served, "has there been a period when men 'took their politics so hard' as in the twenty-five years between the framing of the Constitution and the end of the War of 1812."2
They are hard men: Washington, loved but enigmatic, rides at the crest of his popularity; the bitterness of his last years has not begun. That thin-skinned and well-stuffed Federalist, John Adams, presides over the Senate. In Massachusetts, the pugnacious diarist of Dedham, Nathaniel Ames, is warring with his brilliant Federalist brother, Fisher. The Spring of 1790 brings the death of Benjamin Franklin, an old man, much honored--but we forget how young so many of the founding fathers were: Jefferson is forty-seven in 1790; Madison thirty-nine, John Marshall thirty- five, Hamilton only thirty-three. In Virginia, Spencer Roane, one of the most neglected jurists of our history, is twenty-eight. John Taylor of Caroline, farmer, soldier, profound political thinker, is thirty-seven.
Some of the players in the developing drama are not yet born-- Upshur and Hayne will not appear until 1791--and some are only boys: Henry Clay in Virginia; Wilson Lumpkin in Georgia; John Randolph, a precocious seventeen, impatiently learning law and politics. And far apart, as the last decade of the 18th century opens, are two eight-year-olds: In New England, Daniel Webster; and in up-country South Carolina, a slender, dark-eyed, brooding boy, John C. Calhoun.
The Chisholm Case
IT WILL be recalled that Section 2 of Article III of the Constitution extended the Supreme Court's jurisdiction to "controversies . . . between a State and Citizens of another State." There was no question that a State could bring such an action. Georgia, in 1792,