Key takeaways from Numbers 1 through 24 (part 1)

While I'm finishing my McKinley essay, a decided to put up a list of some of the key takeaways from eac president. Here's part 1.

George Washington
The first president served the country ably and admirably, both as the figurehead leader and the functional president. Although naïve in thinking he could avert the formation of political parties, he performed the greatest act that any leader has ever done in modern history: rather than become king for life, he permanently walked away from power and became a private citizen once more.

John Adams
Adams the president deserves a place almost equal to Adams the founding father. His political theories, which he put into practice as president, helped assure that the United States would be a democratic-republic, and not just the “for the people” democracy that the Jeffersonians thought that they wanted. And Jefferson unwittingly owed the success of his presidency to the very political philosophy that he repeatedly attacked in Adams!

Thomas Jefferson
Despite the fact that Jefferson did not want his presidency remembered—at least as an accomplishment—Jefferson moved the presidency and the nation forward in many positive ways. The idea that the United States government was one for the common man is certainly his most endearing contribution: Lincoln drew upon it in the nation’s darkest hour, FDR used it to contrast liberty with fascism, and many a politician today claims to speak “for the people.” The idea that local government should have more control of affairs than a central government still resonates as well—especially among modern-day conservatives—despite the seeming discredit of states’ rights in 1865.

James Madison
Madison wasn’t that great of a president, but he was a steady one. Choices of incompetent cabinet officers—and retaining them after the war began—and the utter lack of real direction in the early stages of the war hurt him and the country. But Madison rose to the occasion, and corrected his deficiencies. He never panicked. And that itself is key. Bad things often happen when presidents act out of haste instead of deliberation.

James Monroe
The fifth president a hard-working man who was fully aware of his limitations and worked well within those boundaries. Once he set his mind to a task, he accomplished it. He wasn’t afraid to surround himself with brilliant men (Crawford, J. Q. Adams, Calhoun), seek the advice of his mentor friends (Jefferson and Madison) and reject their advice when he made his decisions. He had the courage of his convictions, and never appeared wishy-washy on anything. Monroe also had a strong grasp of the Constitution, his executive powers and limits, and an equally strong grasp of foreign affairs. He was an excellent communicator in that he kept on top of letters, correspondence, orders, bills, etc. Overall, Monroe is a model for steady leadership and the recognition of limitations.

John Quincy Adams
The younger Adams should stand as the model of what not to do when trying to become president. Do not make bargains with political allies that could—or will—backfire on you massively, causing your time in office to be one continual battle against knee-jerk reactionaries. The “corrupt bargain” of 1828 killed Adams’ presidency before it even started, more so than his dismal performance in office. On a brighter note, J.Q. Adams’ career attests to the fact that, post-presidency, men can go on to even greater things.

Andrew Jackson
Jackson was the first truly strong president and had his way throughout his presidency, largely through stubbornness. He should stand as an example of heavy-handed bluntness AND the king of unintended consequences. His personal war with Nicholas Biddle precipitated the Panic of 1837—right after he left office. His strong stance against disunion inspired Lincoln and Fillmore.

Martin Van Buren
Martin Van Buren had the unfortunate luck to become president just when the nation entered severe economic crisis. His presidency never fully recovered from the Panic of 1837. He also stands as proof that brilliant political organizers do not necessarily make strong presidents.

William Henry Harrison
Harrison never had a chance to prove himself as president, but he left an indelible mark: the popular presidential campaign, with rallies, singing, stunts and mass media overload.

John Tyler
The nation owes John Tyler a debt of gratitude for firmly establishing the constitutional right of presidential succession. The vice president became president, not a mere cipher for the cabinet or the Senate.

James K. Polk
James Polk stands as the archetype of the president who accomplished every single one of his goals before leaving office. He’s also proof that you don’t have to be a likable man to obtain high office or govern effectively.

Zachary Taylor
The underrated Zachary Taylor went against his slave-holding class to reach a compromise between increasingly antagonistic sections. Like his successor, he believed in reaching amicable solutions but laying a firm demarcation line between unsavory ambitions and following the rule of law.

Number 11: James K. Polk

Years in office: 1845-1849
Pre-service occupations: state legislator, U.S. representative (Speaker of the House), governor (Tennessee)
Key events during his administration: Mexican War; peace with England over Oregon territory; states admitted to the Union: Texas (1845), Iowa (1846) and Wisconsin (1848); annexation of territories that eventually became New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, Utah and California, and parts of Colorado and Wyoming; reduction of the tariff (1845); and establishment of the independent Treasury (1845); Seneca Falls Conference (1848, the first major women's sufferage conference).

Presidential rating: Highly successful, and mixed on popularity

ESSAY

“Who is James K. Polk?” Whigs derisively asked during the election of 1844. The answer, actually, is simple. James K. Polk could rightly claim to be the most successful president in America’s history, because he is the one man who achieved all of his stated goals by the time he left office.

He’s the president most associated with manifest destiny, having added more territory to the United States than any other president, including Jefferson. (Although, John Tyler could rightly claim co-ownership of the manifest destiny mantle, at least in an idealistic sense, as I explained in the last entry.)

Historians generally place Polk near the top of the heap when they rank the presidents, but outside of academic circles and history enthusiasts, he’s largely forgotten. Why?

Perhaps it’s because he served one term then died shortly after and never became a senior statesman. Perhaps it’s because, as biographer John Seigenthaler suggests, he was sandwiched between two Whig terms (well, Tyler wasn’t much of a Whig) and was stuck in a period of largely uninspired presidential leadership—“lost” between the giants of Jackson and Lincoln.

Perhaps the war that he led so overshadows him that even if America vaguely remembers the Mexican War that added New Mexico, Nevada, Arizona, Utah and California to the Union—and made sure Texas stayed in—America just doesn’t remember the president associated with that war.

Regardless, when historians rank Polk, they usually place him at number 7 or 8. But just who was he?

A sickly child
When people think of presidents who were sick as children, most think of Theodore Roosevelt. (Teddy’s cousin FDR, of course, is the one people think of as a sickly adult.) But James Polk had quite a rough and painful childhood. Often ill, he couldn’t build his physique doing chores on the farm with his brothers, so he paid attention to politics. His grandfather, father and uncles would rail against Federalists and praise Jefferson, and naturally Polk became a life-long republican.

His parents wanted to send him to school, but first they had to deal with his frightening and baffling illness. They had enough money to send him to one of the best surgeons in the young country. It turns out that young Jim had urinary stones—not gall stones as had long been thought by historians; biographer John Seigenthaler believes he’s discovered that young Jim had urinary stones by matching the symptoms and results and verifying this with several physicians. At age 11, a doctor probed for the stones and removed them, with alcohol being the only anesthesia. The operation most likely made him sterile, as Polk would father no children.

You can imagine the sheer agony of that surgery, but apparently, as Seigenthaler alludes, it gave Polk a genuine toughness.

Now healthy, he studied law and under excellent tutelage, entered the bar and practiced in Tennessee. Even during the Panic of 1819, he did well. And in the 1820s, politics lured him and he never looked back.

Slave master
Like many antebellum presidents, Polk owned slaves. Unlike Tyler, Jefferson and Washington, though, Polk wasn’t torn with ambiguity over the morality of slavery. Nor did he design any plans for the eventual end of slavery. He accepted it as the natural order.

Also like many slave-owning presidents, Polk ordered the manumission of his slaves upon his death and the death of his wife. But Sarah Polk died in 1891, and the Civil War and the 13th amendment took care of the manumission.

Polk bought and traded slaves even while he was president. The salary of the chief executive being what it was, Polk supported the White House through his plantation (as did most other slave-owning presidents).

While Polk never went to the extremes of his immediate predecessor to defend slavery, or concoct a weird scenario whereby slavery would die out through diffusion over an expanded United States, Polk refused to let slavery guide his presidency. He believed, as he wrote in his diary, that slavery just would not work in the territories won from Mexico—he was largely correct—but he would also not sign on to Pennsylvania congressman Wilmot’s “Proviso” (legislation) that would outlaw slavery in those territories. However, Polk would not take any steps against slavery, either on principle or as a practical matter, at any time during his political career. For example, when he was Speaker of the House, Polk supported the gag rules to prevent the mere discussion of slavery in the House.

That action, of course, earned him the enmity of John Quincy Adams and gave new life to the aging New Yorker. Abolitionists viewed Polk as a villain because of 1) the gag rules, 2) as president he refused to sign the Wilmot Proviso and 3) he fought the Mexican War for what they believed was a pure land grab for the benefit of the slave power. More on that below.

Jackson’s student
After a stint in the state legislature, Polk came to Washington in 1824, the same year his political idol, Andrew Jackson, was “robbed” of the presidency through the “corrupt bargain” of John Quincy Adams and Henry Clay. Like all Jacksonians, Polk burned over the Adams-Clay victory, believing it a travesty that violated the will of the people. Polk deliberately became one of the primary obstructionists to the Adams administration, virtually serving as Jackson’s mouthpiece in the House and earning the sobriquet, Young Hickory.

Polk, like many a politician, did a complete one-eighty on some of his positions once he attained a higher office. As a new member of the House, he attacked President Adams’ seemingly outrageous abuses of executive power. But as a Jackson protégé and later, as Speaker of the House during the first two years of Martin Van Buren’s term, Polk was quick to defend executive power. When the shoe’s on the other foot…

Polk may have been dubbed Young Hickory, but in personality and temperament, he was nothing like his mentor. His chief political enemy, John Bell (a presidential candidate in 1860), who preceded and succeeded Polk as Speaker, repeatedly tried to goad Polk into a duel. Bell and his allies would heap amazingly harsh and insulting verbal vitriol on Polk—in the House chamber!—but Polk would never respond. He’d stay as cool as could be. Even Jackson, known for loving brawls, was impressed. Later, when Polk was president, Bell and the others apologized, and Polk accepted for he bore then no ill will. It’s probable that bearing that excruciating surgery when he was 11 gave him an endurance for such things. What Polk said about such men in private is another matter (see below).

Polk was different from Jackson in another way, too. Where Jackson was a fiery personality and an invigorating, if not brilliant, speaker, Polk was much more mechanical. John Quincy Adams recorded his partisan and conceited thoughts in his invaluable diary:

“Polk has no wit, no literature, no point of argument, no gracefulness of delivery, no elegance of language, no philosophy, no pathos, no felicitous impromptus; nothing that can constitute an orator but confidence, fluency and labor.” (Seigenthalor, p.53.) Seigenthalor goes on to say that “He was better than that, but confidence, fluency and labor were enough.”

In the meantime, Polk, as Speaker, took the unprecedented step of aligning his priorities with those of President Van Buren’s, but to little avail. The Panic of 1837, brought on in large part by the Jackson-Biddle bank war, was crushing the country. Rather than risk losing the Speaker election, Polk left the house in 1839 and went back to Tennessee, where he narrowly won the governorship from the Whigs who were taking over the state.

Old Hickory greatly approved, and approved of Polk, too.

Stumbles and the dark-horse candidate
But all was not well for Democrats, because 1840 proved to be the year of the Whig. Polk’s real reason for wanting the Tennessee state house was to become vice president, and then president, but Van Buren didn’t select him. Van Buren got whipped, anyway. And soon so did Polk, losing the governorship by a narrow margin during the next election.

Polk tried to regain the governor’s mansion a few years later, but he lost by an even wider margin. Henry Clay’s Whigs seemed to be on the ascendancy, and Young Hickory, once seen as the protégé of Jackson, seemed to be politically dead.

After all, he couldn’t even win in his own state any more.

He went to the 1844 Democratic party convention (one of the first-ever conventions) where Martin Van Buren was looking to make a comeback. President John Tyler was running without a real party and held his own convention for his short-lived candidacy, and the formidable Henry Clay, who believed the third time would be the charm, was going to be the Whig standard bearer. Tyler soon bowed out when it seemed he’d never have a chance. And Polk would have to be content with being a vice president, if anything at all (he instructed his supporters to back Van Buren, initially). But then Van Buren and Clay simultaneously and literally committed one of the biggest miscalculations ever in American presidential politics.

It’s always fascinating to consider where presidents and candidates go horribly and irretrievably wrong. Sometimes it’s a series of gaffs, as happened with John Kerry, who started things off with “I voted for it before I voted against it.” Sometimes it’s a promise famously broken, such as George H.W. Bush’s “Read my lips: No new taxes.” Sometimes it’s a cover-up that’s worse than the actual crime, a la Richard Nixon. Sometimes it’s a “Yearrrrrgh!” hollered after a poor primary showing.

In 1844, Democratic kingpin and former president Martin van Buren and the powerful Whig Henry Clay had come to an understanding that to make Texas an issue of the election would be to make slavery the issue, and neither wanted that. Van Buren never publicly disclosed his position on slavery because of his careful party-building and Clay himself was a slave owner. So, the two men, often bitter political enemies, issued public proclamations on the same day in April 1844 against the immediate annexation of Texas. They knew most of the public wanted Texas, but they believed the public would bow to their superior knowledge of the situation and let them handle matters. But they were wrong.

The public wanted Texas now, because of the Alamo, because of the 100,000 Texans whom were related to people all over America, and because of feelings that Texas belonged to America, not Mexico, England or anyone else.

Support for both leading candidates dropped.

Van Buren had a lock on the nomination that spring but after his proclamation came away with nothing. The pro-annexation Polk, who just that spring was politically dead, suddenly found himself in the running for president on the Democratic ticket as the first-ever dark-horse candidate. It wasn’t quite like the Lord calling Lazarus from the grave, but with brilliant convention wheeling and dealing by his allies, Polk overtook Van Buren and won on the ninth ballot.

Clay, meanwhile, came off sounding like a 19th century John Kerry when he twice tried to explain his position on Texas and slavery to an Alabama newspaper. He even believed that the public would elect him, the senior statesman, over the inexperienced Polk because, well, because he was Henry Clay.

Newly invigorated, Polk used the Texas issue to win the election over Clay 170 to 103 votes in the electoral college and by 38,000 popular votes. Jackson’s protégé sealed the presidential ambitions of Clay for good, as he never ran again.

The diary and the solo president
The dark horse, however, quickly established himself as his own man, beholden to no one—not Van Buren, who despite losing the nomination nevertheless secured the New York vote for the Tennessee slave owner, and not even Jackson. Declaring his intention to serve only one term, Polk dismissed the advise of allies and friends and appointed whomever he wished to cabinet and other posts. He quickly burned a lot of bridges, and even without the amazing successes of his administration, it is questionable whether he would have been re-nominated.

There’s a very good reason for it, and Polk left us a multi-volume testimony as to why.

Outwardly, Polk seemed a controlled man—even colorless. But inwardly, he was much different. If you think that Richard Nixon was the most paranoid man to reside in the White House, then you don’t know James K. Polk. When Polk set up his cabinet, he deliberately chose men that pledged they would not seek the White House—and also men he could control. The only one to break the pledge was the secretary of state, Pennsylvanian James Buchanan (which raises the question of why Polk didn’t get rid of him, but part of the answer lays with the fact that Polk could control Buchanan).

Polk was not really a likable man, which made his lovely wife, Sarah, all the more useful as White House hostess. She was charming and friendly to all, and a skillful diplomat to boot. Polk, on the other hand, was formal and calmly pleasant. But in his diary, he was vicious, partisan, paranoid and treated anyone who was not 100 percent on his side as an enemy.

Polk’s presidential diary, which he began in August 1845, makes the White House tapes of Kennedy, Johnson and even Nixon tame by comparison. Even John Quincy Adams’ celebrated diary is not as highly charged as this. Polk would be at ease in person with someone he believed slighted him, but that night would rip him to shreds in his diary. Even long-time allies fell victim to his pen if they weren’t pure in his eyes. Democrats who cooperated with Whigs—sometimes even to pass his own legislation!—became “traitors.”

Whigs, of course, were unceasingly savaged—even Generals Taylor and Scott, his brilliant commanders during the Mexican War. They never lost a battle, and with inferior numbers delivered victory. Because of their crime of being Whigs, Polk never gave them a single word of praise in his diary.

That’s not to say that the vitriol wasn’t one-sided. Polk was savaged by his enemies as well, even in his own party. But Polk’s verbal vitriol appears only in his diary. He had different ways of snubbing people in public.

Was Polk unbalanced? A megalomaniac? Maybe. He believed he could run the government all by himself, and crowed about it to his diary when he hadn’t held a cabinet meeting for five months.

The four great goals
President James K. Polk laid out four ambitious goals for his presidency, as recorded by Treasury Secretary George Bancroft, and he achieved three early and the fourth during his last year in office. Three of the four have had a lasting and profound effect on the United States, which, again, makes the largely forgotten status of Polk so baffling.

The four great goals were (in no particular order):

• re-establishment of an independent treasury,
• reduction of tariffs,
• settle the Oregon boundary dispute with Great Britain, and
• purchase California from Mexico.

Notice that actually fighting a war with Mexico was not one of goals. Nevertheless it became the centerpiece of his administration.

The treasury
Martin Van Buren had sought to establish a treasury as one of his solutions to the Panic of 1837. Congress finally made it law in 1840, but it died in 1841. Polk believed it a good idea, and revived it. He changed it’s name, but the concept was the same: take federal deposits out of private banks—just as Jackson had done with the now-defunct Second Bank of the United States—and place them in an independent treasury. The treasury would be wholly responsible to the government and, even though the secretary would be a political appointee, the body itself would be independent and not subject t o political whims.

Congress easily passed Polk’s treasury bill, and his version of a treasury lasted unmolested until the creation of the Federal Reserve in 1913. Score one.

The tariff
Tariffs were already an old fight in politics, and they would be fought over into the 20th century until the establishment of the income tax. Polk’s goal here was to reduce the latest tariff, which northern industrialists and Democrats (and Whigs) favored, and southern Democrats disdained. It was a familiar argument.

Polk has dissembled on the tariff question during the campaign, but now he put forth a tariff reduction bill that made northerners howl because, Polk sneered, it cut their profits. Nevertheless, the bill barely passed the Senate, with Vice President Dallas casting the tie-breaker. Score two.

Oregon
Our final northern boundary dispute with Great Britain occurred during Polk’s term, and if the Court of St. James thought John Tyler was something of a hothead, they were in for a surprise with the next U.S. president.

The Tyler administration had proposed that the joint occupation of the Oregon territory—which included present-day Oregon, Washington, Idaho and parts of Montana and Wyoming—be ended with America taking everything south of 49 degrees, which is the present day border. Polk’s secretary of state, James Buchanan, continued with the proposal, but Britain’s ambassador haughtily rejected it, saying the dividing line should be at the present-day Washington-Oregon border.

An angered Polk demanded that the British acquiesce to a much different border, at the fifty-fourth parallel, or by Gd there would be war. Fifty-four forty or fight! became the new rallying cry. (It’s a mistake to say that “fifty-four forty or fight!” was a campaign slogan; it wasn’t.)

But England did not want war, and cooler heads prevailed. Eventually, the forty-ninth parallel became the border—the original Tyler administration proposal—and we’ve been at peace ever since. Score three.

California
President Polk wanted California, and believed that the only way to secure the United States permanently from the possibility of foreign aggression, that is, from England or France, was to be anchored firmly from coast to coast. Polk truly had no intention of ripping California from Mexico. He wanted to buy it outright. But war with Mexico over Texas intervened, and Polk would win California by a meager force of arms in that direction—but he would still make remittance to Mexico for California (and a lot more land to boot). Score four—but only after two years of war.

War!
I don’t want—or have the space—to give a blow-by-blow account of the Mexican War here (also because some of the exploits will come up in the next entry, on President Zachary Taylor). Instead, I’ll give a brief overview. But if you are unfamiliar with what the Marines sing about when they invoke “the Halls of Montezuma,” you should read John D. Eisenhower’s So Far From God: The U.S. War with Mexico, 1846-1848. It remains the best account of that war, and is in fact one of the best books on American history.

Here’s a quick summary: Gen. Zachary Taylor’s Army of Observation, sent to the Gulf Coast by President Tyler late in his term, moved to Texas under Polk’s orders. Taylor was to wait at the Rio Grande—in the supposed disputed territory claimed by both Mexico and Texas/America. Mexican forces attacked Taylor first on American soil, and the game was on. (This was, if you will, the 19th century version of the Gulf of Tonkin incident.)

Taylor responded and won at Palo Alto and a bigger victory at Resaca de la Palma in May 1846. Polk asked for and received a declaration of war a few days later on May 13. Taylor advanced further and won a bitter battle at Monterrey. American forces under Phil Kearny and others moved on the Southwest and California, while a Naval force secured two California ports. California and the southwest were secure by 1847. Polk decided a campaign against Mexico City was in order, and he placed Commander-in-Chief Winfield Scott in command. Scott stripped Taylor’s command, and landed at Vera Cruz in March 1847. Meanwhile, the depleted Taylor left Monterrey against orders and won a final smashing victory at Buena Vista in February (which, not coincidentally, placed him on the road to the White House). Scott advanced from the coast and won hard-fought battles at Cerro Gordo, Molino del Ray, Churubusco and Chapultepec. He finally took Mexico City in September.

American forces won almost every single battle, even though they were outnumbered on nearly every field. A peace was finally arranged. Under the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the American-Mexican border was secured at the Rio Grande, and America got California, and what would become most of New Mexico and Arizona, as well as Nevada and Utah, and parts of Colorado and Wyoming, a total of 500,000 square miles (not counting Texas). The rest of New Mexico and Arizona would be added in 1853 with the Gasden Purchase. In exchange, Mexico received $15 million. The 8,000 Mexican families now in U.S. territory had the choice whether to stay or return to Mexico. Most stayed.

Roughly 13,000 American soldiers died during the war, most from disease (especially yellow fever) or other non-combat causes. About 1,700 were killed in combat. Mexican casualties are estimated at approximately 25,000.

Side note: The Mexican War is often overlooked, just as Korea is overshadowed by World War II and Vietnam, or treated as a “rehearsal” for the Civil War, as many of the major figures in that later conflict got their field training in this war. But the Mexican War was a major event in its own right, a demarcation line in the history of the nation. However, because the war wrapped up in fine fashion, and the controversies were overshadowed in a few years by the larger issue of slavery and the excitement of the gold rush in the new territory, as well as the president’s death three months after his term ended, the war faded. And that’s a shame. But before that happened, there were some who weren’t going to let the war pass without a challenge, no matter how victorious.

Dissent
Few modern American high school or college students fail to graduate without learning something of Henry David Thoreau and his “civil disobedience.” The Massachusetts author, protesting the Mexican War, refused to pay a tax; so, he spent a night in jail. Courage! (Other dissenters included Ulysses S. Grant, who was quite unknown at the time. Second Lieutenant Grant considered the war the greatest evil perpetuated by a larger nation upon a smaller one, but as he was in the army and a recent West Point graduate, he did his duty and served well in the field.)

But far more demonstrative—and widely known—were the fights in Congress and the attacks in the abolitionist press against the war. During the first year of the war, nearly everyone supported the war, and there was a massive outpouring of goodwill and volunteer enlistments in the army. Congress voted an overwhelming declaration of war, with Whig support.

But despite the victories and the march on and capture of Mexico City, the public began to sour on the war, especially as the peace negotiations dragged on into 1848. Whigs, who gained control of Congress in 1846, turned against the war. Many Whigs claimed the war was nothing more than a war of aggression for land. Some Whigs, led in part by Whig Congressman Abraham Lincoln of Illinois, challenged the official version of event that precipitated the shooting war. The Polk administration claimed Mexican soldiers attacked an American patrol on American soil; Lincoln and other Whigs now claimed that the attack happened in the disputed territory, where Taylor was not supposed to be. Who was right?

Technically, Polk was, because according to the treaty that ended the Texas war for independence, Texas’ southern border was the Rio Grande, not the Nueces, 150 miles to the north. But the Mexican government didn’t recognize that treaty as they claimed General Santa Ana had signed it under duress after San Jacinto.

At war’s end, a Congressional resolution was passed by the Whig majority praising Gen. Taylor for his service in “a war unnecessarily and unconstitutionally begun by the President of the United States.” Congressman Lincoln would have a hard time shaking those words 12 years later.

Regardless, the Whig charge that the war was unconstitutional is completely wrong, and is as laughable as the Democrats’ complaints today against the Iraq war. In fact, the Democrats of today are acting exactly the same as the Whigs of the 1840s: voting overwhelmingly voted for the war when it was popular, then turning against it when its popularity has waned.

Polk’s victory
Whether it was a necessary war, however, is another thing entirely. Perhaps Polk would have even agreed with the Whigs had there not been such enmity between them. Polk, actually, really didn’t want to fight a war with Mexico. He wanted the land, and he wanted to keep Texas, and he would have gladly paid Mexico for the western lands.

But when Mexico refused, Polk readily gave them war. Polk actually fought what he considered a limited war with Mexico. At first, Polk deliberatively limited operations to the American Southwest. But he underestimated the Mexican desire to fight and Mexican anger against America. He then ordered the Mexico City campaign, which “conquered” Mexico.

Many Democrats actually urged Polk to take all of Mexico—white man’s burden again; get poor Mexico under America’s protective wing. But Polk demurred, and had no intention of holding what Scott had so brilliantly captured. After the peace was signed and money exchanged, the new borders were drawn. And the United States finally stretched unbroken from coast to coast.

No second term
Polk had no love for his successor: Zachary Taylor, the brilliant general whom Polk believed was incompetent, untalented and a fool.

Had Polk even wanted a second term, he wouldn’t have lived to enjoy it. He died on June 15, three months after leaving office.

Perhaps his sour personality weighed him down as much as the office did. Or perhaps it was his insistence on doing everything himself. Regardless, Polk’s often shaky health finally caught him at age 53.



Final Assessment

As noted above, James K. Polk was arguably the most successful president ever, because he achieved every one of his goals. I draw the line, though, at calling him one of the greatest. I used to agree with Harry Truman’s assessment. But after investigating him in-depth, I’m starting to wonder.

Polk could often be a mean, vindictive man. A bully, if you will. A man incapable of giving praise to anyone who didn’t agree with him. A man so stuck on himself and his own abilities and ambitions that he rode roughshod over anyone who got in his way. Is that really a sign of greatness?

There’s no doubt that James K. Polk looms large over this nation: the Mexican War, 11 new states and a treasury system that lasted almost 70 years. Those are incredible accomplishments.

He was “great” in terms of his accomplishments, but often—but not always—small in terms of his character.

(Which brings up a conundrum for another time: you can be great on character but lousy on accomplishments; you can be great on accomplishments and lousy on character; you can be lousy on both; but it is a truly exceptional president who is great on both.)

Final assessment: Highly successful, but mixed on popularity.

Resources

The Polk entry in the American Presidents Series, written by John Seigenthaler, is quite a good summary. (Although he describes John Tyler’s term as “listless,” which I found it to be anything but.)

Also interesting for exploring Polk’s character is William Dusinberre’s Slavemaster President: The Double Career of James Polk (2003).

You can also check out The Diary of James K. Polk During His Presidency, 1845-1849.

John D. Eisenhower expertly chronicles America’s first foreign “excursion” in the highly readable and entertaining So Far from God: The U.S. War with Mexico, 1846-1848. The title refers to a statement made by the Mexican president in 1877: “Poor Mexico; So far from God, so close to the United States.”

A more classical entry, but no less readable, is the Pulitzer Prize-winner The Year of Decision: 1846, by Bernard DeVoto, which covers much more than the Mexican War.

Illustrations

All images are public domain and found in the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division unless otherwise noted.

1. Reproduction of an 1849 Brady daguerreotype taken while Polk was still president

2. Portrait of young Polk

3. A rather ridiculous campaign card of Polk which stretches more than the imagination, and tries to make Young Hickory look like Old Hickory

4. View of crowd with umbrellas, in front of platform on east portico of U.S. Capitol, where Chief Justice Roger B. Taney administers the oath of office to James K. Polk. Originally published in The Illustrated London News, April 19, 1845.

5. Sarah Polk in a lithograph published by N. Currier

6. Polk’s cabinet, minus Buchanan. Polk sits second from the right. This is the first-ever photo taken of a president with his cabinet. Photo on White House web site, copyright belongs to James K. Polk Memorial Association, Columbia, Tennessee. (I’m not sure of the rights here; I may have to remove this photo and link to it instead.)

7. Photograph of the White House taken in 1846

8. Official White House portrait of James K. Polk, 11th president of the United States (White House Historical Association)

9. Battle of Buena Vista during the Mexican-American War, a painting by Carl Nebel, published in the 1851 book The War Between the United States and Mexico, Illustrated

10. Battle of Churubusco, during the Mexican-American War, a painting by Carl Nebel, published in the 1851 book The War Between the United States and Mexico, Illustrated. Both this and the previous paint are startling images for the time.

11. Soon-to-be famed photographer Matthew Brady took this daguerreotype of President Polk in February 1849, one month before the end of his presidency and four months before the end of his life.

Number 10: John Tyler

Years in office: 1841-1845

Pre-service occupations: U.S. senator, governor (Virginia), vice president

Key events during his administration: annexation of Texas (1845), Florida admitted to the Union (1845), Webster-Ashburton Treaty (1842), Tyler (Pacific) Doctrine (1843), Treaty of Wangxia (1844)

Nicknames: His Accidency, the Acting President and the Vice President Acting as President

Presidential rating: Successful (but…) and largely unpopular

ESSAY

When President William Henry Harrison died on April 4, 1841, the country entered constitutional turmoil. What was supposed to happen? Would Vice President John Tyler now become president? Would a new election be held? Would Tyler merely be a caretaker president until the next scheduled election? It was new territory, and the country wasn’t sure what to do.

Fortunately for the country, John Tyler was certain, prepared and made sure that he—and he alone—was the president for the remainder of Harrison’s (now Tyler’s) term.

As the first man to assume the presidency after the president died in office, Tyler performed a service to the nation that cannot be undersold. If Adams and Jefferson established the peaceful transition of power between political enemies, Tyler established, or more correctly affirmed, the constitutional continuation of executive authority when the president dies in office.

Today, presidential succession is only thought about when a running mate is selected, but in 1841, many Whigs and Democrats did not recognize Tyler as president. Some members of congress wanted Tyler to be a figurehead while the secretary of state or even congress ran the executive branch. But Tyler would have none of it, and properly asserted his authority. Since 1841, power has transferred smoothly amid times of crisis eight times, thanks to Tyler. (* See note at bottom.)

Nowadays, Tyler is a forgotten president. If he’s remembered, it’s for what he did in 1841, the slogan “Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too,” or for the notion that he is the only “traitor” president because he was elected to the Confederate Congress. He’s also regarded as a failed president, which I believe is a crime of history.So, what of his presidency? How did the Virginian planter handle the affairs of the executive once the major crisis was solved?

A childhood among greatness

John Tyler spent his formative years among a who’s who of Virginian and early American politics. His own father, also named John, was a well-respected politician and early agitator against the slave trade (but not against slavery). Among the elder Tyler’s contemporaries were Jefferson, Madison and Bishop James Madison, onetime president of William and Mary College and something of a kingmaker in Virginia politics.

Young John absorbed much from these men, and he developed a keen sense of America’s destiny, which he shared in powerful oratory throughout his political career. Although Tyler never left the American seaboard—ever, in fact—he came to believe that America had a special destiny to fulfill. Being around such men as Bishop Madison and Jefferson helped hone that vision into a burning desire to take America to the far coast and beyond.

This vision would be codified as “manifest destiny,” and would be identified with Tyler’s presidential successor, James K. Polk, but I believe that Tyler deserves as much credit for the vision of American continental greatness as Polk and Jefferson.

America was destined for greatness, Tyler believed, and he would articulate this belief better than most politicians in the early republic. Whether as a Senator or Virginia’s governor, Tyler articulated a great America, a worldly America, a nation that led instead of followed. Biographer Edward P. Crapol marvels that Tyler appeared so worldly and cultured for a man who never once left the eastern seaboard.

Tyler explained his ideas for America in a visit to New York City in 1843:

“For how can the example of a democratic America be resisted? Do you not perceive that a light is breaking forth everywhere? That this same free America has already civilized a continent, which when we were boys was almost all in a wilderness state?” (Crapol, p.190)

A little flowery, sure, but he meant every word.Tyler also developed a strong sense of republicanism; and how could he not, considering his childhood heroes. But as president, he often betrayed his pure Jeffersonian republican ideals in favor of expanding executive power—even into areas that could justly be called unconstitutional—all in the name of securing America’s destiny.

The “accidental” president

When William Harrison died, Tyler got his chance—earlier than expected—to implement his ideals for American greatness. But Harrison’s sudden death and Tyler’s ascension to the presidency left Whigs very nervous—especially the number one Whig, Henry Clay. Kentucky’s favored son believed he should have gotten the nod in 1840, so he was not happy that the ex-Democrat Tyler was now president. Clay was mildly relieved that Tyler retained Harrison’s all-Whig cabinet, but was put on guard when Tyler announced that he would be no mere “cipher” for the Whig-controlled Congress and would pursue his own course and policies.

Clay’s worst fears were realized when Tyler vetoed key Whig legislation, including a new national bank. Whigs were so upset with Tyler that they expelled the president from the party in 1841, and most of the cabinet resigned that September except for Secretary of State Daniel Webster. Now he was not only an ex-Democrat, he was also an ex-Whig.

Tyler “came back” to the Democrats when he appointed John C. Calhoun as secretary of state to replace the dead Abel Upshur, who had replaced Webster after the latter resigned in 1843. The appointment of Calhoun, with his well-known defense of slavery and the South, helped further drive Whigs north and the base of Democrat power to the South.

Worse, many people in and out of politics never recognized Tyler as president, referring to him as “His Accidency” or “the Acting President” or even “The Vice President Acting as President.” Tyler would return unopened any mail, no matter how important, that failed to address him properly as president.

But President Tyler wasted no time in asserting his authority, however, and making his stamp on the national and international scene.

Slavery’s president

The chief hallmark of John Tyler’s presidency that most historians point to was his defense of slavery. John Tyler realized at a politically early age that slavery was a big problem; that it was, in Jefferson’s words, “a wolf held by the tail,” dangerous to hold but too dangerous to let go. Tyler wasn’t especially fond of slavery, but he accepted the “superiority” of white over Negro as the natural order, as did most whites back then.

As a U.S. senator, slave owner Tyler became ill at the sight of slaves dragged in chains and put on the auction block in the nation’s capitol. He promoted legislation to ban the practice in D.C., but it failed. Like his father, Tyler had a moral obtuseness concerning slavery: The slave trade—trafficking in humans—was despicable, but slavery itself was just hunky-dory.

Also as a U.S. senator, he became aware of just how delicate and troublesome slavery was when the nation experienced the first public convulsion over human bondage with the Missouri Compromise of 1820. Tyler, prescient that slavery could rend the nation, came up with a unique solution: Expand the nation by creating more slave states, thereby dispersing slavery over a much wider space. Slavery would then gradually die out as it did in the northern states. As ridiculous as this idea sounds, Tyler actually believed it could work, as it also fit in with his dreams of an America destined to stretch from coast to coast.

Defending America as a slaveholding republic became a cornerstone of his administration, which is one of the reasons why some historians tend to dismiss him as a failure and a sop to the Southern states.

No president defended slavery more than John Tyler. Although it was American policy to “defend” the institution of slavery on the foreign scene, Tyler did it stronger than anyone else.

Part of it has to do with his status as a Virginia slave owner. Although both he and his father looked askance at the slave trade, slavery itself was acceptable. To us, it’s a distinction with no difference. But to men such as Tyler, real equality between (white) men was maintained as long as slavery existed. (** See note at bottom.)

Mostly, however, his defense of slavery was wrapped in his belief in the Jefferson-Madison “extend the sphere” model of republicanism, where territorial expansion and the viability of the republic intertwined. Abolitionism posed a gigantic threat to this model of America’s destiny. Abolitionists detested Tyler probably more than any other antebellum president because he was a prominent and unapologetic slaveholder. Tyler returned their detest, for he viewed abolitionists as troublemakers who would rend the Union over slavery, thus denying the great nation its great destiny. Although he never went so far as Andrew Jackson did in fighting abolitionists (Jackson permitted Southern states to interfere with the U.S. mail by removing abolitionist literature), Tyler snubbed them and would not receive them at the White House.

In fact, part of Tyler’s Anglophobia, explained below, was tied to abolitionism. He believed that abolitionism was an English plot to disrupt the Union by attacking slavery, as evidenced by prominent English anti-slavery orators who came to America early in his term. It was a fanciful imagining at best, but it played into Tyler’s fears, and he used it to great effect to add to the anti-British sentiment during 1841-42.

Of course, like all early presidents, the glaring contradiction of America as a beacon of liberty while simultaneously being a slaveholding nation was never discussed in official channels, or even acknowledged. (This led to awkward situations, such as the refusal to recognize Haiti, another free republic, because it became a republic through a slave revolt. The United States would not recognize Haiti until 1862.)

Diplomatic “war” with England

As mentioned, Tyler was an Anglophobe. The term fits, because Tyler did fear English world domination. In the 1840s, as the saying goes, the sun never set on the English empire, and Tyler feared that the British were attempting to eke away at potential and real American holdings in Maine, the Pacific coast and rim, the Caribbean and even the republic of Texas. While his and secretary of state Webster’s Anglophobia was just a tad bit stretched, England was America’s chief antagonist, and there were several affairs with England that needed strong resolution, and fast.

War fever, or more correctly, a reluctant resignation that war with England was nigh, ruled in American politics during the first two years of his term. Although the prospects of a third war with the former mother country were not pleasant, Tyler and his Navy Department, under the highly capable Abel Upshur, used the scare to press Congress for modernization of America’s coastal defenses and Navy. Not all of Tyler’s and Upshur’s wish list was accepted, but the beginning of the transformation of the Navy from exclusively sail-powered to sail and steam-powered began under Tyler and Upshur, and they deserve much credit. (Upshur created the U.S. Naval Observatory and the regularization of the officer corps, including the introduction of the rank of rear admiral and admiral.)

Tensions with England were already high over the trial of a British citizen held in America. In a bold but curious move, President Tyler threatened to withhold British Ambassador Fox’s passport if the citizen was found guilty and until the matter was resolved. But the man was exonerated. Later, however, relations with England took a sharp turn downward when slaves revolted on the American ship Creole, murdered their master and sailed the ship to a British Caribbean protectorate. The British authorities there let the mutineers and the other captive slaves go free, much to the outrage of the South and joy of northern abolitionists. Coupled with the British sinking of the Caroline in Canadian waters during Van Buren’s term, continued occasional impressments and a few other “outrages,” the South turned to slave owner Tyler for swift justice.

It didn’t come fast enough, and subsequently Tyler’s stock fell in their eyes. Tyler seemed to vacillate, but he really wasn’t. Instead, he and Webster played a very crafty game of diplomacy with England. Secretary Webster and his counter-part, Lord Ashburton, hammered out an agreement during the hot summer of 1842 that came out quite favorable to the United States. England basically apologized for the attack on the Caroline, promised no repeated of the Creole affair, agreed on a mutually beneficial Maine-New Brunswick boundary, and understanding that impressments would finally stop, and also agreed to a joint cooperation to patrolling the shores off of Africa to stop slave traders. This last part surprised abolitionists, who had written Tyler off as an evil “imbecile.”

It was a huge diplomatic triumph for Tyler (and Webster) and although Tyler’s hotheadedness created some later misunderstandings on the wording, Tyler deserves much credit for blustering while seeking a peaceful resolution.The only point of contention not included in the Webster-Ashburton Treaty was the status of Oregon, which both nations jointly occupied. Tyler, in a brilliant bit of political chicanery, pulled Mexico and Britain into a scheme of land and money swapping that was designed to be rejected. (America would pay Mexico for two choice California ports, America would give Britain favorable land in Oregon in exchange for leaning on Mexico for the deal.) Tyler’s scheming was more designed to force England to the table again. It didn’t work out the way Tyler wanted, and the Oregon matter wasn’t solved until Polk’s term.

More manifest destiny—to the Pacific

All early presidents had their eyes focused westward, but none more than Tyler. His successor, James Polk, is usually the one most associated with manifest destiny because of the Mexican War and the fact that he added the most territory to the United States. But I believe the mantle jointly belongs to Tyler, and biographer Edward P. Crapol seems to agree.President Tyler gained two diplomatic triumphs that are long lost to history: recognition of the independence of Hawaii and the Tyler Doctrine, and the opening of China to American trade.

The Hawaiian Islands, then also known as the Sandwich Islands, became a Christian nation with a constitution, and the monarch, Kamehameha III, sent emissaries to Washington to seek recognition. The emissaries, William Richards, a Calvinist missionary, and Timoteo Haalilio, who was “almost as dark as an Ethiopian,” arrived in D.C. in 1842. Haalilio became the toast of D.C. But after several frustrating meetings with Webster, the two threatened to go to England first. That got them an audience with President Tyler, who authorized recognition of Hawaii—and what was accepted to be United States protection of Hawaii and the American missionaries there against foreign interference. In other words, Tyler extended the Monroe Doctrine to include Hawaii!

In the second instance, Tyler, at the prompting of American merchants, and fueled by the recent British success in the Opium War with China, sought a trade partnership with the Celestial Empire. In 1843, he and outgoing Secretary of State Webster sent a man named Cushing to China to open diplomatic and trade relations, with $40,000 authorized by Congress. Cushing proved to be a terrific choice, because he learned to be patient and respectful with his Chinese counterpart. In the end, Cushing secured a trade and ports deal with China that was better than what the British had won. The wisdom of seeking trade with China should not be dismissed, as exports to China (tobacco, cotton and grains) went from $9.5 million in 1845 to $22.5 million in 1860.

But sadly, Tyler received no credit for these moves. In fact, I was totally unaware of the “opening of China” to trade. As a schoolboy, I only heard of the “opening of Japan”—which, incidentally, Cushing sought to do, but Tyler’s administration ended before it could happen. But Tyler would later claim the “seeds” of opening Japan were planted in his term.

Domestic affairs, spies and impeachment

Much of President Tyler’s focus was on America’s borders and international sphere of influence, and with good reason. But when he turned to domestic affairs, he made a lot of people mad. The Whigs expelled Tyler from the party because he went against their agenda, chief of which was the recreation of the national bank. He vetoed the bank because he believed it went against states rights. He also declined to support the Whig Congress’ tariff, but two years later, did support a limited tariff for northern manufacturers, but Whigs gave him little credit.

Whigs were so upset with Tyler over his vetoes of the bank and tariff that they claimed that Tyler has “misused” the veto, which was a ridiculous charge. Instead, they were misusing the concept of impeachment. The first-ever articles of impeachment were drawn up in the House, but the attempt failed, as they never made it out of Rep. John Quincy Adams’ committee.

Still, the attempt stung. And why wouldn’t it? Tyler was being persecuted for not being a Whig. (Sounds a little familiar, doesn’t it?) However, if Congress had known what Tyler was doing with “secret service” funds, it might have been able to impeach him on something very tangible. President Tyler, when executing his foreign policy, often employed spies and special diplomats who operated in secret and were paid for out of a “secret service” executive fund. Tyler and Secretary of State Webster were, in fact, using federal funds to wage a secret propaganda campaign inside Maine to get its citizens to believe that they themselves were behind the impetuous for a peaceful resolution with England over the Maine-New Brunswick border. Why was this unconstitutional or border-line unconstitutional? Because of the money involved, and the fact that the executive branch was waging a covert propaganda campaign on Americans. But the issue never came to light while Tyler was president.

Tyler used spies and unofficial “ambassadors” in other capacities throughout his presidency, especially in England, and especially in the defense of slavery. One “General” Duff Green, with a bankroll of executive money, served as “slavery’s ambassador” to England, doing what he could to disrupt antislavery sentiments, much to the disgust of America’s actual minister to England.

He often stretched the Constitution in ways that he professed to abhor before he held the office. But once he held the reins of power, and had the opportunity to enact his vision of national destiny, he shoved aside his republican ideals in favor of the bigger goal.

Back on the domestic front, Tyler and Whigs did come to an interesting agreement on the purchase of land: Under the “log cabin” bill, which Tyler signed, a man could lay claim to 160 acres before it was offered publicly for sale, and then pay $1.25 an acre for it.But his stand on defending slavery naturally alienated abolitionist New England. Conversely, because Southern Democrats didn’t think he was doing enough to defend slavery, and because he had left the Democratic party, he was not their favorite man, either. So Tyler was a “man without a party.” “His Accidency” was scorned and disrespected from all sides, and was not popular.

Partially because of how he attained the presidency, Tyler abstained from making many changes to federal offices for two years. It was only when the bug to become president in his own right grew strong that Tyler began working on party building, but by 1843, it was largely too late in the game for that. Nevertheless, he did the usual purging of postmasters and other office-holders—another betrayal of his pure republican principles. He also commissioned a fawning biography of his life that he “urged” postmasters to buy and deliver.

But strangely enough, when Tyler made the one extended trip of his presidency outside of Washington and Virginia, he was treated as royalty. In Baltimore, Philadelphia and New York City, the Tyler party was feted in grander style than any other president had been. Tyler was canny enough to recognize that it probably wasn’t so much for him as it was for the office of the presidency, considering a presidential visit back then was still something extraordinary. Still, even abolitionist Boston treated him with respect, although the real toast of the town was Daniel Webster, just recently departed from the State department, in town as part of the massive 75th anniversary celebration of the Battle of Bunker Hill.

Regardless, Tyler took the outpouring as a good sign that he was on the road to re-election. And he would use Texas to seal the deal.

Texas, ho!

The Mexican War, in modern memory, is always associated with Tyler’s successor, James Polk. But President Tyler bears as much responsibility because, although Polk brought on the shooting war, Tyler made the final drive for the annexation of Texas. That act precipitated war with hapless Mexico, and Tyler knew full well that it would. I’m not trying to establish Tyler as a villain; rather to make sure that it’s understood that the Mexican-American War, which began in 1846, had its roots in Tyler’s administration.

America had long sought to acquire Texas. Some believed it was rightfully ours since the Louisiana Purchase. John Quincy Adams was blamed for “losing” Texas in the Adams-Onis Treaty back during Monroe’s administration. Jackson had his eye on Texas when his protégé, Sam Houston, won Texas’ independence in 1836. Jackson’s second protégé/mentor (a weird relationship), Martin Van Buren, demurred on annexing Texas. It finally fell to the ex-Democrat/ex-Whig Tyler to push through acquiring Texas for the Union, and he did so with relish.

Daniel Webster was no fan of annexing Texas, so Tyler actually put off the Texas matter until the issues with England were put to rest. After all, he and Webster formed a good team. But when it came time to pursue Texas, Tyler—and Webster—knew it was time for him to go.

His interim secretary of state, Hugh Legare, a longtime Tyler confidant and Texas advocate, died suddenly while the president was in Boston. The personal blow put a damper on Tyler’s re-election plans, and he ended the tour and did not head to Ohio and Michigan as planned. But he found another Texas/expansionist stalwart: the brilliant Navy secretary, Abel Upshur.Upshur entered into a secret negotiation with his Texas counterpart, over the objections of the English and Mexican foreign ministries, who believed (correctly) something was afoot. Mexico even said that if the United States were to annex Texas, war would result. Tyler and Upshur were not deterred.

Tyler allies in the Senate also gave brilliant speeches explaining why Texas’ annexation was not merely a sectional (e.g., slave power) matter, but one of national importance. One senator from Mississippi even gave the absurd argument that Texas would serve as a funnel for blacks to leave the country to Mexico and Central and South America, playing up on racial fears.

The well-liked and smooth Upshur secretly secured the necessary two-thirds votes in the Senate without Tyler’s arch-nemesis being aware of it. Texas seemed a little wary of the deal, though, having been burned once by the Van Buren administration. But at that point, annexation—and Tyler’s re-election—seemed assured.

Then tragedy struck. In February 1844, the day that Upshur’s counterpart agreed to annexation, Tyler, Upshur and several guests were cruising the Potomac on the USS Princeton, the Navy’s most advanced steamship. The recently widowed president, smitten with Senator David Gardiner’s daughter, Julia, lingered below deck with her to hear his song sing a song—which probably saved his life. A cannon misfired and exploded, killing Upshur, the secretary of the Navy, Senator Gardiner and several others.It was the worst calamity to befall any administration: two cabinet members killed, and a third dying mere months before. (One happy note: Tyler had gallantly rushed a fainted Julia from the scene, carrying her from the ship. Four months later, over the wagging tongues of gossips and bores, Tyler and Julia were married, and she stayed with him until his death 22 years later.)

In addition, without Upshur, Tyler’s Texas plans began to fall apart—and arguably ended his chance for re-election. Tyler tried pursuing another four years, but Tennessee’s James K. Polk, an up-and-coming star in the Democratic Party and a staunch disciple of Jackson, seemed to have a better chance at the Democratic nomination than Tyler—or Van Buren, who was making another run at it. (The Whig nomination for Tyler was, of course, out of the question, and it went to Clay.) Rather than engage in a bruising fight with Van Buren and Polk, who shared many of the same views as Tyler, the president decided that another four years just wasn’t going to happen, and he bowed out. But he continued to seek Texas.

Texas’ annexation played a large role in the campaign of 1844, and when pro-annexation James Polk won rather handily over Whig Clay and third party candidate Van Buren, President Tyler gained the impetuous he needed to ram legislation through Congress.

Tyler first submitted the annexation treaty to the Senate, but without Upshur it failed to gain the requisite two-thirds majority. Northern members worried at the potential disruption of the balance of power, and there was no way the new secretary of state, John C. Calhoun, would or could convince them otherwise. As many as four new slave states could be carved from Texas, it was argued. The president then turned to an unusual and unprecedented parliamentary trick: he sought a joint resolution from Congress that required only a simple majority. Was it constitutional? Some argued that it wasn’t, including old Albert Gallatin, Jefferson’ secretary of the Treasury, who had told Jefferson not to worry about the constitutionality of the Louisiana Purchase! But it passed rather handily over the loud objections of Whigs. Congress gave Tyler what he wanted, and annexation was proclaimed in Texas. Tyler himself was unable to officially welcome Texas into the Union as president, as the state did not come in until December 1845, nine months after he left office.

But the triumph was definitely his.

Post-presidency—traitor?

John Tyler left the White House in March 1845 on just about the highest note of any president: Texas was coming into the Union, and he had scored another triumph with the China treaty.

He retired to his Virginia plantation with Julia, returning briefly to Washington to defend Daniel Webster from corruption charges. (Webster was exonerated.) But the elder statesman and defender of states’ rights came back into the public light again in February 1861 to sponsor the Virginia Peace Convention, which sought a compromise to war. Tyler, who long sought to hold the Union together, advocated secession when Virginia rejected his suggestions. He then served in the provisional Confederate Congress and was elected to the formal Confederate Congress, but died in early 1862 before taking his seat.

For those reasons, he is considered a traitor—but no more of a traitor, I think, than Robert E. Lee and Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, who are still highly revered among many people. (Is there something less honorable about being a political traitor than being a military traitor? I wonder.)

Final Assessment

How did the Virginian planter handle the affairs of the executive once the major crisis was solved? Better than expected, and better than he is given credit for.And in fact, John Tyler, for all his moral obtuseness, may be the most important of the “forgotten” presidents. After all, many successive presidents have evoked Tyler’s passion for America’s special and unique destiny, including Lincoln, Grant, Wilson, FDR, JFK, Reagan, and George W. Bush, who did so in his second inaugural in 2004.

Tyler used executive privilege in ways that were dangerously close to being flagrantly unconstitutional. Had they been known to Congress, he could have been rightly impeached for using “secret service” executive funds to meddle in state affairs and fund private spy operations.

Tyler often turned his back on his stated republican ideals in the name of expanding executive powers. Biographer Edward Crapol and noted historian Arthur Schlesinger argue that the imperial presidency, which began in Jackson’s term only to temporarily disappear, began anew in Tyler’s term, and there is a lot of truth to that:

“A number of President Tyler’s contemporaries thought his doctrine of executive power undermined the republican principles he formerly held so dear. For example, the editors of the prestigious and influential National Intelligencer, Joseph Gales and William W. Seaton, charged that Tyler’s executive actions violated the constitution because he assumed powers never intended to be employed by the chief executive. They claimed that the prerogative power that that Tyler exercised had no legal standing or constitutional standing. The editors were correct. John Tyler had come to embrace and champion the broad executive prerogatives he found so objectionable when wielded by his predecessors.” (Crapol, p. 281)

But overall, his vision for an America that spanned the continent and influenced commerce and trade well across the Pacific and around the world was powerful, and started to come to fruition at the very end of his term. President Tyler rarely gets credit for the many far-reaching diplomatic triumphs of his administration, and that’s a shame. Historians overlook just how influential Tyler was in his four years, and instead concentrate on his defense of slavery, his assumption of office, and his “traitor” status.

He’s usually ranked in the “below average” or “near failure,” around 35 of 44 presidencies. I strongly disagree. If I were ranking Tyler against the other presidents, I would place him “above average.” His diplomatic achievements alone place him far above many of the rest.

So, this is what I was getting at when I wrote above that Tyler was “Successful (but…)” True, he had a lot of achievements, but he often played too loose with the Constitution to achieve his goals. He was by no means a failure, though.

Final assessment: Successful (but…) and largely unpopular.

Resources

An excellent book is Edward P. Crapol’s John Tyler: The Accidental President (2006), which takes a more generous view of Tyler’s presidency than previous works. Also useful is The Presidencies of William Henry Harrison and John Tyler (1989) by Norma Lois Peterson, part of the University of Kansas’ American Presidency Series.

* Succeeding a president who died, was assassinated, or resigned were: Fillmore (Taylor), A. Johnson (Lincoln), Arthur (Garfield) T. Roosevelt (McKinley), Coolidge (Harding), Truman (F. Roosevelt), L. Johnson (Kennedy), and Ford (Nixon).

** I had a long talk with my wife about this. It’s actually, thankfully, very hard for someone like me to wrap my mind around such piffle. I understand on an intellectual level how someone could think themselves superior to another, and therefore be master and slave. But emotionally, I can’t. I don’t think it’s just because I’m Christian and I am a “slave” to the real Master, Jesus Christ. I think it’s because I came of age in post-Martin Luther King America, where that kind of raw racism is dying. It’s not dead, as race hustlers of all kinds try to keep it alive. But it is dying. And thank God.

Illustrations

All images are public domain and found in the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division unless otherwise noted.

1. Portrait of John Tyler

2. Official White House portrait of John Tyler (White House Historical Association)

3. Tyler Receiving the News of Harrison’s Death. Supposedly that is Daniel Webster’s son delivering the news to an already prepared John Tyler.

4. Wood carving of John Tyler created in 1841.

5. The very crafty and capable Daniel Webster served as Tyler’s secretary of state until 1843.

6. First Lady Letitia Christian Tyler, who died during Tyler’s term.

7. Texas in 1845. Rights for this map are found here.

8. Tyler’s second wife, Julia Gardiner Tyler, whom the president married in 1844, making Tyler the first president to marry in the White House. She outlived him by several decades; after Congress gave other presidential widows pension, she fought and won a pension for herself, despite her husband’s status as a “traitor.”

9. The elder statesman: a daguerreotype of John Tyler near the end of his life.

Number 9: William Henry Harrison

Years in office: 1841
Pre-service occupations: general, territorial representative, governor of Indiana Territory, U.S. representative, state senator, U.S. senator, minister to Colombia
Key event during his administration: his death, which created a crisis

Presidential rating: none, but very popular

ESSAY

William Henry Harrison has gone down in history as the answer to a couple of trivia questions, and that’s a shame. The questions:

Who was the first president to die in office? (Harrison, of course)

Who had the shortest term? (Harrison’s term lasted one month: it ended on April 4, 1841.)

Who spoke the longest inaugural address? (At 8,445 words, his speech clocked in at close to two hours.)

Who had the most memorable campaign slogan of the 19th century? (Harrison’s primary campaign slogan was “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too.”)

But there was more to the man than trivia, of course. You are probably thinking, how can you assess a man who was in office for just one month? Easy. It’s not his time in office that I want to look at—make that can look at; it’s his campaign for that office (and President Martin Van Buren’s failed re-election campaign, for that matter). And besides, becoming president of the United States of America is no small thing. Only 42 men have achieved it, either in their own right or by default.

American politics would never quite be the same after the election of ol’ Tip in 1840, and his shocking death one month into his presidency. If Martin Van Buren set the stage for the modern political party, Harrison—or more properly, his Whig supporters—played a huge role in establishing a new type of election template: a candidate who was more style than substance.

That’s not to say that Harrison didn’t have substance, because some historians have lamented a presidency that never was and a road not taken. But the hype didn’t quite match the man, and in this current age of the “media anal exam” of every single cotton-pickin’ aspect of a candidate’s life, it’s fascinating to place Harrison the man and Harrison the candidate side by side.

The man was fascinating and quite qualified for the office, but he pales next to the larger-than-life rustic caricature hero his supporters created—which, it must be said, Harrison allowed to be created.

The hero of Tippecanoe
William Henry Harrison was Andrew Jackson’s contemporary, but their similarities are superficial. Both were western generals and Indian fighters. Both won famous battles, secured a section of the American frontier for future expansion and turned fame to political advantage. Both were seen as war heroes, though Jackson loomed larger than Harrison, as New Orleans truly was the bigger victory than Tippecanoe in all respects.

Still, when the Whigs selected Harrison as their champion in 1840, they couldn’t have done much better.

William Henry Harrison was born a British citizen, the last president to bear that distinction. But he harbored no love for the British: his father, Benjamin Harrison V, signed the Declaration of Independence. His father’s untimely death left him with no money to further his schooling, so young William (then 18) went west as a soldier where he gained a different type of education under “Mad Anthony” Wayne, one of the hardest fighting men in early America. Under Wayne, Harrison learned how to fight Indians, and he participated in the decisive battle of Fallen Timbers in the Northwest Territory in 1794.

Politics, however, soon beckoned, and at decade’s end, young William became secretary, then acting governor, of the new Northwest Territory. He was elected representative of the territory for a year, and then resigned to become governor of the Indiana territory (which then included Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois and some of Minnesota). As governor, Harrison went after Indian lands, buying millions of acres from tribes and tribal leaders. Resentment against this expansion grew, however, and finally found an outlet under the leadership of Tecumseh and his brother, “The Prophet” Tenskwatawa, both Shawnees.

The trouble had been brewing for some time, with Tenskwatawa and Tecumseh attracting spiritual followers from many different tribes. In essence, it was a religious revival, with the goal of stopping the sale of land and resisting expansion. But other tribal leaders disagreed, refused to recognize the two Shawnee leaders, and continued to work with Harrison. Things came to a head when Tecumseh demanded that the treaty of Fort Wayne be rescinded in 1811. Harrison refused, but Tecumseh assured Harrison that he wanted peace and would not seek war.

While Tecumseh was away in the south recruiting among the “Five Civilized Tribes” (only the Creeks answered his call, and they would soon meet Andrew Jackson), Harrison was ordered to demonstrate (e.g., put on a show but not attack) against Tenskwatawa and his followers at Prophetstown along the Tippecanoe. This they did; but Tenskwatawa requested a cease fire for a peaceful meeting. Harrison agreed to meet the next day, Nov. 7, 1811.

But Tenskwatawa, fearing an attack, launched his own attack early the next morning, which Harrison and his men beat off. The American forces repulsed repeated charges all morning long, and Harrison’s men were left in command of the field when the Prophet’s warriors finally withdrew. On the morning of the 8th, Harrison’s men entered the deserted Prophetstown, which they burned. Harrison lost 68 killed and 126 wounded, while Tenskwatawa lost at least 50 killed and at least 70 wounded.

Thus was the great battle of Tippecanoe, the event that propelled William Henry Harrison to the presidency 29 years later.

But the legend was a little greater than the reality. Tippecanoe didn’t quite break Tecumseh’s confederacy, but rather seriously wounded it and embarrassed its leader. Tenskwatawa and Tecumseh would not meet final defeat until two years later during the War of 1812 at Harrison’s hands.

(Side note: there is absolutely no truth to the story that Tecumseh put a curse on Harrison that every president elected in a year ending in zero would die in office. The story is apocryphal and the deaths freak coincidences.)

Political career
Gen. Harrison built upon his reputation as an Indian fighter and soldier during the War of 1812, winning further victories in the Northwest. The real climax of his military career was a spirit-lifting smashing victory in Canada in 1813, the Battle of the Thames, where Tecumseh was killed. But he soon resigned from the army over disputes with Secretary of War Armstrong.

After the war, he turned to politics once more, and never looked back. Ohio elected him to the U.S. House, the state senate and the U.S. Senate. John Quincy Adams sent him to Colombia as minister in 1828, but Jackson’s election ended that posting the next year. In fact, there was bad blood between Jackson and Harrison, stemming from Jackson’s 1819 Florida incursion beyond the extent of his orders. Harrison was among the Congressmen who wanted to censure Jackson. Old Hickory, of course, never forgave Harrison.

The Whig Party, which formed in direct opposition to Jackson and the Van Buren Democrats, began to see Harrison as something of an anti-Jackson: a western war hero opposed to “King Andrew” and looking to undo the “excesses” of Jacksonianism. In 1836, Harrison did extremely well among four Whig candidates arranged against Jackson’s hand-picked successor, Van Buren. Harrison’s second-place showing in 1836 and his hero status convinced Whigs that Harrison was their go-to guy in 1840—especially because the Panic of 1837 had left the incumbent extremely vulnerable.

The origins of the modern campaign
The Whig Party finally ran a national campaign in 1840—and what a campaign it was. Harrison’s image during this campaign was brilliantly—if not expertly—crafted. And large parts of it were bald-faced lies.

Chances are, you’ve heard or read the phrase “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too” sometime in your life, whether in school, on TV, in a commercial, or as a passing reference. To this day, the phrase has staying power. It’s that good.

You might have heard of another one: “Log Cabins and Hard Cider.” And you, like countless other Americans, have undoubtedly used a third phrase that gained currency at the same time: OK (though this one was associated with Harrison’s opponent, Martin Van Buren. According to one story, Van Buren was supposedly called Old Kinderhook, or “O.K.”).

Martin Van Buren’s unpopularity, stemming from the crushing Panic of 1837, left him wounded and unpopular. It almost seems as if anyone could have waltzed in and defeated him—at least, anyone with a catchy slogan or two. But that didn’t stop Van Buren from campaigning hard, nor Democrats from ridiculing Harrison as a “granny” (too old) and as the butt of a joke (“Will we elect Harrison? No sirrah!” which is his name in reverse). On Democratic newspaper derided Harrison as someone who would simply sit around his log cabin drinking hard cider.

Harrison’s people—namely, the Whig press and the state party bosses—jumped on the log cabin and hard cider crack and brilliantly turned it to their advantage. Harrison, they claimed—stealing the Democratic press slur—was a rough-and-tumble westerner, born in a log cabin and very much at home drinking hard cider with the common man. “Log Cabins and Hard Cider” became one of the Harrison camp rallying cries. Actual log cabins were erected all over the country to serve as Harrison campaign headquarters.

Of course it was a lie, as Harrison lived rather comfortably in a mansion and came from wealthy stock, while his opponent was the one who came from a family of quite modest means.


But it stuck. The theme of the common man against the wealthy continued throughout the campaign, which had to have stung Van Buren hard, considering it was the same theme that the Jacksonians used to gain power. The most biting was Whig Rep. Charles Ogle’s “Golden Spoon oration,” an often unintentionally hilarious diatribe against the president given on the House floor against the outrageous “opulence” of Van Buren’s White House while the common man suffered. Ogle praised Harrison and damned Van Buren, and distributed 10,000 copies of his hysterical, over-the-top and highly imaginative attack nationwide. Little of it was true, except for the list of (necessary) improvements that Van Buren did to the White House—which historians still consult to this day!

Certainly one of the stranger features of the campaign was the sight of Harrison supporters rolling huge leather balls at their rallies, signifying how the Harrison campaign was gaining momentum everywhere it went.

Another staple of the campaign were the songs and rallies, which were actually family-friendly: women and children were welcomed at political rallies in large numbers for the first time (even though women’s voting rights was not on the Whig platform). Men and boys also wore coonskin caps to identify with Harrison’s supposed rustic roots.

A typical campaign poster could feature Harrison at work on a farm, with a log cabin and barrels of hard cider nearby. Others would show a hapless “Maddy” Van Buren and other Jacksonians being outfoxed by “ol’ Tip” as Harrison showed them the way out of the White House.

But the most memorable aspect of the campaign was the chief slogan: Tippecanoe and Tyler Too. After winning the nomination at the Whigs’ 1839 convention (the party’s first), Harrison selected former Democrat John Tyler as his running mate. This marked another change in American politics, as the vice president was no longer going to run separate from the presidential candidate.

Tyler seemed closer to Whig Henry Clay in his views than Van Buren, and he was something of a “maverick,” to use the modern connotation, so the choice seemed safe. Harrison selected the Virginian to placate the South and also to avoid talking about slavery—or anything at all. Instead, Tyler became part of the most memorable slogan of the 19th century. It rhymed and celebrated an overblown battle that many people probably ranked below more important battles, such as New Orleans, Yorktown and Fallen Timbers. Harrison hung his hat on that battle, magnifying it to a fantastic and decisive victory, which helped deflect Democratic charges that Harrison was a “silk robe” general who quit the War of 1812 before it was over.

But it ultimately didn’t matter. Van Buren, the man more responsible than anyone else for the creation of the Democratic Party and party organization, was overwhelmed by the Harrison machine. Armed with memorable slogans, leather balls, log cabins, campaign songs and a hyped personality—style over substance—Harrison defeated Van Buren rather easily. Harrison took the popular vote by a 5% margin, but won the electoral college in a blowout.

The shortest presidency
But in a month, Harrison was dead. He caught a cold during his inaugural, and thanks to the demands of his new office—mainly office-seekers—and poor 1840s medical know-how, his cold turned to pneumonia. He died on April 4, 1841, the first president to die in office. His death created a constitutional crisis—which I’ll discuss in the next installment—and shocked the nation. Presidents had been sick before, but never had one actually died.

What would his presidency have been like? Bruce Frohnen, an associate law professor at Ave Maria School of Law and co-editor of American Conservatism: An Encyclopedia, wrote in National Review Online in early February 2007 that Harrison was his favorite president:

"William Henry Harrison was only president for about a month. And he spent that month in a sick bed, dying of pneumonia. Why is he my favorite president? No other president has done so much to live up to the original intent of the framers, that ours was to be a republic, with a representative assembly at its center and at the apex of power. Ironically, Harrison entered office with the intention of increasing congressional responsibility and power. Unfortunately, his death brought in the Jacksonian John Tyler who sought to act as an Imperial President. But Harrison, in his plans and in his deeds, stood for a true, free republic, answerable to the people in their local constituencies, and not as some democratic mass speaking only through circus-like plebiscites held every four years. He valued our Constitution and its fundamentally localist, limited government principles over dreams of greatness for himself or his party. And it was those principles, and the customs they fostered, that made our country great."

It is fascinating to speculate whether Harrison would have lived up to Frohnen’s expectations, and taken the country in a different direction than the 10th president, John Tyler. Would a full Harrison presidency have led the country away from war—both the Civil War and war with Mexico? We can only guess.

Final Assessment

Historians never rank Harrison with the other presidents because in his month-long service, he didn’t do anything with which to truly gage him against the others, except, perhaps, select an interesting and strong cabinet, which included the great orator Daniel Webster as secretary of state. But he did do something of lasting consequence, something for which America can be eternally grateful, at least in one respect: he selected John Tyler to be his vice president.

As I’ll talk about in my next installment, selecting Tyler was a tremendously fateful choice, because Tyler, the first vice president to assume the presidency upon the death of the chief executive, made sure that he became president.

And as the Whigs were to discover, “and Tyler Too” was very bad for their party.

Resources

Usually, you have to read about Harrison lumped in with other presidents and events. The most recent adult biography of him is 17 years old, as it seems Harrison is just not that interesting a person to modern America, despite the groundbreaking campaign of 1840.

So far, Arthur Schlesinger Jr.’s The American Presidents series has no entry for Harrison, although the web site promises to profile all 42 men who have served as president. The most recent resources are The Presidencies of William Henry Harrison and John Tyler (1989) by Norma Lois Peterson, part of the University of Kansas’ American Presidency Series, and Old Tippecanoe: William Henry Harrison and His Time (1990) by Freeman Cleaves.

Illustrations

All images are public domain and from the Library of Congress Prints and Potographs Division unless otherwise noted.

1. Official White House portrait

2. Charles Fenderich created this lithograph of William Henry Harrison circa 1841.

3. “The Tippecanoe Quickstep” was composed for the 1840 presidential campaign. The fanciful cover depicts Gen. Harrison “leading the charge” at the Battle of Tippecanoe on Nov. 6, 1811.

4. The National Whig Song, another 1840 campaign song, with the cover featuring William Henry Harrison

5. A campaign poster depicting real and imagined events from the life of the hero of the Whigs

6. William Henry Harrison - Late President of the United States, painted by James R. Lambdin and engraved by J. Sartain

7. An illustrated broadside announcing a “general meeting of the friends of Harrison & Reform” in Alton, Ill. on May 9, 1840. Harrison, in farmer's clothes and broad-brimmed hat, stands next to a plough. Behind him is a barrel of hard cider, a log cabin, and another log building or shed. Overhead an eagle flies a streamer bearing the slogan “William Henry Harrison. The Farmer of North Bend.”

8. Death of President Harrison, printed 1846