivated along with their crops, gave Americans the moral strength needed to make them a free and united people. With the closing of the frontier, the elimination of the conditions of this character-building way of life, would Americans not succumb to moral decline, and ultimately lose both their empire and their republicanism? The ‘Turner thesis,’ as it came to be called, galvanized academic and even journalistic discussion for decades thereafter.

Not only professors and pundits saw this problem. As it happened, an ambitious young politician named Theodore Roosevelt had published two volumes of his book The Winning of the West in the years immediately preceding the appearance of Turner’s study. The young civil service reformer from New York City, who had ‘gone West’ himself, to the Dakotas, after his beloved wife’s death in 1884, also argued for the importance of the frontier way of life in forming the American ethos. Roosevelt understood the West not so much as a land for peaceful if hard cattle ranching and farming but as an arena for warfare, pitting semi-civilized Americans against uncivilized Indians. The West built not only the steady, yeoman virtues of Jeffersonian agrarianism but also and above all the martial virtues of George Washington. Europeans (so long as they stayed in Europe) could only exercise those virtues against other civilized nations, putting themselves at risk of succumbing to the vices attendant (most spectacularly) in Napoleonic despotism; if they abandoned such ambitions, as proposed in projects for “perpetual peace” such as that proposed by the philosopher Immanuel Kant, they risked a softening of spirit, moral decay. Americans had solved the problem by advancing civilization without colonization —that is, without keeping newly-won territories in political subservience to the ‘Mother Country.’

Whether one argued for Turner’s yeomanry or Roosevelt’s militias and posses, or some combination of them, as inspiriting conditions of American courage and self-government, the dilemma of the 1890s remained the same: How will Americans perpetuate their republican regime and their empire of liberty, now that the frontier has closed?

Roosevelt also saw another danger, outlined in the 1890s by the American naval strategist, Alfred Thayer Mahan. As far back as 1787, in The Federalist, Alexander Hamilton had argued that oceans are as much highways as they are barriers; as a Caribbean-born transplant the the port city of New York, he needed no book to teach him that. By 1890, technology had made this obvious to everyone, as steam-powered vessels replaced the old sailing ships and telegraphs made ‘messaging’ nearly instantaneous. These improved means of transportation and of communications had strengthened European empires; by Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in 1897, Britannia not only ruled the waves but about one-fourth of the land on earth and about one-fifth of its population while France, Germany, Russia, Austria-Hungary, Turkey, and even Belgium had substantial holdings as well.

Such radically changed circumstances, which would lead to the world wars of the next century, presented American strategists with a set of problems noticeably different from those seen by Washington and his successors. Would the strengthening empires block American trade? Would they again threaten American shores, as they hadn’t done since 1812? Further, having fought a devastating civil war, we were less likely than ever to invite the prospect of another war on our own territory—especially given the increasingly devastating power of modern weapons wielded by the well-organized and trained mass armies raised by modern states. Americans needed to re-think the question of strategic depth, a question they thought they’d answered by turning the middle part of North America into the American Union. We also needed to re-think our policies regarding international commerce. All without eradicating the constitutionally legitimate powers of the state governments.

American strategists proposed several policy choices. The first, advocated by German immigrant and old Republican Party ally of Abraham Lincoln, Carl Schurz, was simply to continue Washington’s policy: to eschew not only empire beyond our own continent (“overseas empire”) but even to avoid any major strengthening of the military—this, on  the traditional grounds that big military establishments threaten republican regimes. By far the most distinguished American statesman to advocate this policy in the next century was Herbert Hoover, whose “magnum opus” (as he called it), Freedom Betrayed, lays out an argument for staying out of the Second World War, and for what critics called ‘isolationism’ generally. Whatever one thinks of this as a realistic foreign policy for the modern world, it would surely have helped to keep American federalism intact.

The second, opposite, policy was advocated by the young Indiana Republican Senator Albert J. Beveridge, who called for a vast imperial project based upon the alleged superiority of the white race, a notion itself based upon the ‘race science’ that formed part of early Progressivism. The most famous of Beveridge’s speeches remains “The March of the Flag,” delivered at a Republican party convention in Indiana. In it, Beveridge called for American conquest of the rest of the Americas and their incorporation into the United States—not, to be sure, as equal states, but as colonial territories. At the time, theories of racial superiority were very much a part of the Progressive movement, and Beveridge might be described as the most vocal representative of the militarist wing of Progressivism, which ranged from the militarism of Beveridge to the pacifism of Jane Addams. This policy would have ended the American practice of considering newly-acquired territories as future states, instead turning the New World into a facsimile of European empires. American federalism and American republicanism would have been seriously compromised.

Roosevelt found a more realistic solution to the problem, the one that has prevailed for more than a century. TR advocated the use of a greatly-expanded navy, which he eventually succeeded in obtaining, and peacetime military conscription for the army, which he hinted at but never formally proposed. These forces, but especially the navy, would be used no so much for imperial expansion but for obtaining naval bases throughout the world, usually but not always with the consent of foreign governments. These bases would counterbalance the much more expensive (and, as it turned out, untenable) imperialism of the Europeans. While happy to seize Cuba and the Philippines form the Spanish, he had no interest in retaining them, but he very much liked the idea of of establishing naval bases at Guantanamo and Subic Bay. As for permanent acquisitions, he intended to hold on to Hawaii and Puerto Rico as outpasts complicating foreign naval attack on the Pacific and Atlantic coasts.

To reinforce America’s opposition to European imperialism in the New World, and to answer Beveridge, Roosevelt also propounded his well-known “Corollary” to the Monroe Doctrine, stipulating an American right to intervene in Latin American countries if they fell down on their debt payments to European nations. Such refusal to repay loans, if it became “chronic” (as TR put it), would invite European military intervention int the Western Hemisphere—exactly the thing the original Monroe Doctrine was intended to discourage. This policy soon provoked anger from the peoples it was intended to protect, and Franklin Roosevelt replaced it with his “Good Neighbor” policy in the 1930s.

From this perspective, TR’s foreign policy becomes quite coherent: Drive the weakened Spanish imperialists out of the Caribbean and the Philippines while blocking other empires (especially the Brits and the Germans) from seizing them; then spur the peoples of the newly-acquired countries to govern themselves. This meant recurring to the old American policy of regime change (first used by the Washington Administration in the southeaster states in its dealings with the Cherokee and other nations in that area), while obviating the need to (quite implausibly) make these conquests into American states and at the same time avoiding their (un-American) use as permanent colonies of our own. Add the Panama Canal, linking the Atlantic and Pacific oceans for both trading and military purposes, and you see that TR aimed at recovering America’s strategic depth under the circumstances caused by the new technologies of war.

Such a policy held out the prospect of retaining American federal republicanism while countering ‘containment’ strategies Great Britain and other regimes, then and in the future, would deploy against us. American federalism was compromised in any event, by Wilson, FDR, Lyndon Johnson and their many allies. This was usually done for domestic reasons, however, although sometimes it proceeded under the cover of the quite different policy of liberal internationalism, which looks forward to the weakening not only of American federalism but of American sovereignty altogether.

In declaring their independence from the British people, “the Representatives of the united States of America” acted “in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies.” The “United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be, Free and Independent States.” Plural, not singular. But also united: As one of Mr. Shakespeare’s characters says, there’s the rub. The American States are independent respecting Great Britain. But are they free and independent respecting one another? And if so, to what extent? “As Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and do all other Acts and Thing which independent States may of right do,” but may they do these things severally, without regard to each other, or only as united body? What is the character of the American Union?

Notoriously, Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis would find themselves in disagreement over this matter. But in the generation between the founding and the Civil War, a slaveholding Southern democrat, and Democrat, delivered a cogent analysis of America’s constitutional Union, promising to enforce the terms of that Union as he understood them. No one doubted that he would; Andrew Jackson was not a man to be crossed.

In 1828, Congress enacted a tariff law, one so sharply resented by that South Carolinians, led by John C. Calhoun, called it “the Tariff of Abominations.” Calhoun resigned from the vice presidency and entered the Senate to fight the tariff. By the early 1830s, South Carolina handed Jackson a serious constitutional crisis.

Jackson was far from an enemy of States’ rights. In his First Inaugural Address of March 1829 he had announced that “In such measures as I may be called on to pursue in regard to the rights of the separate States I hope to be animated by a proper respect for those sovereign members of our Union, taking care not to confound the power they have reserved to themselves with those they have granted to the Confederacy”—that is, the federal government. This wording suggests that Jackson took the act of ratifying the Constitution to have been a grant of powers by the state governments, not by the American people acting state-by-state, as the principal Framers had maintained.

Nine months later, in his First Annual Message, Jackson praised the Framers’ design, which consisted of a federal government with “limited and specific, not general, powers”; “it is our duty,” he continued, “to preserve for it the character intended by its framers.” “We are responsible to our country and to the glorious cause of self-government for the preservation of so great a good.” This being so, “the great mass of legislation relating to our internal affairs was intended to be left where the Federal Convention found it—in the State governments.” He warned Congress “against all encroachments upon the legitimate sphere of State sovereignty.”

Nullification of duly enacted federal laws was another matter, however. Jackson neither stated nor implied that that fell within the legitimate sphere of State sovereignty. As early as the Jefferson Day Dinner of April 1830, Jackson fixed Calhoun with his formidable stare and toasted “Our Federal Union—it must be preserved.” The warning went unheeded; indeed, the nullification movement spread to other Southern states. On November 1, 1832, South Carolina solemnly nullified the tariff law, threatening to secede from the Union if the federal government moved to enforce it. South Carolina, the state legislators intoned, “will forthwith proceed to organize a separate government and to do all other acts and things which sovereign and independent states may of right do”—thus echoing the language of the Declaration of Independence without noticing its underlying principle of unalienable natural rights.

In his Fourth Annual Message of December 1832, by which time he had been duly elected to a second term in office, Jackson reported that “in one quarter of the United States opposition to the revenue laws has arisen to a height which threatens to thwart their execution, if not to endanger the integrity of the Union.” He followed this a few days later with a proclamation refuting Southern pretensions. To claim a constitutional right to nullify federal laws is unconstitutional: “coupled with the uncontrolled right to decide what laws deserve that character, [it] is to give the power of resisting all laws; for as by the theory there is no appeal, the reasons alleged by the State, good or bad, must prevail.” But the Constitution, the supreme law of the land, provides only two appeals from allegedly unconstitutional federal laws: judicial review and constitutional amendment. If the South Carolina doctrine “had been established at an earlier day, the Union would have been dissolved in its infancy.”

Jackson then reviewed the history of the American Union as defined and refined during the Founding period. The Union, he observed, predates not only the Constitution but the Declaration of Independence. In October 1774, the First Continental Congress met in Philadelphia in response to legislation enacted by the British parliament and king. After the Boston Tea Party, Britain aimed to punish Massachusetts by curtailing citizens’ rights—suspending the right to jury trials, among other measures. Calling these the “Intolerable Acts,” the delegates set down the Articles of Association, boycotting British imports (including slaves) and suspending American exports to England. To reinforce these proposals, Congress recommended sumptuary restrictions: no “shows, play, and other expensive diversions and entertainments,” including horse races and cock fights. These curtailments of consumption would back the restrictions on trade. Congress further proposed the formation of local committees to expose violations of these policies—effectively enforcement by shaming. In Jackson’s words, “they agreed that they would collectively form one nation for the purpose of conducting some certain domestic concerns and all foreign relations.”

Still, the Articles of Association amounted to a treaty among the colonies, not a government. Two years later, the Declaration of Independence anticipated redefining the Union on governmental lines. Describing Americans as “one people,” the Signers announced that the United States were ready “to assume among the Powers of the Earth, the separate and equal Station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them.” All independent peoples are entitled to such a “station” or status because “all Men are created equal”—”endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights,” among which number “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.” If a group of such equal persons consent to a government that does what governments rightly do—aiming to secure those rights—then they deserve diplomatic recognition from other peoples so organized. Conversely, governments that fail to secure those rights forfeit popular consent. The long list of grievances against the British king and parliament that follows provides a sort of photographic negative of justly used governmental powers. These include the power of declaring war, settling peace, enacting domestic legislation, and governing under law with an independent judiciary. The abuse of those powers by the British government rightly led to disunion; union, by implication, requires their proper use within the framework of the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God by the consent of the people.

After vindicating their claim of independence on the battlefield (Jackson had been one of the militiamen, at the age of thirteen), the Americans further defined the terms of the Union with their first constitution, the Articles of Confederation. In Jackson’s words, the states thereby pledged to “abide by the determination s of Congress on all question which by that Confederation should be submitted to them,” with no state entitled to “legally annul a decision for the Congress or refuse to submit in its execution,” although the Articles provided no means of enforcing this provision. Inasmuch as the 1787 Constitution formed “‘a more perfect Union’ than that of the Confederation,” how could that law permit the Union to backslide beyond even the unenforceable Union enacted under the Articles?

“I consider, then, the power to annul a law of the United States, assumed by one State, incompatible with the existence of the Union, contradicted expressly by the letter of the Constitution, unauthorized by its spirit, inconsistent with every principle on which it was founded, and destructive of the great object for which it was formed.” More, “this right to secede”—which Jackson clear-sightedly perceived as inherent in the assertion of the sovereign right to annul—”is deduced [by the nullifiers] from the nature of the Constitution, which, they say, is a compact between sovereign States who have preserved their whole sovereignty and therefore are subject to no superior.” But Jackson correctly identifies the American people as the sovereigns, not the state or federal governments, and under the Constitution the executive is charged with enforcing federal law. “The Constitution of the United States… forms a government, not a league; and whether it be formed by compact between the States or in any other manner, its character is the same.” That government “operates on the people individually, not upon the States,” as it had under the Articles.

“It is the acknowledged attribute of free institutions that under them the empire of reason and law is substituted for the power of the sword.” As argued in the Declaration of Independence (and earlier by John Locke and other natural-rights philosophers), it “needs not on the present occasion be denied” that “a State or any other great portion of the people, suffering under long and intolerable oppression and having tried all constitutional remedies without the hope of redress, may have a natural right, when their happiness can be no otherwise secured, and when they can do so without greater injury to others, to absolve themselves from their obligations to the Government and appeal to the last resort,” namely, the force of arms. The right to revolution under such circumstances is a right not only of Americans but “a right of mankind.” “It is not the right of the State, but of the individual, and of all the individuals in the State.” “Like any other revolutionary act,” secession “may be morally justified by the extremity of the oppression; but to call it a constitutional right is confounding the meaning of terms,” inasmuch as “a compact is an agreement or binding obligation.” If that compact “contains no sanction, it may be broken with no other consequence than moral guilt,” as a league among independent nations might be broken; “a government, on the contrary, always has a sanction, express or implied, and in our case it is both necessarily implied and expressly given” in the provision made “for punishing acts which obstruct the due administration of its laws.” The name for “an offense against sovereignty” is treason. Jackson charges that the nullifiers’ “object is disunion…. Disunion by armed force is treason,” and Jackson leaves no doubt that he will use his executive power as president of the United States to punish its perpetrators accordingly. Thus Jackson clearly defines popular sovereignty not as a principle justifying the political superiority of the States over the federal government (as nullifiers and secessionists did), nor as a principle justifying might-makes-right majority rule of the people over the states (as Stephen Douglas would later do), but as an instrument justified only by its adherence to the standard of natural rights. The sovereign people have divided their sovereignty between the States and he general government; accordingly, States’ sovereignty and States’ rights are limited to those objects the united people did not assign to the federal government; the federal government, for its part, is limited to the powers enumerated by the Constitution and ratified by the people. “It is not for territory or state power that our Revolutionary fathers took up arms; it was for individual liberty and the right of self-government.”

In a letter to Congress in January 1833, Jackson warned that “if these measures can not be defeated and overcome by the power conferred by the Constitution on the Federal Government, the Constitution must be considered as incompetent to its own defense, the supremacy of the laws is at an end, and the rights and liberties of the citizens can no longer receive protection from the Government of the Union.” With no major source of revenue other than the tariff, the federal government itself would shrivel and collapse and the states would take over the rule of the people resident within them. Citing the Constitutional obligation of the Executive to “take care that the laws be faithfully executed,” Jackson signed the “Force Bill” on March 3, 1833, the day before his Second Inaugural Address. In the words of his most recent biographer, Bradley S. Birzer, he then “called up militias, ordered three divisions of artillery to South Carolina, gave General Winfield Scott command over Charleston Harbor, ordered the reinforcement of Charleston’s federal forts, and placed naval warships just offshore.” In the Address, he wrote that “The eye of all nations is fixed on our Republic. The event of the existing crisis will be decisive in the opinion of mankind of the practicability of our federal system of government.” Taking notice, South Carolina backed down.

By the time of his Farewell Address four years later, Jackson could assert with confidence, “Our Constitution is no longer a doubtful instrument, and at the end of nearly a half century we find that it has preserved unimpaired the liberties of the people, secured the rights of property, and that our country has improved and is flourishing beyond any former example in the history of nations.” He nonetheless warned, “We behold systematic efforts publicly made to sow the seed of discord between different parts of the United States and to place party divisions directly upon geographical distinction; to excite the South against the North and the North against the South, and to force into controversy the most delicate and exciting topics—topics upon which it is impossible that a large portion of the Union can ever speak without strong emotion.” Jackson does not deny the wrong of slavery, only affirming that the consequences of disunion would be worse, reintroducing the likelihood of international war to North America without liberating the slaves. Recalling the Farewell Address of his most distinguished predecessor, he asked, “Has the warning voice of Washington been forgotten, or have designs already been formed to sever the Union?”

 

 

 

Having founded republican regimes in America, regimes animated by respect for the laws of Nature and of Nature’s God as enunciated in the Declaration of Independence from the British monarchy, he Founders remained vexed at the confederal form of the American state—the relations among the several states in the confederation and the relationship between the weak federal government and those states, relationships framed in the Articles of Confederation. True to its title, The Federalist centrally addresses this question—literally so. James Madison, scribe of the Constitutional Convention and one of the principal designers of the new Constitution itself, wrote the forty-third or central number of the collection, as well as the six preceding essays and the fifteen subsequent. The core of the book belongs to him, and his topic throughout the series is the character of American federalism as the new Constitution would constitute it.

Madison begins by identifying the need to balance governmental energy with stability, both in defense of liberty—a natural right—and “the republican form”—the regime which emanates from that right. Liberty and the regime of liberty require energy for self-defense and for execution of the laws enacted by the regime; liberty and republicanism also require stability in order to establish the “national character” and to fortify the confidence of the people in their new regime. “The task of marking the proper line of partition between the authority of the general and that of the State governments” proved arduous, given the rightful jealousy of the citizens of each state as they guarded their right and power to govern themselves, a jealousy that nonetheless needed to be balanced by considerations of public safety and economic prosperity, threatened by factionalism within and among the states under the Articles of Confederation. Natural rights are one thing, but they can never be secured without due consideration of “the infirmities and depravities of the human character,” evils that undermined popular governments no less than monarchies and oligarchies.

Madison assures his readers that the form of the “general” or federal government remains “strictly republican.” “No other form would be reconcilable with the genius of the people of America; with the fundamental principles of the Revolution; or with that honorable determination which animates every votary of freedom to rest all our political experiments on the capacity of mankind for self-government.” Such a government will derive “all its powers directly or indirectly from the great body of the people,” not “from an inconsiderable proportion of a favored class of it.” Each of the three branches of the newly-designed federal government does indeed meet that criterion; they all pass the ‘regime’ test.

But what about the ‘state’ test? Does the federal government possess the needed energy, the requisite power, truly to govern? Without a strong federal union, America will become another Europe, full of small and medium-sized states armed against one another, their liberties “crushed between standing armies and perpetual taxes,” their prosperity shackled by high tariff walls. At the same time, does its structure limit but also focus that energy in a way that does not consolidate the states into one amorphous mass, compromising the rights of citizens to govern their own lives as they really live them—in town and countries within states? Self-governing citizens must never be reduced to being mere spectators, gazing at the actions of ‘statesmen’ far above and beyond their own control.

After reaffirming, in the central, forty-third Federalist, “the great principle of self-preservation” and “the transcendent law of nature and of nature’s God, which declares that the safety and happiness of society are the objects at which all political institutions aim,” Madison turns to the restrictions of the authorities of the American states delineated by the new Constitution—restrictions imposed precisely because those states had failed adequately to secure the natural rights identified in the Declaration of Independence and vindicated in the war for independence and the revolution the war advanced. Among other things, the states shall not enter into treaties, coin money, impair the obligation of contracts, or grant titles of nobility (thereby changing themselves into aristocracies). But would these restrictions weaken the states too much? Of particular concern to critics were the Constitution’s clauses granting the federal government the power “to make all laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying into execution” its enumerated powers to set foreign and domestic policies for the American government as a whole, and the designation of the laws enacted by those powers as “the supreme law of the land.”

There is no way of defining one’s way out of that concern. What are “necessary and proper” laws? And if the “supreme law of the land” isn’t lodged in the general government, where would it be lodged, if not in the states, which had misused their supremacy? In Federalist #45 Madison writes, “Were the plan of the [Constitutional] convention adverse to the public happiness, it would be, Abolish the Union. In like manner, as far as the sovereignty of the States cannot be reconciled to the happiness of the people, the voice of every good citizen must be, let the former be sacrificed to the latter.”

Madison then shows how the Framers solved the problem. Although the States were indeed stripped of their sovereign powers—treaty-making, coinage, regime change, and so on—nonetheless they would form “constituent and essential parts” of that government. By establishing the Electoral College, the Framers required state-by-state election of presidents; each voting district for the House of Representatives remained entirely within the boundaries of a state, with no interstate districts; and the United States senators would be elected by state legislatures, with each state sending two senators, regardless of its size.

Further, the administrative or bureaucratic side of government would favor the states. There would be far more state employees than federal employees. This remains true to this day, even with the vastly expanded federal bureaucracy now in place, although of course it is less true than it was in the first 150 years of American constitutional government. The causes of that shift of power have everything to do with the partial abandonment of our constitutional scruples, beginning in the twentieth century, rather than to the Constitution itself.

Fundamentally, “the powers delegated by the proposed Constitution to the federal government are few and defined,” whereas “those which are to remain in the State governments are numerous and indefinite.” Moreover, the federal government’s powers largely concern external matters; the day-to-day concerns of most citizens—their “lives, liberties, and properties”—will continue to find redress from the local, county, and state governments.

As Madison tough-mindedly remarks in a subsequent paper, the new Constitution puts the states to the test. If the sovereign American people “should in future become more partial to the federal than to the State governments, the change can only result from such manifest and irresistible proofs of a better administration as will overcome all their antecedent propensities.” The stronger federal government set down in the new Constitution will inaugurate a kind of competition in good government, breaking the states’ monopolies.

In all this, as Madison writes in the forty-ninth Federalist, the Framers have structured the new federal government and the American system of governments overall in such a way as to secure natural rights while minimizing the infirmities and depravities of the human nature all persons share. Not the passions but the reason of the American public should “sit in judgment” of the government: “It is the reason, alone, of the public, that ought to control and regulate the government. The passions ought to be controlled and regulated by the government.” “As there is a degree of depravity in mankind which requires a certain degree of circumspection and distrust, so here are other qualities in human nature which justify a certain portion of esteem and confidence. Republican government presupposes the existence of these qualities to a higher degree than any other form,” and so does federalism, rightly understood. If such were not the case, “the inference would be that there is not sufficient virtue among men for self-government; and that nothing less than the chains of despotism can restrain them from destroying and devouring one another.”