18. Heroes and Villains of the Birth of the Nation: The First Contested Presidential Election: John Adams

My Name is Abigail Adams: Witness to a Revolution and First Lady of the Republic

I was born on November 22, 1744, in the small town of Weymouth, Massachusetts. My father was a Congregational minister, and my mother came from a long line of New England families who valued education and moral duty. Although girls of my time were rarely given formal schooling, I learned eagerly at home, reading every book I could find in my father’s library. From childhood, I understood that knowledge was my ally in a world that offered few freedoms to women.

A Marriage of Minds and Hearts

In 1764, I married John Adams, a young lawyer whose mind burned with ambition and integrity. Our marriage was a partnership in every sense—intellectual, emotional, and moral. John would later say my judgment steadied him, and I found in him a companion who valued my thoughts as deeply as my affection. When he traveled for long stretches, we exchanged letters—hundreds of them—filled with political insight, family matters, and reflections on the world changing around us.

The Turmoil Before the Revolution

As tensions grew between the colonies and Britain, our home in Braintree became a place where news of unrest and debate constantly arrived. John was often away, serving as a delegate, and I was left to manage our farm, raise our children, and endure the uncertainties of war. I did not shrink from these responsibilities. Instead, I used my pen to share insights with John, urging him to remember the rights of all people—including the women who upheld families and communities during the struggle for independence.

The Birth of a Nation from My Hearth

During the long years of the Revolution, I kept our family afloat through scarcity, illness, and worry. I melted pewter dishes to make bullets, cared for neighbors in need, and raised our children while writing tirelessly to John as he served Congress or traveled abroad. My letters offered him both comfort and counsel. I observed the consequences of war firsthand—rising prices, burning homes, the fear of British attack—and I shaped my own convictions about liberty, justice, and equality.

Journey to Europe and Diplomatic Life

In 1784, after years of separation, I sailed across the Atlantic to join John in Europe. The voyage tested my strength, but arriving in Paris and then moving to London opened my eyes to the contrasts between monarchy and the budding republic we hoped to build. I observed noble courts, lavish displays, and the rigidity of class, and I became more certain than ever that America must never follow such paths.

First Lady of the Early Republic

When John became Vice President under George Washington and later President in 1797, I found myself at the center of political storms. I offered him counsel on foreign threats, domestic unrest, and the fierce battles between Federalists and Democratic-Republicans. Some criticized my influence; others admired my resolve. I walked carefully, aware that every word and action echoed through the fragile new nation. Advocating for the education of women, urging moderation in partisan conflict, and supporting my husband through the tumult of the presidency became my quiet contributions to America’s early years.

Witness to the First Transfer of Power

The election of 1800 brought deep bitterness and change. When Thomas Jefferson replaced John as President, we left the capital and returned to Quincy. The transition revealed the divisions tearing at the young republic, yet I believed that peaceful change of leadership marked a triumph of the values we had fought to establish. Though rivals in politics, Jefferson and I exchanged few words at that time; reconciliation would come much later.

Life in Quincy and Reflections on the Republic

In my later years, I enjoyed the comfort of family, the company of my children, and the warmth of a home built on decades of hardship and endurance. I watched my son, John Quincy Adams, rise in diplomacy and public service. I took pride in his achievements, knowing how deeply he carried the lessons of his childhood—a childhood shaped by revolution.

Growing Divide in the Washington Administration (1789–1793) – Told by Abigail

When my husband first took his place beside President Washington, I believed the nation was entering a season of unity. The war had ended, the Constitution had been ratified, and the people longed for stability. Yet as I observed from my home in New York and later Philadelphia, reading letters and hearing reports from John, I soon realized that harmony within the new government was already beginning to fray. The Cabinet, though small in number, contained minds so forceful and so unlike one another that conflict seemed inevitable.

Alexander Hamilton’s Vision for a Strong Nation

Mr. Hamilton, Secretary of the Treasury, was brilliant beyond measure and driven by a determination to see America stand as strong as any nation in Europe. His financial programs—consolidating state debts, establishing a national bank, and encouraging manufacturing—were all designed to build a firm structure for the republic. He believed deeply in energetic government, and he pursued his goals with such vigor that few could resist being swept along. Yet I saw clearly in John’s letters that Hamilton's ideas stirred unease among many who feared the rise of power too closely resembling monarchy.

Thomas Jefferson’s Hope for a Republic of Liberty

In contrast stood Mr. Jefferson, Secretary of State, a man whose intellect was matched only by his devotion to the principles of individual liberty. He looked upon Hamilton’s plans with suspicion, believing them to favor wealthy interests and endanger the agrarian character of the country. To Jefferson, the true strength of the nation lay in its farmers, its broad lands, and its independence from the entanglements of European politics. As I read his writings and heard John describe Cabinet debates, I sensed Jefferson’s increasing conviction that Hamilton sought to reshape America in ways contrary to the Revolution’s spirit.

The Quiet Birth of Factions

These differences might have remained private had not the Cabinet’s discussions grown sharper and more contentious. Reports reached me of tense meetings, raised voices, and a deepening mistrust that neither Washington’s presence nor his patience could completely soothe. Through letters from John, I learned that Hamilton and Jefferson rarely saw eye to eye, and that their quarrels extended beyond policy into questions of character and motive. Each believed the other threatened the nation’s future, and from this belief sprang the early roots of faction—what future generations would call political parties.

The People Take Sides

As these disputes reached the public through newspapers and conversations in every tavern and parlor, the country itself began dividing. Supporters of Hamilton gathered under the banner of order, trade, and strong government, while Jefferson’s followers championed liberty, agriculture, and vigilance against tyranny. I watched these lines deepen with concern. Though ordinary citizens still hoped for unity, the policies debated in the Cabinet soon became battles fought in print, in Congress, and across every state.

An Administration Held Together by Washington Alone

It became clear to me that only President Washington’s towering character prevented the Cabinet from splintering entirely. John often wrote of the President’s efforts to preserve harmony, yet even his authority could not dispel the mistrust between the two leading men. By 1793, as foreign events stirred further passions, the divide had grown so wide that reconciliation seemed impossible.

The Seeds of Future Conflict

Looking back on those years, I recognized that the nation’s first administration had already birthed the divisions that would shape the election of 1796 and every contest thereafter. The tension between Hamilton and Jefferson revealed a truth the Constitution could not erase: that free men, each with strong convictions, would naturally form alliances and oppositions. These early years showed that disagreement, though uncomfortable, was a sign of a living republic—one still finding its voice and learning the cost of freedom.

My Name is Thomas Paine: Political Philosopher and Revolutionary Writer

I was born on January 29, 1737, in the small town of Thetford, England. My father was a Quaker stay-maker who stitched the stays used in women’s garments, and my mother came from an Anglican family. Our home was modest, our income fragile, and my future uncertain. Yet from an early age, I sensed that the world’s injustices—poverty, inequality, and the tyranny of rank—were chains that could be broken with the right words and the right ideas.

Early Struggles and Searching for Purpose

As a young man, I drifted from trade to trade. I worked as a stay-maker like my father, served as an excise officer, and even tried my hand as a schoolteacher. But whether through misfortune or temperament, I found little success. My dismissal from the excise service left me humiliated and frustrated with the corruption I saw in the British system. Even then, the seeds of rebellion stirred in my mind, though I had not yet found the soil in which they would flourish.

Meeting Benjamin Franklin and Crossing the Atlantic

Fortune’s tide shifted in 1774 when I met Benjamin Franklin in London. He saw in me a restless mind hungry for opportunity, and through his encouragement, I sailed to America. I arrived in Philadelphia ill and impoverished but with a spirit revived by the promise of a new world. America, I quickly realized, was fertile ground for ideas that could challenge centuries of monarchy and privilege.

Common Sense and the Call for Independence

In January 1776, I published a pamphlet titled Common Sense. I wrote in clear language that ordinary Americans could understand. Kings, I argued, were not chosen by God but created by men. Independence was not only possible but necessary. The pamphlet spread like wildfire, selling hundreds of thousands of copies at a time when the population was small. Some say it helped tip the scale toward revolution. I only know that I had written what my conscience demanded.

The American Crisis and the Hard Road of War

As the Revolution turned bleak—armies retreating, hopes dimming—I published The American Crisis, beginning with the words, “These are the times that try men’s souls.” General Washington had it read to the troops at Valley Forge, hoping my words would strengthen their resolve. I traveled with the army, witnessed their suffering, and wrote to inspire them and remind the people why liberty was worth every hardship.

A Revolutionary Voice in Europe

After America won its independence, I returned to Europe, where another revolution was brewing. In France, the people rose against monarchy, and I supported them passionately. My book Rights of Man defended their cause and attacked the British aristocracy. For this, the British government sought my arrest. I fled to France, where I was elected to the National Convention despite not speaking the language.

Imprisonment and The Age of Reason

The Revolution in France turned violent during the Reign of Terror. I opposed the execution of King Louis XVI, believing that a republic need not murder to prove its legitimacy. This position made me enemies, and I soon found myself imprisoned in the Luxembourg Prison. During that dark year, uncertain whether I would survive, I wrote parts of The Age of Reason, a work challenging organized religion and calling for a faith guided by reason rather than tradition. Many would later condemn me for it, but I wrote only what my conscience held true.

Return to America and Waning Reputation

In 1802, after years of turmoil, I returned to the United States. But the nation I had helped to inspire had changed—and many had turned against me. My criticisms of religion, my support of France, and my confrontational nature left me isolated. Once, I was hailed as the voice of American independence. Now I was often reviled. Though President Jefferson welcomed me, few others did.

Rise of Federalists vs. Democratic-Republicans (1791–1793) – Told by Thomas Paine

In the early 1790s, as America sought to define itself beyond revolution and constitution, I watched the nation’s leaders divide into two distinct camps. This division was not born of petty quarrels but of deep and genuine differences about what liberty demanded. The Revolution had overthrown monarchy, but now the question before us was how to preserve the people’s sovereignty in times of peace. Many believed that strengthening central authority would secure stability. Others feared that such power, once gathered, would threaten the very freedom we had fought a war to obtain.

The Federalist Vision Emerges

The Federalists, led by men who admired structure and efficiency, argued that a strong national government was essential for survival. They favored the establishment of a national bank, the encouragement of manufacturing, and closer ties with Britain, whose financial system they respected. To them, order was the foundation of liberty. They believed the nation needed disciplined institutions to avoid chaos and to compete with the great powers of Europe. Yet to my eyes, their program too often resembled the very systems of influence and privilege we had once resisted.

The Democratic-Republican Response

Opposing this vision were those who believed liberty must remain rooted in the common citizen. This group, later called Democratic-Republicans, championed agriculture, local governance, and vigilance against centralized authority. They feared that banks, speculation, and an expanding Treasury would corrupt the republic and place too much influence in the hands of the wealthy. They saw the future of America not in crowded cities and powerful financiers, but in independent farmers who needed little government beyond the protection of their natural rights.

The Press Becomes a Battleground

As these differences sharpened, the newspapers—America’s new engines of persuasion—became weapons in a war of ideas. Editors on one side accused the other of plotting to recreate monarchy; their opponents responded by warning that too much liberty would lead to mob rule. The press, once a tool for spreading information, now served as the mouthpiece of each faction. Articles and pamphlets poured forth daily, shaping public opinion for or against one vision of the nation’s soul. Through these papers, ideas spread far faster than any legislator could travel, and the people found themselves pulled into the dispute whether they wished it or not.

Ideology Becomes Identity

By 1793, the divide had hardened into something more than disagreement. Men spoke of themselves as belonging to one party or the other, though they rarely used the word “party” aloud. To be a Federalist was to trust in government’s ability to secure prosperity through structure. To be a Democratic-Republican was to believe that freedom depended on restraint of power and the vigilance of ordinary people. These beliefs touched every question—foreign alliances, economic policy, the nation’s character itself.

A Republic Forged in Debate

Though many lamented the rise of factions, I viewed these disagreements as the inevitable result of liberty. A people free to think must also be free to differ. It is through argument, not silence, that a republic discovers its path. Yet I also saw the danger of passion overwhelming reason, especially when stirred by newspapers eager to print every accusation. The early 1790s taught us that freedom and faction would be lifelong companions in America, for a nation born out of revolution will always debate how best to secure the blessings of liberty.

My Name is John Beckley: America’s First Political Campaign Manager

I was born around 1757, though the exact records of my birth are uncertain. My early years were marked not by privilege but by perseverance. I came to Virginia as an indentured servant, a circumstance that shaped my understanding of inequality and opportunity. In time, I earned my freedom and devoted myself to learning, reading voraciously, and developing the skills that would eventually draw me into the heart of American political life.

A Rising Clerk and Political Mind

My first steps into public service began in Richmond, where I worked as a clerk and soon gained a reputation for precision and intelligence. The world of government records, legislative debates, and political argument was intoxicating to me. I saw how information moved power, and how organization shaped decisions. These insights carried me forward as I became increasingly active in Virginia’s political circles.

From Clerkship to Congress

In 1789, I was appointed the first Clerk of the United States House of Representatives. This role placed me at the center of the young nation’s political machinery. I recorded debates, managed documents, and watched alliances form and fracture. Though the office was administrative, it gave me a window into the emerging struggle between Federalists and the faction that would become the Democratic-Republicans. I was never content to remain a silent observer. My pen, my correspondence, and my strategic mind naturally aligned with those seeking to push back against Federalist power.

Champion of the Democratic-Republican Cause

Though I was a clerk by title, my true work became political strategy. I supported James Madison and, later, Thomas Jefferson in their efforts to build opposition against the Federalists. I understood the power of newspapers and pamphlets, and I helped foster networks of writers, editors, and printers who would deliver our arguments to the public. My coordination of political messaging, my behind-the-scenes organizing, and my ability to mobilize supporters earned me the distinction that history would eventually bestow: America’s first professional political campaign manager.

Mastering the Politics of the Press

One of my greatest tools was the press. I worked closely with editors like Philip Freneau and Benjamin Bache to shape public discourse. We published arguments against Hamiltonian policies, exposed Federalist overreach, and championed the rights of the common citizen. The Federalists accused us of manipulation. But I believed fervently that a republic required an informed public—and that the press was the battlefield on which America’s future would be decided.

The 1796 Election and the Birth of Organized Campaigning

The presidential election of 1796 was the first truly contested race in American history, and I played a pivotal role. I organized committees, distributed letters, coordinated pamphlets, and guided messaging to support Jefferson and challenge John Adams. Though our efforts did not secure Jefferson the presidency, they established a blueprint for future political campaigns. No longer would elections rely solely on personal reputation or regional alliances; they would require organization, strategy, and communication. I had helped create a new kind of political warfare—one fought with ideas rather than armies.

Return to Office and Continued Influence

When Jefferson won the presidency in 1800, he restored me as Clerk of the House, a position I had lost under Federalist control. In this second tenure, I continued to shape Democratic-Republican strategy and helped support the administration’s legislative goals. I also served as the first Librarian of Congress, tasked with building the intellectual foundation for the nation’s lawmakers.

Partisan Newspapers Take Center Stage (1792–1794) – Told by John Beckley

In the early 1790s, I came to understand that the true strength of a political movement was not measured only in votes or speeches, but in the spread of ideas. The common citizen, whether farmer, craftsman, or merchant, rarely met the great figures of government. But he read newspapers. He heard them read aloud in taverns. He saw their arguments echoed in conversations across every town. It was through the printed word that the nation learned what its leaders believed—and what their opponents feared.

Building a Network of Republican Voices

To counter the advantage the Federalists held in government and influence, I looked to the press to balance the scales. I worked closely with Philip Freneau, who edited the National Gazette, and Benjamin Bache, who ran the Aurora. These men understood how to speak to the public plainly, urgently, and persuasively. Their presses became tools by which we challenged the growing power of the Treasury and warned citizens about policies that threatened to tilt the republic toward aristocracy. We were not merely publishing news; we were cultivating awareness and encouraging the people to take an active role in shaping their government.

Federalist Papers and Republican Responses

Our opponents were no less skilled. Federalist editors supported the administration’s views and defended the expanding programs of finance and government. Their newspapers praised strong central authority, urged loyalty to established leadership, and condemned our arguments as dangerous to the nation’s stability. We responded with equal force. Through editorials and pamphlets, we exposed what we believed were attempts to favor wealthy interests at the expense of the common man. The result was a pulsing debate that reached every corner of the republic.

Newspapers Become Political Battlefields

By 1793, the nation’s newspapers no longer behaved as neutral observers. They had become battlegrounds. Editors traded accusations, politicians fed information to their favored papers, and readers aligned themselves with the voices that matched their own vision of America’s future. Every major issue—foreign affairs, economic policy, and the direction of the republic—was argued in print long before it reached the halls of Congress. In many ways, the people were witnessing the nation’s debates before the lawmakers themselves had finished speaking.

Shaping the Public’s Imagination

Our aim was not to deceive but to awaken. A republic cannot survive if its citizens are silent or ignorant. The papers brought the government’s actions into the homes of ordinary Americans. They stirred conversation, sharpened convictions, and ensured that no decision made in the capital went unnoticed. Through careful coordination, letters, and strategic placement of arguments, we fostered a sense of vigilance that we believed essential to protecting the liberties won in the Revolution.

The Lasting Impact of a Free Press

By 1794, the role of the press in American politics was undeniable. Newspapers had become instruments of persuasion, guardians of liberty, and, at times, engines of division. Yet I believed then—as I do still—that a noisy, argumentative press is far preferable to a silent one. Through its pages, the people learned to guard their freedoms and to question the ambitions of those in power.

My Name is John Adams: Second President of the United States

I was born on October 30, 1735, in the small farming town of Braintree, Massachusetts. My father was a farmer, deacon, and town leader, and my mother came from a line of New England Puritans. We were not wealthy, but we valued learning, duty, and integrity. As a boy, I was more inclined toward outdoor pursuits than books, but the expectations of my family—and the encouragement of my schoolmaster—set my feet firmly on the path of education.

A Mind Turned Toward Learning

At the age of fifteen, I entered Harvard College, an institution that would shape much of my thinking and ambition. Though I initially thought of becoming a minister, I soon realized that the law suited my disposition far better. I hungered for debate. I hungered for clarity. I hungered for truth. After completing my studies and teaching for a time, I devoted myself to learning the English law and eventually established my own practice in Boston.

Standing for the Rule of Law

My legal career brought both opportunity and controversy, the greatest of which was the Boston Massacre trial of 1770. Though many Patriots urged me to refuse the case, I believed that justice must never bow to the passions of the mob. I defended the British soldiers not because I loved their cause, but because I loved the law. When the jury acquitted most of them, I felt I had done my duty to conscience and to my country. This moment, I believe, helped cement the American belief that a nation founded on liberty must also be anchored in justice.

A Voice for Independence

By the mid-1770s, the rising conflict between the colonies and Great Britain called many of us into greater service. I entered the Continental Congress in 1774, and from the first I supported vigorous resistance. Over time my resolve hardened into full belief that independence was the only future for America. I pushed, argued, debated, and persuaded. I nominated George Washington to lead our army. I worked with Jefferson as he drafted the Declaration of Independence. And on July 2, 1776, the day the Congress voted for independence, I felt the weight of history break open into a new world.

Diplomacy Across the Atlantic

War required more than soldiers; it required alliances. In late 1777 and again in 1779, I crossed the Atlantic as a diplomat to secure loans, treaties, and recognition for our young nation. France was our most critical partner, though the work was rarely pleasant. Franklin charmed; I labored and argued. We complemented each other in our own uneasy way. In 1783 I helped negotiate the Treaty of Paris, which officially ended the war and acknowledged our independence. Standing in that moment, far from home, I felt the world shift under my feet.

The New Government Takes Shape

Returning home, I found myself called once more into service: first as minister to Britain, and then as the first Vice President of the United States. The vice presidency was an uncomfortable office—“the most insignificant office that ever the invention of man contrived,” as I once lamented. Yet I fulfilled my duty with diligence, presiding over the Senate and observing the birth of our new government under President Washington.

The First Contested Election

In 1796 I found myself at the center of the nation’s first true electoral contest. Newspapers raged, factions battled, and friends became enemies. When the votes were counted, I was elected President—and my rival, Thomas Jefferson, became my Vice President. It was an awkward arrangement, a flaw in the Constitution that would soon demand correction. Nevertheless, I pledged myself to preserving peace and strengthening the republic.

A Presidency Under Pressure

My years in office were marked by storms. War raged in Europe, and the French Republic—once our ally—seemed determined to draw us into its conflict. The XYZ Affair inflamed American anger and nearly plunged us into war. The Alien and Sedition Acts, passed by a Federalist Congress, remain one of the most controversial episodes of my administration. Yet despite these fierce winds, I resisted the rush to war with France. I sent peace envoys even when it cost me politically, for I believed that a nation so young should not throw itself into the furnace of European conflict.

Retreat to Quincy

In 1800 I lost reelection to Jefferson. The transfer of power—peaceful yet bitter—became a defining moment of our republic. I returned home to Quincy, to my farm, my books, and the companionship of my beloved Abigail. We had weathered revolutions, war, diplomacy, and politics together. Now, at last, we could share the quiet satisfaction of a life lived in service.

The Citizen Genêt Affair and Foreign Influence Concerns (1793) – Told by Adams

In 1793, the young American republic found itself caught in the violent storms sweeping across Europe. France, in the throes of revolution, had executed its king and declared war on several powers. Many Americans sympathized with their cause, remembering France as our ally in our own struggle for independence. Yet the turmoil abroad threatened to spill onto our shores, challenging our neutrality and testing the strength of our new government.

The Arrival of Citizen Genêt

It was in this climate that Edmond Charles Genêt—whom the people called “Citizen Genêt”—arrived as the French minister to the United States. He came not as a quiet diplomat, but as a man determined to stir the passions of the American people. Instead of presenting himself formally to President Washington, he traveled through the states rallying citizens, encouraging them to support France, and even seeking to enlist Americans into privateering ventures against Britain. His actions startled us, for they were not the conduct of an envoy but of an agitator aiming to shape our foreign policy through the force of public enthusiasm.

Challenges to American Neutrality

President Washington had proclaimed neutrality in the conflict between France and Britain—a decision that I supported as essential to our nation’s survival. We were too young, too divided, and too fragile to entangle ourselves in the wars of Europe. Yet Genêt’s efforts directly challenged this policy. He urged Americans to arm private ships, planned expeditions against Spanish territories, and attempted to use the fervor of the public to pressure the government into supporting France. His disregard for our laws and institutions struck many of us as dangerous and deeply disrespectful.

Public Excitement Turns to Alarm

At first, many citizens welcomed Genêt warmly. The ideals of liberty and republicanism he claimed to represent resonated with those who felt sympathy for the French cause. But as his actions grew more brazen, the mood shifted. Reports of his schemes spread quickly, and the public realized that he sought to pull the United States into a foreign conflict by bypassing its leaders. This realization frightened many, for it revealed how easily outside powers could exploit division and passion to influence our people.

Lessons for the Future of Politics

The Genêt Affair taught us that foreign influence could find eager supporters in our own nation. It made clear that the new republic must guard itself not only against foreign armies but against foreign ideas wielded as tools of persuasion. It also revealed how fragile unity could be when the people’s emotions were stirred by promises of shared ideals or past alliances. These concerns lingered long after the affair quieted, shaping the rhetoric of later elections and sharpening accusations between rival political factions.

A Warning That Echoed Through the Years

When Washington demanded that France recall Genêt, it was a firm declaration that the United States would chart its own course. The episode strengthened our resolve to maintain independence in both thought and action. Yet it also left behind a lingering suspicion: that foreign nations would continue to test our sovereignty through charm, pressure, or manipulation. In the years that followed, politicians invoked the memory of Genêt to warn against undue sympathy for foreign causes or alliances that threatened to divide the republic.

The Jay Treaty Controversy (1794–1795) – Told by Thomas Paine

Even years after the Revolution, the shadow of Britain loomed large over America. Trade disputes, British forts still occupied on our frontier, and the impressment of our sailors made it clear that the old enemy had not yet accepted the reality of our independence. Many Americans felt wounded pride and justified anger. We had fought a long and bitter war to free ourselves—yet Britain continued to treat us as a subordinate nation. It was in this uneasy climate that the Jay Treaty emerged, stirring passions more fiercely than almost any issue of the decade.

John Jay’s Mission to London

When President Washington sent John Jay to negotiate with Britain, some believed diplomacy might finally settle the lingering grievances between the two nations. But others, myself included, feared that any agreement struck under such circumstances would demand concessions that compromised American dignity. Britain held the advantage—militarily, economically, and politically—and I doubted they would grant us terms befitting an equal sovereign nation. Yet Jay undertook his commission with determination, seeking to avoid the possibility of war.

The Treaty Reaches American Shores

When the terms of the treaty became public in 1795, the reaction was swift and severe. Many Americans saw the concessions as deeply humiliating. Britain agreed to leave western forts, yes, but in return we granted favored trade status and accepted restrictions that seemed to favor British interests. Worse still, the treaty said nothing about the impressment of our sailors—a glaring insult to a proud republic. To many, the agreement appeared to surrender the gains of the Revolution in exchange for peace that came at too high a price.

Why I Opposed the Treaty So Fiercely

My opposition sprang from both principle and experience. I had watched Britain wield its power with arrogance and cruelty, both in America and abroad. To accept a treaty that bent us toward British interests felt like a betrayal of the spirit of independence. The Revolution had not been fought to trade one form of subjugation for another. I believed that true liberty demanded firmness, even at the risk of conflict, and that yielding to British demands would only invite further encroachments on our sovereignty.

The People Take to the Streets

The treaty did not simply divide politicians—it moved the entire nation. Citizens gathered in town meetings to denounce it. Effigies of Jay were burned. Newspapers printed scathing attacks. The controversy did more than reveal political disagreement; it ignited a fervor that would shape the future of American politics. Those who supported the treaty were branded as leaning toward monarchy and British influence; those who opposed it declared themselves guardians of republican virtue.

A New Force in Election Politics

What made the Jay Treaty particularly powerful was its timing. The public uproar rolled directly into the political contests that followed. Candidates and their supporters used the treaty to rally voters, accusing opponents of weakness, foreign sympathy, or extremism. The divisions created during the controversy hardened into lasting political identity. It became clear that foreign affairs could no longer be separated from domestic politics. The people had tasted the power of shaping policy through their voice and would not easily relinquish it.

The Treaty’s Legacy in American Memory

Though the treaty prevented war for a time, it left behind a deep mistrust—of Britain, of centralized authority, and of leaders who seemed willing to compromise republican ideals. The debate forced Americans to confront what kind of nation they wished to be: one guided by pragmatic diplomacy or one steadfastly committed to the revolutionary principles that had birthed the republic. As for me, I remained convinced that liberty must never be negotiated away for the sake of temporary calm.

The Rise of Organized Partisan Campaigning (1795) – Told by John Beckley

By 1795, it had become clear that the days of quiet persuasion and gentlemanly agreement were fading. The issues that divided the nation—finance, foreign affairs, and the character of our young republic—had grown too large and too urgent for informal debate alone. If the people were to have a meaningful role in shaping their government, they needed information, organization, and a voice that could match the influence of those already in power. I saw this moment as an opportunity to build something new: a coordinated effort that would unite supporters and turn public sentiment into political force.

Laying the Groundwork for Political Organization

The first task was simple in principle but monumental in effort: communication. Letters needed to move quickly across states, spreading consistent messages and rallying like-minded citizens. I developed networks of correspondence that stretched from New England to the southern states. Each contact served as a point of connection—someone who could gather local supporters, distribute materials, and report back on the mood of their region. It was not enough to have ideas; we needed to circulate them, strengthen them, and prepare to defend them.

Fundraising for the Cause

Political work required resources. Printers had to be paid, riders hired, meeting halls rented, and pamphlets produced in quantities never before imagined. I organized committees of sympathetic citizens—farmers, merchants, artisans—who contributed modest sums to fund our efforts. Wealthier supporters provided more substantial backing. These funds allowed us to sustain a movement that was not tied to a single state or city but could grow and spread throughout the republic. I believed that a broad base of financial support ensured the movement truly represented the people rather than a handful of influential men.

Pamphleteering as a Weapon of Persuasion

Pamphlets were the pulse of the campaign. They carried our arguments into homes, taverns, and town squares. Working with skilled writers and printers, we produced thousands of copies that explained our principles, defended our leaders, and exposed the flaws of our opponents’ plans. These documents were crafted to be read by ordinary citizens, not just the learned elite. They spoke plainly, passionately, and persuasively about the direction in which we believed the nation should grow. And they were distributed strategically—mailed to distant towns, handed out at gatherings, and read aloud to those who could not read themselves.

Coordinated Attacks and Strategic Messaging

Our efforts were not merely supportive; they were defensive and offensive in equal measure. When our opponents pushed policies that threatened the liberties of the common man, we responded swiftly. Coordinated attacks in newspapers and pamphlets challenged their arguments, questioned their motives, and rallied public resistance. We crafted messages carefully, ensuring that every critique connected back to the broader principles of republican government and the protection of individual rights. This was not chaos—it was strategy, designed to ensure that the people understood both the stakes and their power.

The Emergence of a National Movement

By embracing organization, we transformed scattered opposition into a unified political force. Meetings became more frequent, correspondence more efficient, and public participation more enthusiastic. Citizens who had once felt distant from national affairs now joined discussions, debated issues, and aligned themselves with a cause. What began as a small circle of thinkers grew into a movement that stretched across the states, shaping electoral contests in ways never before seen.

A Turning Point in American Politics

Looking back, I recognize 1795 as the year when American politics shifted from local persuasion to national coordination. The rise of organized campaigning ensured that the people had a stronger voice and that political power would no longer be decided solely in quiet rooms by a few influential men. It marked the beginning of a more participatory republic—messy, energetic, and alive with debate. And though some lamented the rise of factions, I believed that organized civic engagement was not a threat to the republic but one of its greatest strengths.

Washington’s Decision Not to Seek a Third Term (1796) – Told by John Adams

From the earliest days of the republic, the people had come to look upon General Washington as a steady pillar—firm, dignified, and above the storms that swept through our political life. His leadership during the Revolution had earned him unmatched respect, and his presence as President seemed to assure the stability of the new Constitution. When whispers arose that he might retire, many dismissed them. They believed, or at least hoped, that he would remain at the helm indefinitely. His withdrawal from public life felt almost unthinkable.

Signs of Weariness and the Weight of Office

Yet those of us who knew him more closely could see the toll that years of public duty had taken. Washington was not a young man. The burdens of foreign crises, domestic unrest, and the rising tide of partisan rancor pressed upon him heavily. He longed for Mount Vernon, for quiet, and for the comforts of private life. Still, even we were uncertain whether he would truly step aside. His sense of duty had always outweighed his personal desires, and the nation’s future remained precarious.

The Shock of His Final Decision

When Washington’s decision was finally made known, it moved through the country with a mixture of disbelief and sorrow. His Farewell Address spread rapidly in newspapers and broadsides, and citizens gathered to read his words aloud. He spoke of unity, warned against factions and foreign entanglements, and expressed his confidence in the people. Yet the message that resonated most deeply was his declaration that he would not seek a third term. It was a lesson in republican virtue: power voluntarily relinquished.

An Open Field for Ambition

Washington’s departure created a vacuum unlike any the nation had known. Until that moment, no one had seriously imagined a presidency without him. With the office suddenly open, every division that had been simmering beneath the surface rose to full flame. Men who had once deferred to Washington now stepped forward with their own visions for the republic. For the first time, the presidency became a true prize—a position to be won rather than inherited by consensus.

The Beginning of a Competitive National Contest

The election that followed would be the first in which rival factions openly competed. No longer could candidates rely on reputation alone; they needed supporters, strategy, and persuasion. Citizens found themselves discussing the qualifications of men like Mr. Jefferson and myself, comparing our principles and debating the direction of the nation. Newspapers amplified these arguments, and regional loyalties hardened. Washington’s retirement did not merely open an office; it opened the path to political competition on a national scale.

A Moment That Defined the Future of the Republic

Though many feared instability, I viewed Washington’s decision as a profound act of faith. By stepping down, he demonstrated that the presidency belonged not to a single man but to the people who would choose the next leader. His example affirmed that authority in this nation rested in the will of free citizens and in the peaceful transition of power. It set a precedent more valuable than any law—a tradition that would sustain the republic through uncertainty and division.

Crafting the First Presidential Campaign Messages (Spring 1796) – Told by Beckley

When the spring of 1796 arrived, it was clear that the presidential election would not resemble anything the nation had seen before. With President Washington declining to seek another term, the field was open, and the public was no longer content to accept quiet, behind-the-scenes decisions made by a handful of elites. For the first time, we needed a public campaign—messages crafted with care, arguments tailored to the people, and a clear vision presented for the future of the republic. I took it upon myself to help shape that effort on behalf of Mr. Jefferson.

Defining Jefferson’s Public Image

The first task was to present Mr. Jefferson not merely as a statesman but as the embodiment of republican virtue. His character—modest, thoughtful, and committed to liberty—would serve as a powerful contrast to what many viewed as the increasingly aristocratic tendencies of his opponents. Through letters, editorials, and pamphlets, we emphasized his devotion to the common man, his belief in limited government, and his steadfast desire to protect the nation from the concentrated power of financial interests. These themes resonated deeply with farmers, artisans, and citizens who felt overlooked by the growing influence of wealthy creditors and merchants.

Identifying Adams’s Vulnerabilities

To craft effective messages, it was necessary to understand not only our own strengths but also the weak points of our opponents. I studied Mr. Adams’s record closely, gathering information from correspondents across the states. Though Adams was a man of ability, his outspoken temperament and perceived leaning toward centralized authority offered openings for criticism. We highlighted concerns that he favored a government too closely modeled on old European systems and that he might, willingly or not, allow the influence of Britain to overshadow the independence we had fought to secure.

Deploying Early Opposition Research

Information, when used responsibly, is a powerful tool. I gathered reports, speeches, and statements that revealed inconsistencies or troubling tendencies among Federalist leaders. These findings were not invented; they were uncovered through careful attention and correspondence. Once identified, these points were subtly woven into our messaging—never as personal attacks, but as warnings about the direction Adams and his allies might take the nation. This early form of opposition research allowed us to shape public perception without resorting to distortions or slander.

Harnessing the Power of Printed Media

Newspapers and pamphlets became essential. We coordinated with editors sympathetic to our cause, ensuring that our arguments appeared in multiple publications across the states. Each piece had a purpose: some praised Jefferson’s republican principles, while others raised questions about Adams’s policies or alliances. By distributing consistent messages through a variety of channels, we ensured that citizens heard the same themes reinforced again and again, strengthening their impact and widening our reach.

Creating a Message for Every Region

The union was not a single, uniform body. New England had different concerns than the southern states, and the frontier differed from both. Our messaging reflected these realities. In the South, we emphasized Jefferson’s agrarian ideals. In the North, we stressed his commitment to liberty and constitutional restraint. On the frontier, we highlighted his belief in expansion and opportunity. Despite these differences, every message connected back to the central theme: Jefferson represented the voice of the people, while Adams risked pulling the nation toward centralization.

A Foundation for Future Campaigns

Looking back, I realized that the work of 1796 laid the foundation for every future presidential contest. We proved that campaigns could be organized, strategic, and responsive to the public’s concerns. We demonstrated that citizens deserved clear arguments and the opportunity to weigh the character and policies of those seeking high office. Through careful messaging and coordinated communication, we helped transform elections from quiet appointments into true expressions of the people’s will.

Campaign Strategy and Federalist Positioning (Spring 1796) – Told by John Adams

In the spring of 1796, I found myself stepping into unfamiliar political territory. The presidency, once occupied without challenge by General Washington, was now open to competition. Though I never sought popularity for its own sake, I understood that the nation required steady leadership, and that I must present my case to the people with clarity and resolve. The campaign would not be conducted through personal solicitation—I considered such behavior improper—but through principles made known and a reputation earned over years of service.

Stability as the Foundation of Governance

My foremost concern was the stability of the republic. The Constitution was still young, and the divisions rising among the people threatened to weaken it before it could fully take root. I aimed to reassure citizens that my leadership would preserve the structure we had built. Government, in my view, must be firm enough to withstand storms without drifting into chaos. The Revolution had given us liberty; now we needed discipline to maintain it. This became a central theme in the messages my supporters distributed on my behalf.

Strengthening Commerce and National Prosperity

Economic growth was another pillar of my approach. The nation needed reliable revenue, flourishing trade, and support for industries that could lift us from dependency on foreign powers. While I disagreed with some of the more ambitious financial schemes praised by others, I believed firmly that commerce was the lifeblood of a strong republic. A prosperous people would better resist extremism and foreign manipulation. My allies emphasized my commitment to balanced commercial growth, presenting it as a practical path toward national independence and stability.

Ensuring National Defense

No republic can survive without the means to defend itself. The turmoil abroad made it plain that America could not remain unprepared. I supported measures to strengthen our defenses, including improvements to the navy and fortifications along our coasts. I did not advocate an aggressive posture, but a prudent one. A nation respected is a nation left in peace. My advocates conveyed that I would act with caution yet firmness, ensuring that the United States would not be caught vulnerable should foreign threats arise.

Avoiding Foreign Entanglements

Foreign affairs weighed heavily on the public mind, especially as wars raged across Europe. I believed that the United States must remain independent in judgment and avoid becoming entangled in conflicts that did not serve our interests. Though sympathetic to struggles for liberty abroad, I saw clearly that alliances driven by sentiment could drag us into calamity. My position aligned with President Washington’s own warnings: we must steer clear of permanent alliances and maintain neutrality whenever possible. This stance resonated with many who feared the consequences of favoring one European power over another.

A Measured and Dignified Approach

Throughout the campaign, I refused to engage in personal attacks or frantic appeals. I relied instead on my record—my work in Congress, my service abroad, and my loyalty to the Constitution. It was not for me to flatter voters or excite passions. Rather, it was my duty to present an example of integrity and moderation. My supporters, understanding this, shaped their arguments around my character, portraying me as a steady hand capable of guiding the nation through uncertain times.

The Federalist Message Takes Shape

By the summer of 1796, these principles formed the core of the Federalist argument. Stability, prosperity, defense, and independence from foreign influence—these were the promises my candidacy offered. In contrast to those who sought to stir suspicion against established institutions, I stood for continuity and measured progress. The nation had endured enough turmoil; it needed calm, order, and a firm adherence to the principles of the Constitution.

Paine’s Public and Private Attacks on Federalism (Summer 1796) – Told by Paine

In the summer of 1796, as the nation prepared for its first contested presidential election, I found myself troubled by the direction America seemed to be taking. The Revolution had been won, the Constitution adopted, and yet I sensed that the spirit of liberty—the very essence of what we had fought for—was slipping away. The rise of Federalist policies stirred old fears within me, for I believed they threatened to rebuild, piece by piece, the same structures of power that we had cast off in 1776.

My Pen as a Defender of the Revolution

I had long relied on the written word to challenge tyranny and awaken public conscience. Now, facing what I saw as a domestic drift toward aristocratic principles, I once again took up my pen. My letters and essays, circulated among citizens and published in sympathetic papers, aimed to remind Americans of the values that had fueled our struggle for independence. I wrote plainly and forcefully, urging the people not to mistake the trappings of stability for genuine liberty.

Where I Believed the Federalists Had Gone Astray

To me, the Federalists appeared to trust concentrated power far more than the judgment of ordinary citizens. Their admiration for Britain’s financial systems and their enthusiasm for centralized authority suggested a preference for hierarchy over equality. I feared that their policies—whether financial, diplomatic, or administrative—tilted too heavily toward the interests of the wealthy. Such tendencies risked creating a government that answered not to the people but to a select few. I believed deeply that this betrayed the spirit of the Revolution, which had been fought to free the common man from such systems of privilege.

Private Letters with Public Implications

While my public writings stirred debate, my private letters were equally candid. Friends, political allies, and printers received my thoughts freely. I urged them to remain vigilant and to challenge any policy that undermined popular sovereignty. These letters circulated widely, being copied and shared among those who trusted my judgment. In this way, my private concerns became part of a broader conversation, informing strategy and strengthening the resolve of those who feared that Federalist influence would steer the nation toward corruption.

Shaping Public Opinion Through Passionate Argument

The summer’s political climate was charged, and my words traveled far. Some praised my warnings as necessary reminders of the Revolution’s promises. Others condemned me as a reckless agitator. Yet I remained convinced that silence in the face of creeping authority would be a greater sin than any criticism I might offer. Public opinion began to shift as voters questioned whether centralized government, however efficient, could coexist with the ideals of popular freedom. My writings helped frame the debate, giving voice to anxieties that many felt but struggled to articulate.

A Republic at a Crossroads

As election season approached, the divide between Federalist and Republican visions became impossible to ignore. I believed that the nation stood at a crossroads: one path leading toward a republic grounded in the consent of the governed, the other toward a government increasingly shaped by elite interests and foreign admiration. My role was not to seek office or wield official influence, but to stir the conscience of the people, urging them to choose the path that honored the sacrifices of the past.

Electoral College System Before the 12th Amendment (Fall 1796) – Told by Abigail

In the fall of 1796, as the nation approached its first truly competitive presidential election, I found myself reflecting often on the peculiar design of our Electoral College. The Constitution, crafted with the hope that factions would never take firm root, required each elector to cast two votes for President—without distinguishing which vote was meant for the chief executive and which for the second office. The framers believed that the most qualified men, rising above regional interest and personal ambition, would rise naturally to the top. But by 1796, the rise of political divisions had already made such expectations impractical.

Two Votes, One Process, Many Unintended Consequences

Under this original system, electors did not vote separately for President and Vice President. Instead, they simply named two men whom they believed worthy of the presidency. The candidate with the most votes would become President; the second-place finisher would become Vice President. This system assumed a kind of harmony that no longer existed. The Federalists and the Republicans each attempted to coordinate their electors, but human error, imperfect communication, and political rivalry made such coordination fragile. A single misplaced vote could change the outcome of the election—or create an outcome no one intended.

The Danger of Divided Leadership

As the campaigns intensified, it became clear that the system might produce a deeply divided executive. If one faction succeeded in securing the presidency while the other captured the vice presidency, the two highest officers of the government would be men in open disagreement about nearly every major policy. This possibility unsettled many of us. The President and Vice President were meant to work in concert, not in conflict. Yet the constitutional structure offered no safeguard against such an outcome, for it had never been imagined that rival parties would exist at all.

An Election Shaped by Miscalculations

During the election of 1796, both sides attempted to manipulate the two-vote system to secure their desired result. Federalist electors sought to ensure that Mr. Adams received the highest number of votes while preventing Mr. Pinckney from surpassing him. Republican electors attempted to coordinate their votes for Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Burr. But the slightest error in calculation could—and nearly did—upend the plans of both groups. The lack of a designated vote for Vice President made the entire process precarious, leaving the final outcome subject to chance as much as to design.

The Republic Narrowly Avoids Crisis

When the votes were finally tallied, Mr. Adams became President and Mr. Jefferson, the leader of the opposing party, became Vice President. This was a result the Constitution permitted but certainly had not prepared the nation to manage. The top two officers, representing opposing political visions, would now be expected to guide the republic together. Many feared that such a divided executive would weaken the stability of the government or embolden foreign powers to exploit internal rivalries.

Lessons for the Future of the Nation

The election of 1796 made it plain that the Electoral College, as originally conceived, could no longer function effectively in a nation divided by organized political parties. The system’s flaws did not cause a crisis in that year, but they revealed how easily one might arise. I often reflected that the stability of the young government depended not only on the character of its leaders but on the soundness of its institutions. It was clear that changes would be necessary if future elections were to avoid confusion and danger.

The Election of 1796: Adams vs. Jefferson (November 1796) – Told by John Adams

The election of 1796 unfolded with an intensity the nation had never witnessed. No longer were presidents chosen by consensus or by the quiet esteem of their peers. Instead, this contest pitted two distinct visions of the republic against one another—mine, grounded in stability and strong institutions, and Mr. Jefferson’s, rooted in a more expansive belief in popular liberty and sympathy for the movements abroad. Though we had once worked together in harmony, our differences had widened, shaped by years of political storms. As November approached, I felt the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon the nation.

A Confusing and Fragile Electoral System

The mechanics of the election added their own layer of uncertainty. Electors did not vote separately for President and Vice President but cast two undifferentiated votes for the men they deemed most fit for the presidency. The candidate with the highest count would become President; the runner-up would become Vice President. This arrangement demanded careful coordination—coordination that neither side could perfectly guarantee. A single elector’s misjudgment might thrust an unintended figure into the highest office or reorder the expected outcome entirely.

The Suspense of the Vote Count

When the electors cast their ballots, the nation held its breath. News traveled slowly, moving by post riders from state to state. Weeks passed before the totals began to reach Philadelphia. Each report carried with it both excitement and dread. Federalist strongholds offered encouraging numbers, yet Republican support in the South and West was formidable. Letters arrived with conflicting rumors, and for every state that seemed to lean my way, another appeared uncertain. I waited, as did the entire country, for a result that remained tantalizingly out of reach.

The Moment the Outcome Became Clear

At last, the full tally emerged: I had secured the highest number of electoral votes and would become President of the United States. Yet what might have been a moment of unreserved satisfaction was tempered by the realization that Mr. Jefferson had finished second and thus would assume the office of Vice President. It was an arrangement permitted by the Constitution but one that few had expected or desired. The chief executive and the second officer of the republic would now represent rival parties with sharply divergent principles.

A Mixture of Triumph and Unease

I accepted the result with a sense of duty rather than celebration. Though I was honored to lead the nation, I knew the road ahead would be fraught with challenges. Jefferson and I had once shared a friendship grounded in mutual respect, but the political divisions of recent years had placed us at opposite ends of the national debate. Our partnership in office would be an uneasy one, shaped more by caution than by cooperation. The people, too, were divided, their hopes and fears reflected in the close outcome of the election.

The Meaning of the Election for the Young Republic

The results revealed both the strength and the fragility of the new American system. The peaceful transition of power demonstrated the resilience of the Constitution, yet the unexpected pairing of political opponents exposed the weaknesses in the original design of the Electoral College. The election of 1796 proved that the republic had entered a new era—one in which political parties would shape elections, governance, and public life. It also underscored the need for prudence, for only steady leadership could guide the nation through such uncertainty.

First Peaceful (Yet Bitter) Transfer of Power Within Parties – Told by Abigail

When the election results of 1796 became known, I sensed a mixture of pride and apprehension settling over the country. For the first time, we were to witness a transition of power not between a revered figure and a chosen successor, but between leaders divided by political faction. General Washington’s departure was met with sorrow and gratitude, yet his retirement also removed the one figure whose presence had often softened the conflicts stirring beneath the surface. As John prepared to assume the presidency, I felt acutely the uncertainty that hung in the air.

Washington’s Farewell and Its Quiet Weight

The General’s decision to retire cast a somber shadow over the weeks that followed. His Farewell Address, so full of warnings about faction and foreign intrigue, seemed to echo even more loudly as political rancor grew. Though he offered the nation his blessing for a peaceful transition, the mood in the capital was tense. Federalists and Republicans eyed each other with suspicion, and whispers of doubt circulated about how the change in leadership would unfold. Without Washington’s steadying hand, many feared that the political storms would break loose.

John’s Burden as He Steps Forward

I watched my husband carry the weight of this moment with a seriousness fitting the occasion. Though honored by the confidence of the electors, he was well aware that his leadership would be viewed through the harsh lens of partisanship. His opponents questioned his motives; even some supporters doubted his temperament. I tried to offer what strength I could, knowing that he faced not merely the duties of the presidency but the challenge of leading a nation divided against itself. The transition from Washington to Adams was peaceful in practice, yet emotionally fraught.

An Awkward Process Marked by Rivalries

The presence of Mr. Jefferson as Vice President added another layer of strain. The Constitution, in its original form, had paired the two highest vote-getters regardless of party or compatibility. Thus, the incoming administration began with a chief executive and vice executive whose views diverged sharply. Social gatherings, official receptions, and conversations in private homes all felt the tension. Politeness was preserved, but beneath every exchange lay the undeniable reality that political rivalry now lived within the very heart of the executive branch.

The Public Watches with Mixed Expectations

Citizens across the states followed the transition closely. Many hoped for continuity, some anticipated change, and others feared that the animosity of the election would carry into governance. The newspapers fueled these anxieties, publishing speculation about the direction the new administration might take. In the capital, friends and foes alike waited to see whether John would follow Washington’s path or respond more boldly to the rising tide of partisan conflict. The public’s expectations pressed heavily, shaping each moment of those early weeks.

A Peaceful Transfer, But Not a Harmonious One

Despite the bitterness of the campaign and the deep divisions that remained, the transfer of power unfolded without violence or disruption. Washington offered his support as far as his retirement allowed, and John stepped into office with dignity. Yet no one could mistake the emotional landscape of the moment. It was peaceful, yes—but not harmonious. The country had changed. The parties that had taken shape in recent years now stood openly at odds, and the era of unity that Washington had hoped to preserve had given way to sharper political lines.

The Meaning of That Uncomfortable Moment

From my vantage point, I saw both the triumph and the peril of this transition. It proved that our Constitution could endure disagreement and still uphold the rule of law. But it also revealed how vulnerable the republic was to division. The bitterness that lingered from the election did not disappear simply because the oath of office was taken. Instead, it carried forward into the years ahead, shaping decisions, alliances, and public sentiment.

Thus, the early weeks of 1797 showed the nation that peaceable change in leadership was possible—even amid resentment and rivalry. It was a moment that tested the resilience of our institutions and foreshadowed the political struggles that would follow, reminding us that liberty requires not only laws and elections but the difficult practice of living with those whose views differ from our own.

The Vice Presidency of Jefferson Under a President Adams (1797) – Told by Paine

When the election of 1796 concluded with Mr. Adams as President and Mr. Jefferson as Vice President, I could scarcely believe the arrangement the Constitution had forced upon the nation. Two men who represented opposing philosophies, rival political factions, and fundamentally different visions for the future were now expected to work side by side in the highest offices of government. It struck me as an absurdity born not of reason, but of a constitutional structure that had failed to imagine the rise of parties.

Two Philosophies in Constant Tension

The differences between Adams and Jefferson were not matters of temperament alone—they were rooted in deep ideological contrast. Adams valued strong institutions and a firm national character; Jefferson believed that liberty flourished best when the people remained wary of centralized power. Their disagreements were not the kind one could set aside in polite conversation. They reached into every question of governance: foreign alliances, economic policy, and the very meaning of the Revolution. To place such men in the executive branch together was to bind two ends of a fraying rope and hope it would not snap.

The Constitutional Flaw Revealed

Under the original system, electors cast two votes for President, with no separate ballot for Vice President. The man who finished second simply became the second officer of the republic. This arrangement might have worked in a world without factions, but by 1797 the nation was divided into two organized camps with sharp animosities. Thus, the Constitution inadvertently placed a Republican Vice President under a Federalist President, guaranteeing that the executive would begin its term in discord rather than unity. It was a flaw rooted not in malice, but in the mistaken assumption that political parties would never take hold.

An Administration Pulled in Opposite Directions

Inside the government, this arrangement produced an uneasy tension. Jefferson, the presiding officer of the Senate, often found his views contrasted sharply with those of the administration he served in name but not in principle. The public could see the contradictions plainly. When Jefferson issued opinions or attended social gatherings, they often stood in direct opposition to the Federalist positions being advanced by President Adams. This created confusion and fueled suspicion: whose vision would guide the country, and could either function effectively when tethered to its rival?

The People Take Sides More Fiercely Than Before

The coexistence of these two leaders did not bridge the divide between their supporters—it widened it. Federalists accused Jefferson of undermining the administration from within, while Republicans claimed Adams sought to push the nation toward aristocratic tendencies. Every speech, newspaper article, and political debate was colored by the knowledge that the executive branch itself embodied the nation’s conflict. The people no longer saw disagreements as political differences; they saw them as signs of betrayal or of dangerous ambition.

A Foreshadowing of Future Crisis

The pairing of Adams and Jefferson demonstrated that the nation could no longer rely on outdated structures to navigate its political life. Their uneasy partnership foreshadowed the need to revise the electoral process and adapt the Constitution to the realities of party politics. But it also revealed something deeper: that a republic must be honest about its divisions if it hopes to govern wisely. Forcing rivals into partnership without shared purpose only magnified conflict.

A Lesson Written into the Nation’s Memory

Looking back on 1797, I saw the vice presidency of Jefferson under Adams as a turning point. It highlighted the unsuitability of the old electoral system, intensified public partisanship, and exposed the widening gulf between competing visions of liberty. Yet it also proved that the republic, though strained, could withstand internal contradiction—at least for a time.

Lessons of the First Contested Election (1797 and Beyond) – Told by John Adams

When the election of 1796 finally settled and I assumed the office of President, I recognized that the nation had crossed a threshold. For the first time, Americans had witnessed a true contest for the highest office—one shaped by debate, rivalry, and the energized involvement of the people. Though the process had revealed deep divisions, it also proved that our republic could endure change without violence or collapse. A peaceful transfer of power, even amid bitterness, demonstrated that our Constitution possessed sturdier foundations than many had feared.

The Solidification of Political Parties

Yet the election also made clear that political parties, once dismissed as temporary disturbances, had become permanent fixtures of American life. The Federalists and the Republicans no longer operated as loose associations but as organized, disciplined forces vying for public influence. This development troubled me. While I accepted that disagreement was natural in a free society, I feared that loyalty to party might soon overshadow loyalty to country. The events of the election confirmed that factions, once born, grow swiftly and cling fiercely to their own interests.

The Rise of Partisan Journalism

The role of the press during the election was nothing short of transformative. Newspapers championed candidates, attacked opponents, and stirred public passions with unprecedented vigor. Though I valued a free press as essential to liberty, I saw how quickly it could become a tool for distortion and division. With each side claiming to defend the nation while accusing the other of treachery, journalism became a battlefield of sharp words and sharper accusations. This, too, would become a lasting feature of American political life.

Foreign Influence and the Vulnerability of a Young Republic

Another lesson of the election—and of the years that followed—was the danger posed by foreign entanglements and outside influence. The passions aroused by events in Europe, whether favoring Britain or France, had seeped into our politics and shaped public opinion in ways that concerned me greatly. A young republic, still learning to govern itself, must exercise caution lest foreign nations exploit its divisions for their own advantage. The controversy surrounding foreign affairs during my administration only reinforced this belief.

The Need for Constitutional Reform

The most glaring weakness exposed by the election was the structure of the Electoral College itself. The system, which had forced a President and Vice President from opposing political factions to serve together, proved incompatible with the realities of partisan politics. The Constitution had not anticipated the rise of organized parties, and the election revealed the urgent need for reform. Though the remedy would not come until after the tumultuous election of 1800, the path toward the 12th Amendment began with the lessons learned in 1796. The nation understood that the electoral process must evolve if it was to function with clarity and fairness.

The Legacy of a Difficult Transition

Despite the challenges, I believe the legacy of the first contested election is one of resilience. The republic did not break beneath the weight of discord. Instead, it adapted, learned, and strengthened its institutions. The election taught us that freedom brings not only the right to choose leaders but also the responsibility to manage disagreement with civility. The nation grew wiser through its trials, and its people grew more aware of their power to shape the future.

Thus, the events of 1797 and the years that followed left a permanent mark on our political landscape. They taught us that parties, press, and passions would always influence public life, but also that a republic built on law and reason could endure such storms. The legacy of the first contested election, imperfect though it was, proved that the American experiment possessed the strength to survive—and to evolve.