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 From
the revolutionaries' view, however, the primary advantage of the
wording of charge 10 was probably its purposeful ambiguity. The
"multitude of New Offices" referred to the customs posts
that had been created in the 1760s to control colonial smuggling.
The "swarms of Officers" that were purportedly eating
out the substance of the colonies' three million people numbered
about fifty in the entire continent. But Congress could hardly assail
George III as a tyrant for appointing a few dozen men to enforce
the laws against smuggling, so it clothed the charge in vague, evocative
imagery that gave significance and emotional resonance to what otherwise
might have seemed a rather paltry grievance.
Third,
although scholars often downplay the war grievances as "the
weakest part of the Declaration," they were vital to its rhetorical
strategy. They came last partly because they were the most recent
of George III's "abuses and usurpations," but also because
they constituted the ultimate proof of his plan to reduce the colonies
under "absolute despotism." Whereas the first twenty-two
grievances describe the king's acts with such temperate verbs as
"refused," "called together," "dissolved,"
"endeavored," "made," "erected," "kept,"
and "affected," the war grievances use emotionally charged
verbs such as "plundered," "ravaged," "burnt,"
and "destroyed." With the exception of grievance, there
is nothing in the earlier charges to compare with the evocative
accusation that George III was spreading "death, desolation
and tyranny ¡ with circumstances of Cruelty and perfidy scarcely
paralleled in the most barbarous ages," or with the characterization
of "the merciless Indian Savages, whose known mode of warfare
is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions."
Coming on the heels of the previous twenty-two charges, the war
grievances make George III out as little better than the notorious
Richard III, who had forfeited his crown in 1485 for "unnatural,
mischievous, and great Perjuries, Treasons, Homicides and Murders,
in shedding of Infants' blood, with many other Wrongs, odious Offences,
and abominations against God and Man."
To
some extent, of course, the emotional intensity of the war grievances
was a natural outgrowth of their subject. It is hard to write about
warfare without using strong language. Moreover, as Jefferson explained
a decade later in his famous "Head and Heart" letter to
Maria Cosway, for many of the revolutionaries independence was,
at bottom, an emotional¡ªor sentimental¡ªissue. But the emotional
pitch of the war grievances was also part of a rhetorical strategy
designed to solidify support for independence in those parts of
America that had yet to suffer the physical and economic hardships
of war. As late as May 1776 John Adams lamented that while independence
had strong support in New England and the South, it was less secure
in the middle colonies, which "have never tasted the bitter
Cup; they have never Smarted¡ªand are therefore a little cooler."
As Thomas Paine recognized, "the evil" of British domination
was not yet "sufficiently brought to their doors to make them
feel the precariousness with which all American property is possessed."
Paine sought to bring the evil home to readers of Common Sense by
inducing them to identify with the "horror" inflicted
on other Americans by the British forces "that hath carried
fire and sword" into the land. In similar fashion, the Declaration
of Independence used images of terror to magnify the wickedness
of George III, to arouse "the passions and feelings" of
readers, and to awaken "from fatal and unmanly slumbers"
those Americans who had yet to be directly touched by the ravages
of war.
Fourth,
all of the charges against George III contain a substantial amount
of strategic ambiguity. While they have a certain specificity in
that they refer to actual historical events, they do not identify
names, dates, or places. This magnified the seriousness of the grievances
by making it seem as if each charge referred not to a particular
piece of legislation or to an isolated act in a single colony, but
to a violation of the constitution that had been repeated on many
occasions throughout America.
The
ambiguity of the grievances also made them more difficult to refute.
In order to build a convincing case against the grievances, defenders
of the king had to clarify each charge and what specific act or
events it referred to, and then explain why the charge was not true.
Thus it took John Lind, who composed the most sustained British
response to the Declaration, 110 pages to answer the charges set
forth by the Continental Congress in fewer than two dozen sentences.
Although Lind deftly exposed many of the charges to be flimsy at
best, his detailed and complex rebuttal did not stand a chance against
the Declaration as a propaganda document. Nor has Lind's work fared
much better since 1776. While the Declaration continues to command
an international audience and has created an indelible popular image
of George III as a tyrant, Lind's tract remains a piece of arcana,
buried in the dustheap of history.
In
addition to petitioning Parliament and George III, Whig leaders
had also worked hard to cultivate friends of the American cause
in England. But the British people had proved no more receptive
to the Whigs than had the government, and so the Declaration follows
the attack on George III by noting that the colonies had also appealed
in vain to the people of Great Britain:
¡¡¡¡Nor have we been wanting in attentions to our British brethren.
We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature
to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded
them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here.
We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we
have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow
these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections
and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice
and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity,
which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest
of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.
This
is one of the most artfully written sections of the Declaration.
The first sentence, beginning "Nor ¡," shifts attention
quickly and cleanly away from George III to the colonists' "British
brethren." The "have we" of the first sentence is
neatly reversed in the "We have" at the start of the second.
Sentences two through four, containing four successive clauses beginning
"We Have ¡ ," give a pronounced sense of momentum to the
paragraph while underlining the colonists' active efforts to reach
the British people. The repetition of "We have" here also
parallels the repetition of "He has" in the grievances
against George III.
The
fifth sentence¡ª"They too have been deaf to the voice of justice
and of consanguinity"¡ªcontains one of the few metaphors in
the Declaration and acquires added force by its simplicity and brevity,
which contrast with the greater length and complexity of the preceding
sentence. The final sentence unifies the paragraph by returning
to the pattern of beginning with "We," and its intricate
periodic structure plays off the simple structure of the fifth sentence
so as to strengthen the cadence of the entire paragraph. The closing
words¡ª"Enemies in War, in Peace Friends"¡ªemploy chiasmus,
a favorite rhetorical device of eighteenth-century writers. How
effective the device is in this case can be gauged by rearranging
the final words to read, "Enemies in War, Friends in Peace,"
which weakens both the force and harmony of the Declaration's phrasing.
It
is worth noting, as well, that this is the only part of the Declaration
to employ much alliteration: "British brethren," "time
to time," "common kindred," "which would,"
"connections and correspondence." The euphony gained by
these phrases is fortified by the heavy repetition of medial and
terminal consonants in adjoining words: "been wanting in attentions
to," "them from time to time," "to their native
justice," "disavow these usurpations," "have
been deaf to the voice of." Finally, this paragraph, like the
rest of the Declaration, contains a high proportion of one- and
two-syllable words 82 percent). Of those words, an overwhelming
number (eighty-one of ninety-six) contain only one syllable. The
rest of the paragraph contains nine three-syllable words, eight
four-syllable words, and four five-syllable words. This felicitous
blend of a large number of very short words with a few very long
ones is reminiscent of Lincoln's Gettysburg Address and contributes
greatly to the harmony, cadence, and eloquence of the Declaration,
much as it contributes to the same features in Lincoln's immortal
speech.
The
British brethren section essentially finished the case for independence.
Congress had set forth the conditions that justified revolution
and had shown, as best it could, that those conditions existed in
Great Britain's thirteen North American colonies. All that remained
was for Congress to conclude the Declaration:
¡¡¡¡We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of
America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme
Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the
Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly
publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right
ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved
from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political
connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought
to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States,
they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances,
establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent
States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration,
with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we
mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred
Honor.
This
final section of the Declaration is highly formulaic and has attracted
attention primarily because of its closing sentence. Carl Becker
deemed this sentence "perfection itself":
¡¡¡¡It is true (assuming that men value life more than property,
which is doubtful) that the statement violates the rhetorical rule
of climax; but it was a sure sense that made Jefferson place "lives"
first and "fortunes" second. How much weaker if he had
written "our fortunes, our lives, and our sacred honor"!
Or suppose him to have used the word "property" instead
of "fortunes"! Or suppose him to have omitted "sacred"!
¡¡¡¡Consider the effect of omitting any of the words, such as the
last two "ours"¡ª"our lives, fortunes, and sacred
honor." No, the sentence can hardly be improved.
Becker
is correct in his judgment about the wording and rhythm of the sentence,
but he errs in attributing high marks to Jefferson for his "sure
sense" in placing "lives" before "fortunes."
"Lives and fortunes" was one of the most hackneyed phrases
of eighteenth-century Anglo-American political discourse. Colonial
writers had used it with numbing regularity throughout the dispute
with England (along with other stock phrases such as "liberties
and estates" and "life, liberty, and property").
Its appearance in the Declaration can hardly be taken as a measure
of Jefferson's felicity of expression.
What
marks Jefferson's "happy talent for composition" in this
case is the coupling of "our sacred Honor" with "our
Lives" and "our Fortunes" to create the eloquent
trilogy that closes the Declaration. The concept of honor (and its
cognates fame and glory) exerted a powerful hold on the eighteenth-century
mind. Writers of all kinds¡ªphilosophers, preachers, politicians,
playwrights, poets¡ªrepeatedly speculated about the sources of honor
and how to achieve it. Virtually every educated man in England or
America was schooled in the classical maxim, "What is left
when honor is lost?" Or as Joseph Addison wrote in his Cato,
whose sentiments were widely admired throughout the eighteenth century
on both sides of the Atlantic:
¡¡¡¡"Better to die ten thousand
deaths/Than wound my honour." The cult of honor was so strong
that in English judicial proceedings a peer of the realm did not
answer to bills in chancery or give a verdict "upon oath, like
an ordinary juryman, but upon his honor."
By
pledging "our sacred Honor" in support of the Declaration,
Congress made a particularly solemn vow. The pledge also carried
a latent message that the revolutionaries, contrary to the claims
of their detractors, were men of honor whose motives and actions
could not only withstand the closest scrutiny by contemporary persons
of quality and merit but would also deserve the approbation of posterity.
If the Revolution succeeded, its leaders-stood to achieve lasting
honor as what Francis Bacon called "Liberatores or Salvatores"¡ªmen
who "compound the long Miseries of Civil Wars, or deliver their
Countries from Servitude of Strangers or Tyrants." Historical
examples included Augustus Caesar, Henry VII of England, and Henry
IV of France. On Bacon's five-point scale of supreme honor, such
heroes ranked below only "Conditores Imperiorum, Founders of
States and Commonwealths," such as Romulus, Caesar, and Ottoman,
and "Lawgivers" such as Solon, Lycurgus, and Justinian,
"also called Second Founders, or Perpetui Principes, because
they Govern by their Ordinances after they are gone." Seen
in this way, "our sacred Honor" lifts the motives of Congress
above the more immediate concerns of "our Lives" and "our
Fortunes" and places the revolutionaries in the footsteps of
history's most honorable figures. As a result it also unifies the
whole text by subtly playing out the notion that the Revolution
is a major turn in the broad "course of human events."
At
the same time, the final sentence completes a crucial metamorphosis
in the text. Although the Declaration begins in an impersonal, even
philosophical voice, it gradually becomes a kind of drama, with
its tensions expressed more and more in personal terms. This transformation
begins with the appearance of the villain, "the present King
of Great Britain," who dominates the stage through the first
nine grievances, all of which note what "He has" done
without identifying the victim of his evil deeds. Beginning with
grievance 10 the king is joined on stage by the American colonists,
who are identified as the victim by some form of first person plural
reference: The king has sent "swarms of officers to harass
our people," has quartered "armed troops among us,"
has imposed "taxes on us without our consent," "has
taken away our charters, abolished our most valuable laws,"
and altered "the Forms of our Governments." He has "plundered
our seas, ravaged our coasts, burnt our towns,¡ destroyed the lives
of our people," and "excited domestic insurrections amongst
us." The word "our" is used twenty-six times from
its first appearance in grievance 10 through the last sentence of
the Declaration, while "us" occurs eleven times from its
first appearance in grievance 11 through the rest of the grievances.
Throughout
the grievances action is instigated by the king, as the colonists
passively accept blow after blow without wavering in their loyalty.
His villainy complete, George III leaves the stage and it is occupied
next by the colonists and their "British brethren." The
heavy use of personal pronouns continues, but by now the colonists
have become the instigators of action as they actively seek redress
of their grievances. This is marked by a shift in idiom from "He
has" to "We have": "We have petitioned for redress
¡," "We have reminded them ¡," "We have appealed
to their ¡," and "We have conjured them." But "they
have been deaf" to all pleas, so "We must ¡ hold them"
as enemies. By the conclusion, only the colonists remain on stage
to pronounce their dramatic closing lines: "We ¡ solemnly publish
and declare ¡" And to support this declaration, "we mutually
pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor."
The
persistent use of "he" and "them," "us"
and "our," "we" and "they" personalizes
the British-American conflict and transfigures it from a complex
struggle of multifarious origins and diverse motives to a simple
moral drama in which a patiently suffering people courageously defend
their liberty against a cruel and vicious tyrant. It also reduces
the psychic distance between the reader and the text and coaxes
the reader into seeing the dispute with Great Britain through the
eyes of the revolutionaries. As the drama of the Declaration unfolds,
the reader is increasingly solicited to identify with Congress and
"the good People of these Colonies," to share their sense
of victimage, to participate vicariously in their struggle, and
ultimately to act with them in their heroic quest for freedom. In
this respect, as in others, the Declaration is a work of consummate
artistry. From its eloquent introduction to its aphoristic maxims
of government, to its relentless accumulation of charges against
George III, to its elegiac denunciation of the British people, to
its heroic closing sentence, it sustains an almost perfect synthesis
of style, form, and content. Its solemn and dignified tone, its
graceful and unhurried cadence, its symmetry, energy, and confidence,
its combination of logical structure and dramatic appeal, its adroit
use of nuance and implication all contribute to its rhetorical power.
And all help to explain why the Declaration remains one of the handful
of American political documents that, in addition to meeting the
immediate needs of the moment, continues to enjoy a lustrous literary
reputation.
¡¡¡¡NOTES
¡¡¡¡c 1989 by Stephen E. Lucas
¡¡¡¡Stephen E. Lucas is professor of communication arts at the
University of Wisconsin, Madison, WI. The present essay is derived
from a more comprehensive study, "Justifying America: The Declaration
of Independence as a Rhetorical Document," in Thomas W. Benson,
ed., American Rhetoric: Context and Criticism (1989).
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