Ridiculous as such quibbling might appear (reducing even Maclay to laughter on at least one occasion), it had deeper implications. High-toned manners and high-flown ceremony could corrupt the fledgling government, pushing it ever closer to monarchy. They were the "fooleries fopperies finerries and pomp of Royal etiquette," Maclay charged; they were Old World corruption being foisted on the republic in its formative years, proof that Americans were already slipping back into their "old habits and intercourse." Even worse, their foremost defender was presiding over the Senate. Vice President John Adams, a man of national renown whom Maclay himself had supported for office, seemed intent on creating a royal court and willing to manipulate Senate proceedings to achieve it. A large percentage of Maclay's fellow senators seemed similarly inclined. Supported by a majority, facilitated by legislative trickery, and secluded behind the Senate's closed doors, this monarchical agenda would almost certainly gain ground.

Secure in his republican virtue and fearing the fate of the nation, Maclay saw only one alternative. He would have to wage a war of resistance. His path would not be easy; the prudent Maclay saw this all too well. Unknown on the national stage, his talents yet unproven, he lacked the foremost weapons of political combat: reputation and personal influence. He had no trusted allies in this new arena, and no experience in interstate politicking. Alone and undefended, he would be pitting himself against powerful men of national repute, sacrificing all hope for reputation and influence in the process. As he concluded only days after Washington's arrival, by opposing pompous titles and "high handed Measures," he had "sacrificed every chance of being popular, and every grain of influence in the Senate."

Nor could Maclay count on an enraged citizenry to bolster his cause. The Senate's proceedings were private, noted only in an official record that Maclay considered full of "the grossest Mistakes." The public had no knowledge of his campaign against corruption, no evidence of his self-sacrifice. His state legislators-the men with the power to reappoint him to office-likewise would see no sign of his struggle, a pressing concern given his brief term of office. One of the unfortunate few who drew a two-year term when the Senate divided its members into two-, four-, and six-year classes, Maclay would have to impress his state audience right from the start. Underlying all these risks and challenges was Maclay's constant awareness that he was performing on an elevated stage, before a national, even international audience.

Within his first month in office, Maclay began to foresee his future. Unpopular and powerless on the national scene, he would earn powerful enemies, accomplish nothing, fail at reelection, and leave in disgrace. Desperate to avoid such a fate, he grasped at solutions. He corresponded with highly placed Pennsylvania friends, explaining his intentions and motives. He wrote newspaper essays to prod his home audience to action. He was obsessively attentive to the Senate record, insisting that it reflect his resistance with absolute accuracy, though Senate secretary Samuel Otis remained uncooperative, his frequent errors seeming to favor Adams's preferences every time. ("The Minutes are totally under the direction of our President [Adams] or rather Otis is his Creature," Maclay charged.) Ultimately, Maclay's entire national career would be little more than a series of "yeas" and "nays" in the Senate journal-and a poorly kept journal at that.

So in April 1789, Maclay began his own journal, taking cursory notes of each day's proceedings and fleshing them out in his diary each night (fig. 3). To expose his opponents and justify himself, he went one step further, noting his impressions, guessing at motives and intentions, and recording details of personal appearance and manner for insight into character and interests. His own contributions featured prominently, of course, including detailed accounts of his congressional oratory and voting record. But to reveal the depth of his commitment and sacrifice and the logic of his decisions, he had to record more than formal pronouncements from the Senate floor. He needed to document the full reality of politics, including the casual conversations and informal socializing that constituted the guts of political interaction. He thus described his social life in great detail, offering lengthy accounts of dinner parties and social calls, noting not only topics of discussion but also the demeanor of the guests, their gestures, and their tone of voice. To support his claims and accusations, he appended documentary evidence: newspaper clippings, correspondence, speaking notes, or suggested resolutions; twice, he solicited an affidavit from Otis attesting to his vote.

The end result was a massive three-volume diary, its published edition filling four hundred pages. Unflaggingly diligent, Maclay missed only twelve days in two years, his passionate and lengthy outpourings attesting to his diary's importance in his public life. The only eyewitness account of proceedings in the first Senate (aside from the cursory official record), it offers an invaluable insider's view of the national government's first unsteady years, warts and all. Historians have long recognized the descriptive value of Maclay's observations. Rare is the study of the period's high politics that does not include some of his descriptive gems, and for good reason, given his eye for detail and his unabashed criticism of revered Founders like George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and Alexander Hamilton. But scholars have used the diary only as a sourcebook of anecdotes, never looking beneath the surface for Maclay's deeper message. He survives as little more than an acerbic quibbler, "one of those, to be met at almost any meeting, who are always rising to points of order." His diary in its entirety receives no attention at all.

Yet only when viewed in its entirety is the diary's message clear. Maclay was alarmed by an evolving process, not distinct episodes. It was the larger pattern of events that he considered most important, and he self-consciously structured his diary to expose their terrifying implications. He assumed that his political diatribe would be seen by his state legislators; indeed, when he traveled to Philadelphia between sessions, his diary was in his saddlebag, ready for the asking. Far more than a mere catalogue of detail, Maclay's diary is a narrative intended for people other than himself. A deliberately crafted political tool, it is a material artifact of an alien political world. It is also a rare testament to a national politician's mindset in the new republic. Full of hopes, fears, assumptions, and expectations, the diary presents one man's mental landscape at a critical moment in America's founding. Illogical or irrational as Maclay might seem, his diary contains immediate reactions to unfolding events, capturing the emotion and contingency of the moment as only a personal testimonial can. It offers a window on the realities of being a national politician on a shaky and unstructured stage.

"A Man Who Had Never Been Heard of Before"

Maclay's tribulations began almost upon his arrival in New York City (fig. 4). Well known and respected in Pennsylvania, he was entirely unknown on the national stage, a man without a reputation. As Abigail Adams expressed it, national politicians should be men "whose fame had resounded throughout the States." Maclay "might be a good man," but there were some who "did not like pensilvana's chusing a man who had never been heard of before." Although friends with national connections like Benjamin Rush tried to bolster Maclay's standing with letters of praise to their high-placed friends, such efforts did little more than invite people to be favorably disposed toward him. Maclay would have to prove himself in a new arena amid a multitude of strangers.

To Maclay, this sudden demotion was a nasty shock from which he never recovered. Elevated to the top of the political hierarchy, he had expected his reputation to benefit accordingly. Instead, he found himself struggling to make his name among inscrutable strangers of alien habits and conflicting interests. His disorientation justified his diary on a daily basis. Monitoring his colleagues might enable him to detect their motives, predict their actions, and plot a safe course. His diary was a personalized map of a foreign political landscape, every point within its compass significant in its relation to him alone.

This disorientation was distinctive to national politics, for in a state legislature, members largely were known quantities with familiar politics, histories, families, and friends. As John Adams put it in his early political career, "In a Provincial Assembly, where we know a Man's Pedigree and Biography, his Education, Profession and Connections, as well as his Fortune, it is easy to see what it is that governs a Man and determines him to this Party in Preference to that, to this System of Politicks rather than another, etc.... But here it is quite otherwise. We frequently see Phenomena which puzzles us. It requires Time to enquire and learn the Characters and Connections, the Interests and Views of a Multitude of Strangers." Conducting politics was almost impossible among a multitude of strangers, for how could one form alliances or predict attacks in an assembly of unknowns? Given the brief tenures of most national officeholders, extended time in office did little to help matters, for the cast of characters was ever changing.

(Continues...)