purpose, the congressional members of the two parties for a time formed caucuses and made designations. The number of Federalists in Congress, however, was so small as to be negligible, and in 1808 and 1812 the party held two nominating conventions of a rather embryonic sort. The Federalist party itself, however, was rapidly passing out of the picture, and after the War of 1812 it ceased to be a factor.

In reaching out for the device of a convention, the early politicians had Anglo-American tradition to guide them. In the confused situation in England following the retirement in 1859 of Richard Cromwell, son of the great Oliver, as lord protector of England, it had been necessary to set up a new Parliament to establish Charles II on the throne. Since a regular Parliament could not be summoned without the issuance of a writ by the king, and since there was no king to issue such a writ, the authorities called for the election of a “convention” parliament—by definition, merely a “coming together” of citizens. The same device was used later—at the climax of the Glorious Revolution of 1688—and a convention came to be recognized as a convenient political device to do things that were not constitutionally provided for.

During the period of the American Revolution, the convention was a handy mechanism for colonists groping their way toward independence: it was used so often, indeed, from 1783 to 1789 that the United States may be said to have been born in convention. And although there is little obvious resemblance between the grave assemblages of patriots in buckled shoes and knee breeches which came together in those days and the crowded hotels and convention halls full of political leaders, followers, and hangers-on which make up modern nominating conventions, the line of descent is clear. When unforeseen difficulties in connection with choosing American Presidents arose, the convention was a logical, time-tested bit of apparatus ready for use.

These difficulties became especially pressing by the 1820’s. New generations were coming up in politics. The nation had grown; not only had it doubled in size, through the Louisiana Purchase, but its population was constantly increasing, and it was spread out over a wide territory. There were more voters to be appealed to and convinced, and a much greater variety of localities and special interests to be taken into consideration.

As the election of 1824 approached it was clear that—as far as national politics was concerned—the rudimentary two-party system which had functioned earlier in the century had disappeared. There were plenty of men who wanted to run for the presidency. The younger generation, in particular, in various parts of the country was producing candidates: but the problem of winning a majority of electoral votes for any one of them was baffling. The Republicans in Congress had tried the old maneuver of caucusing to name a candidate, but their efforts had been disregarded. In Virginia and in Pennsylvania there were calls for

a general national convention to make nominations, but nothing came of them.

In the separate states, to be sure, there were legislative caucuses or conventions to advance the names of favorite sons—most notably John Quincy Adams, Henry Clay. and Andrew Jackson. Supporters of these men in the various states would assemble to choose states of electors pledged to vote for the favored candidate, and from the states thus chosen the voters chose state delegations to the electoral college. But when the electors finally cast their ballots it developed that none of the candidates had won the required majority. Under the Constitution it was thus necessary for the House of Representatives to choose a President. The House named John Quincy Adams, passing over Jackson, who was probably the popular choice.

Because Jackson did have so much popular backing, it was obvious that in 1828 the contest would be between him and Adams. The legislature of Tennessee put Jackson in nomination not long after Adams was inaugurated. Legislatures and mass meetings of a different frame of mind, in other states, countered by proposing Adams. By such haphazard and varied procedures, Jackson and Adams came to oppose each other in 1828. But it was clear that a complete overhaul of this impromptu and somewhat helter-skelter system was badly needed, and it was undertaken as the election of 1832 approached.

The area within which politics was operating had greatly broadened. Manhood suffrage and the rapid growth of the population had so enlarged the number of voters that it was necessary for a political party to have a much better organization, participated in by all sections of the country. Bit by bit, such organizations came into being; among them the short-lived Anti-Masonic party.

One of the riddles of American political history is the extent to which the Masonic lodges played a significant part in the early days of our government’s operation. They must have had a good deal of importance, or the Anti-Masonic party would never have appeared. It had obscure beginnings in northern New York—sparked, originally, by a scandal arising from the mysterious disappearance of a character who had set out to expose the secrets of Masonry—and it quickly broadened its scope and became a stout champion of internal improvements and the protective tariff, gathering into its ranks a considerable number of ambitious and unattached politicians and the usual quota of restless amateurs.

It was emerging, in 1832, as a more or less national party. But it could not put forth a candidate and a platform through the old device of a party caucus in Washington, because there were no Anti-Masonic members of Congress. Accordingly, an organizing convention had been planned and held in 1830, and a second convention later on nominated William Wirt for the presidency.

This was not the only new party on the horizon. The main body of the opponents of Andrew Jackson was in the field as well. These men realized that he

was extraordinarily popular with the voters, and that beating him would be a hard job demanding a national organization: consequently, they steered away from the congressional caucus as being too limited in scope and appeal, and—encouraged, probably, by the benevolent interest of the United States Bank—they organized a convention in Baltimore, on December 12, 1831, which included representatives from seventeen states. This convention formally organized the National Republican party and nominated Henry Clay for President.

With all of this going on, Jackson’s own party—now usually known as the Democrats—likewise found itself in a position where a national convention would be useful. Jackson had a party revolt to deal with, and his managers wanted to meet with the state organizations and line the party up against John C. Calhoun, the southern radical. They did this, finally, so successfully that they continued to control the party in 1836 and 1840, when the assembled delegates dutifully endorsed Martin Van Buren as Jackson’s political heir.

The managers got their control by putting through the subsequently famous two-thirds rule--the rule that a candidate could be nominated only by a two-thirds vote rather than by a simple majority. They went for this rule because politics in the 1830’s was just as involved and had just as many angles as it has today.

Specifically, the Democrats could rarely carry the Old Federalist phalanx of New England states plus Maryland and Delaware, but those states were represented in the convention; their strength was less than a third of the total number of delegates, but if they should combine with an independent faction—the Calhounites, for instance—they might well be able, under a simple majority rule, to nominate a candidate whom the Jacksonians did not want. The two-thirds rule would remove any such possibility.

Actually, the convention system as the Democrats first operated it was less a device to pick a candidate than a means to perfect the party organization. But with the opposition the case was different. They not only had to build an organization; they also had to find some candidate who would have a chance to destroy the Andrew Jackson hero myth. The Democratic victory in 1832 was a crusher, and the opposition did not rally in 1836; not until after the panic of 1837 had created a different political atmosphere was the time ripe for another try at setting up a national organization.

During the interim, various anti-Jackson parties in a number of states had come into being under the magic name of Whig—the name hallowed during the Revolution as symbol of patriotic resistance to tyranny. In 1839 these state organizations arranged a national convention to prepare for 1840. When the convention met—bringing together various incongruous elements, united only by their opposition to Jacksonianism—the delegates conferred, schemed, and bargained, and came up at last with a military hero whom the Whigs could balance against the shade of Old Hickory—General William Henry Harrison, the hero of Tippecanoe. The Whigs did not

bother to present a platform, and Harrison did no campaigning to speak of; the log cabin, the keg of hard cider, and the glib slogan “Tippecanoe and Tyler too” touched some sort of popular chord; the Whigs elected a President, and the Democrats retired to their tents.

Thus, by 1840, two-party operation had at last been completed, and the convention system of making nominations had become firmly established. From that time down to the present day the national convention has been the accepted mechanism of selecting and presenting a party’s candidate.

This has had unexpected consequences. The conventions, by and large, have been attended and dominated by professional politicians—the men who operate the political machinery, which over the years has become more and more complex. The conventions, as a result, are usually preoccupied with the interest of the operators. Control of the machinery has often been of more concern than the problems of government.

For the professional politician’s first concern is to perfect his organization, to operate it successfully, and to see to it that the men nominated are in sympathy with the party’s methods of operation. Automatically, this has tended to remove political conventions from the most acute responsiveness to public opinion. It is the politicians’ opinion that is apt to count most.

Some of the results of this type of operation may be seen by an examination of the nominees. The first seven Presidents of the United States were of the statesmen’s school. Washington and Jackson were natural leaders, men of heroic achievement. The two Adamses, Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe were men of dignity chosen for their part in the statesmanship of the building of the new republic. But there that strain ended, in large part not so much because of the coming of the convention system as because the initial task was done. The nation was well established abroad and also, it appeared, at home. Statesmen no longer seemed so necessary.

 

With the coming of the convention came a new type of candidate. The first to profit by it was a man of different stature, Martin Van Buren, who had organized a political machine in New York State and was now building one on a national scale. Then followed—for the Democrats—James K. Polk, Lewis Cass, Franklin Pierce, and James Buchanan. These represented men who lived by politics, who aroused no sense of contrast in the minds of those who chose them. They were of the political crowd.

Their opponents, with only one backward deviation to statemanship in the choice of Clay in 1844, used another technique, the technique of those out of power, those uncertain of their fortunes. Instinctively or otherwise they realized they could not elect any of their own—they must choose someone with glamour, a glamour undimmed by any political activity. So the candidates they nominated were all military—William Henry Harrison, Zachary Taylor, Winfield Scott, and John C. Frémont.

While these nominees were fighting it out each

succeeding leap year, a dangerous sectionalism was developing which in the end was almost to destroy the republic. As this crisis came to a climax in 1860, it finally appeared that the nominating convention, instead of being a convenient mechanism to unify and promote harmony, might be an instrument of confusion and danger.

Since the beginning of the republic, political leadership had been largely southern. That stable, slow-growing section kept its representatives longer in power and gave them seniority. But this leadership was conservative and it refused the legislation to aid internal development which northern interests wanted. The resulting feeling of frustration was bound to make an outburst inevitable. When the voting superiority of the faster growing North had been achieved by the great increase in population, the ambitious, the resourceful, and the discontented joined to form the new Republican party in 1856 on a northern platform of free soil and subsidy, and they nearly won the election.

This immediately cut the ground out from under the accustomed type of “national” political campaign, which had been devoted largely to shadow-boxing--professional politician running against unsullied military hero. The new Republicans, operating with a frankly anti-southern platform, were within a few electoral votes of victory, and the Democrats were in an exceedingly difficult position.

The Democratic problem now was how to adjust to this new attack. How could they develop a candidate, a platform, and a campaign which would keep them and their southern leadership in power? They felt themselves to be a national party, but they were really southern in their policy and their motivation; they refused to approve the development programs demanded by growing northern interests—protective tariffs, railroad subsidies, land distribution and the like. Some sort of adjustment obviously was called for if the party was to win in 1860; but specifically what should it be, and how should it be brought about?

This was the key question which the 1860 convention of the Democratic party was called upon to answer. What would the nature of the Democratic adjustment be? Would the party bring forward some aggressive leader with a program which could actively compete for northern votes, or would it merely choose a neutral candidate and take a position of defending the rights of the South and appealing to the northern sense of fair play?

Dominant southern leadership was demanding the latter tactic; and no political convention before this one ever faced such a dilemma. Fate seemed determined to make the solution of this problem even more difficult than it would normally have been.

Previously, conventions had always been held in what was more or less neutral territory—usually in Baltimore, which was of easy access to all shades of political opinion and which was not too much dominated by any single group or faction. But in 1860, by some strange chance, the Democrats were to meet in Charleston, South Carolina, than which there was no community more wholly and more uncompromisingly southern.