Читать книгу Measuring America - Andro Linklater - Страница 9

THERE WERE MANY STRANDS leading to the moment when the colonists felt driven to weave their anger together into a single declaration of opposition to rule from London. The decision of the British Parliament to close the port of Boston in 1774 as punishment for the destruction of a valuable cargo of tea brought to the surface the resentment of northern merchants already burdened by duties on their goods, a general fury at the earlier killing of civilian rioters by British troops, and a pervasive fear that colonial assemblies were powerless against the King’s ministers. But that autumn, when delegates of the discontented colonists convened in Philadelphia as members of the First Continental Congress in order to articulate their grievances, it was not by chance that the first resolution they agreed was ‘That they are entitled to life, liberty, & property …’.

Here property meant more than land alone, but for Virginians especially it was land as property that they had in mind, and in particular land beyond the Appalachians. Hence the declaration of the first paragraph of the Virginia constitution, drawn up in June 1776 by George Mason, ‘That all men are by nature equally free and independent, and have certain inherent rights … namely, the enjoyment of life and liberty, with the means of acquiring and possessing property, and pursuing and obtaining happiness and safety.’ Entitlement to this sort of property was a subject on which the humblest Conestoga mule-driver was at one with the grandest planter.

Barely ten years earlier, the reaction of Colonel George Washington to the royal veto on the acquisition of land beyond the mountains could have served as a warning of what was to come. There had been no more loyal and energetic commander in the French and Indian War, but the Colonel was also a Virginian planter and land speculator, and his views were widely shared.

‘I can never look upon the Proclamation in any other light (but this I say between ourselves) than as a temporary expedient to quiet the minds of the Indians,’ Washington wrote in 1767 to his colleague and fellow-surveyor Colonel William Crawford. ‘It must fall, of course, in a few years, especially when those Indians consent to our occupying those lands. Any person who neglects hunting out good lands, and in some measure marking and distinguishing them for his own in order to keep others from settling them, will never regain it.’

George Washington was not a man to be deflected even by his sovereign’s express command, although as a serving officer he deemed it best to be discreet. ‘If you will be at the trouble of seeking out the lands,’ he continued to Crawford, ‘I will take upon me the part of securing them, as soon as there is a possibility of doing it and will, moreover, be at all the cost and charges of surveying and patenting the same … By this time it will be easy for you to discover that my plan is to secure a good deal of land. You will consequently come in for a handsome quantity.’

Alas, poor Crawford never did. The King’s veto was still nominally in force when he was taken prisoner by a Cherokee band while leading a column of troops in territory beyond the Appalachians. On 3 August 1782 the Virginia Gazette carried a report of his ordeal by a Dr Knight, who had been captured along with Washington’s colleague: ‘… the unfortunate Colonel was led by a long rope to a stake, to which he was tied, and a quantity of red-hot coals laid around, on which he was obliged to walk bare-footed, the Indians at the same time torturing him with squibs of powder and burning sticks for two hours, when he begged of Simon Gurry (a white renegade who was present) to shoot him. [Gurry’s] reply was, “Don’t you see I have no gun.” [Crawford] was soon after scalped and struck several times on the bare skull with sticks, till being exhausted, he laid down on the burning embers, when the squaws put shovel-fuls of coals on his body, which made him move and creep till he expired. The Doctor was obliged to stand by and see this cruelty performed; they struck him in the face with the Colonel’s scalp, saying “This is your great Captain’s scalp, tomorrow we will serve you so.” ’

Gruesome stories such as these were used to justify acts of equal cruelty on the other side. John Heckewelder, a Moravian missionary living with the Tuscarawas Indians, told in 1773 of the Indian-hunters ‘who maintained that to kill an Indian was the same as killing a bear or a buffalo and would fire on Indians that came across them by the way – nay more, would decoy such as lived across the river to come over for the purpose of joining them in hilarity; and when these complied they fell on them and murdered them’.

These atrocities were evidence of the mounting conflict between land-hungry colonists and native inhabitants. Consequently when George III banned land purchases beyond the mountains, it was, as the proclamation worded it, so that ‘the several Nations or Tribes of Indians with whom We are connected, and who live under our Protection, should not be molested or disturbed’. But even Americans who might have sympathised with this strategy could not accept the King’s feudal right to impose the ban.

The power that the land beyond the mountains exerted on people’s minds can be deduced from the attempts to circumvent the veto. Two land companies had been created to speculate in the west before the ban was in place – the Ohio Company, which proposed to purchase 500,000 acres beyond the Ohio river, and the Loyal Land Company, organised by Peter Jefferson with investment coming mostly from his neighbours in Goochland County, Virginia, which aimed publicly at buying 800,000 acres of Kentucky, but privately had ambitions of exploring and acquiring millions more as far west as the Pacific Ocean. In the fifteen years after George III’s proclamation, a whole succession of similar speculative ventures came into being.

The Mississippi Company was created in 1768 to settle land along the river with George Washington as one of its founders, followed by the Illinois and Wabash in which Patrick Henry had an interest, and the Watauga Association which settled eastern Tennessee and later tried to establish the independent state of Franklin. In 1775 Judge Richard Henderson of North Carolina sent Daniel Boone, a brave scout but an incompetent surveyor, to find territory in southern Kentucky, where he signed a treaty with the Cherokee Indians giving Henderson’s Transylvania Company several million acres – Boone’s surveying lapses made it unclear exactly how much land was involved. The most ambitious of them all, the Vandalia Company, which aimed to acquire sixty-three million acres in what is now Illinois and Indiana, employed Benjamin Franklin as its London agent and even counted among its members such influential figures in the British government as the future Prime Minister, Lord North, and the Lord Chancellor, Lord Camden. ‘One half of England is now land mad,’ remarked one of its promoters, ‘and everybody there has their eyes fixed on this country.’

These powerful interests created some loopholes in the prohibition, but it was still in place in 1773 when a young surveyor named Rufus Putnam sailed up the Mississippi to Natchez. There he began surveying over a million acres on the banks of the river so that it could be sold to New England veterans of the French and Indian War. He was a rarity among the mostly southern land speculators, because he came from Massachusetts. His career is instructive because it illustrates how widely the effects of the ban were felt. In character he more or less resembled the coat of arms he later adopted which showed three bristly wild boars below a roaring lion surrounded by thistles and the motto in spiky Gothic lettering, ‘By the name of Putnam’, and almost everything he achieved he owed to his ferocious determination.

In 1745, when Rufus was barely seven years old, his father died, leaving the family destitute. His mother’s second marriage was to an illiterate drunkard named Sadler. ‘During the six years I lived with Capt Sadler,’ Rufus wrote bitterly, ‘I never Saw the inside of a School house except about three weeks.’ At the age of fifteen he apprenticed himself to a man who built watermills, and sucked up knowledge where he could; but as he confessed in his autobiography, ‘having no guid I knew not where to begin nor what corse to pursue – hence neglected Spelling and gramer when young [and] have Suffered much through life on that account’.

Rufus’s prospects were transformed by the French and Indian War. In 1757 he joined the Royal American Regiment, where he became an engineer, a trade that taught him how to carry out every kind of measurement. When peace came in 1763 the orphan used his new skill first to build mills, and later to survey land. The demand for surveyors in British America was such that a good practitioner could command an income that matched a lawyer’s. Even at the age of seventeen, George Washington was able to boast of his earnings to a friend. ‘A doubloon is my constant gain every day that will permit my going out,’ he wrote, ‘and sometimes six pistoles.’ Since a doubloon was worth about £15, and six pistoles around $22.50, a good week might bring in around $100; even as President he hardly earned much more.

Soon Rufus felt secure enough to marry the wealthy Persis Rice, daughter of Zebulon, who in the first six years of their marriage bore four daughters and a son. What he wanted, he wanted immediately. Neither in private nor public life did he ever show any guile, and rarely much patience. With five children to feed, and the expectation of more on the way, he turned to land speculation, surveying and acquiring land in the West Indies and what is now Alabama for New England veterans. The Natchez venture was on a far larger scale, and like George Washington, who was trying to secure land on the Ohio river for Virginia veterans of the same war, Rufus Putnam proposed to keep some of the best sites for himself.

It was Richard Henderson who put into words the dream that drew Rufus and thousands more into the western territory beyond the Blue Ridge and the Alleghenies. ‘The country might invite a prince from his palace merely for the pleasure of contemplating its beauty and excellence,’ he wrote in praise of his company’s Kentucky acres, ‘but only add the rapturous idea of property and what allurements can the world offer for the loss of so glorious a prospect?

When that rapturous idea was snatched away by the proclamation of a feudal monarch three thousand miles away, it was small wonder that the colonists should have felt the need to state not simply their inalienable right to life and liberty, but also to the acquisition of property. Typically, when Rufus too fell victim to the royal prohibition, he preferred action to words. He had spent eight months laying out the ground for future settlements at Natchez when the Board of Trade in London issued an order specifically forbidding any further surveys on the Mississippi. Returning home to Massachusetts, he found his personal frustration echoed in the accumulating anger of the colonists.

Persis had kept the family going during Rufus’s long absence, and nine months after his return to the marriage bed, another son was born; but by then he was soldiering again. This time he was fighting the King, one of the first men to be commissioned into the Massachusetts Regiment following the first ringing shots at Lexington in April 1775.

Almost at once, his talent for finding practical solutions to complex problems found an outlet. Following the outbreak of hostilities, an American force of 11,500 men under George Washington surrounded a British army under General Thomas Gage in Boston. With little faith in his untrained men against six thousand British regulars, Washington needed to pen Gage in, but lacked anyone with the knowledge to construct the necessary siegeworks. In the same uncomplicated way that he had taught himself to be a surveyor, Rufus read up a book on military engineering, then laid out a system of trenches and defensive posts that kept the British cooped up until the spring of 1776, when the threat of artillery bombardment forced them to sail away. Washington rewarded his bristly subordinate by appointing him chief engineer to the army, and to the end of his days Rufus remained Washington’s man, body and soul. In peacetime, all political questions were solved by doing whatever Washington required, and if that was not clear, Rufus would write to ask. Anyone who opposed his general and later his president was an enemy – and one particularly prominent opponent, whose name Rufus could never bring himself to mention, was an ‘Arch Enemy’.

That individual was Thomas Jefferson. The time for him to reveal himself as Rufus Putnam’s Arch Enemy did not come until after the war, but even in 1776 it was evident that he marched to the beat of a different drum. Indeed, if there was any one person immune to the general lust for land beyond the Appalachians, it was this Virginian planter, who in his wording of the Americans’ Declaration of Independence changed their fundamental assertion of rights from ‘life, liberty and property’ to ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’.

It is one of the greatest paradoxes in the paradoxical character of Thomas Jefferson that he – who was to acquire more western land on behalf of the United States than any speculator could have dreamed of possessing, who laid the foundations for the nation’s further territorial expansion to the Pacific by sending Lewis and Clark to find a route to the coast in 1803, who believed passionately in the virtues of owning land, and adored his own plantations and garden at Monticello – was so tepid in acquiring it for himself. From his father, Peter, he inherited about seven thousand acres in the Virginian piedmont including Monticello and its farms, and his marriage to Martha Wayles Skelton in 1772 added to his holding. He even joined several schemes for acquiring land beyond the mountains, but then neglected them, and all eventually failed.

By birth and upbringing, Jefferson belonged to the Virginian plantation aristocracy – the family had been there since the late seventeenth century – and generations of Jeffersons had followed the frontier west; to them land acquisition was second nature. In other matters he had many of the characteristics of the planter class, especially their extravagance: living constantly in debt, but insisting on the best in wine, furniture, carriages and harness, he died a bankrupt in all but name. As a child, Jefferson was clearly destined for that aristocratic role. The model before him was that of his large, raw-boned father, Peter, who had not only run the Fairfax line with Lewis through the swamps and ravines of the Blue Ridge, but later extended William Byrd’s boundary between Virginia and Carolina almost into Kentucky, and only returned home to build a plantation mansion on the frontier and lay plans with his neighbours to acquire still more land through the Loyal Land Company. Before his death in 1757, when Thomas was fourteen, Peter appointed various friends and relatives as guardians to his children, and all but two of these were trustees of the Loyal Company.

Thomas’s first years were spent roaming free in the foothills of the Blue Ridge. Recognition of his place as an insider came with his election in 1769 as a twenty-six-year-old lawyer to the Virginia legislature’s House of Burgesses, which represented plantation owners’ interests. When he began to question the basis of the royal claim to exercise feudal power over the land beyond the mountains, his conclusion was what his class would have expected – that George III had no right to restrict their desire to acquire property.

In Saxon England, before William the Conqueror had imposed his regime, Jefferson argued, feudalism was unknown. ‘Our Saxon ancestors held their lands, as they did their personal property, in absolute dominion,’ he declared in a fiery pamphlet, A Summary View of the Rights of British America, published in 1774. It was William and his Norman invaders who had invented ‘the fictitious principle that all lands belong originally to the king’, and the fiction had been maintained by his successors. Since America had been occupied and won without help from the Crown, George III had no grounds for claiming power over the disposal of its land. Only a democratically elected legislature had that power, Jefferson concluded, and, in a phrase that would have been music to any settler’s ears, wrote that if it failed to do so ‘each individual of the society may appropriate to himself such lands as he finds vacant, and occupancy will give him title’. It was this sweeping attack, cutting at the very foundation of royal power over America, that led to Jefferson’s appointment by the Continental Congress in 1776 to the three-man committee responsible for drafting the Declaration of Independence.

Yet Jefferson was never a truly typical member of his class. He thought about land in a way that no speculator would. To the end of his life he retained an idealised vision of pre-feudal Saxon society, with its local court and administration based on the ‘hundred’ or parish, and its values derived from the stout-hearted, independent-minded yeomen farmers who worked the soil. Consequently all the political systems he devised, for counties as for nations, shared one fundamental quality: the widest possible distribution of land.

In a memorable passage in Notes on the State of Virginia, the book written from 1780 to 1782 which expresses some of Jefferson’s deepest beliefs, he explained, ‘Those who labour in the earth are the chosen people of God, if ever he had a chosen people, whose breasts he has made his peculiar deposit for substantial and genuine virtue.’ Other trades had to depend ‘on the casualties and caprice of customers. Dependence begets subservience and venality, suffocates the germ of virtue, and prepares fit tools for the designs of ambition.’ But ‘[c]orruption of morals in the mass of cultivators is a phaenomenon of which no age nor nation has furnished an example’.

It is hard to think of any other Virginian who might have entertained such a far-fetched idea. Not William Byrd, who observed of his fellow-planters, ‘Our land produces all the fine things of Paradise, except innocence.’ Not Washington, cheated by a farming acquaintance, William Clifton, into paying an extra £100 (about $470) in 1760 for an estate neighbouring on Mount Vernon. Not Jefferson’s friend Fielding Lewis, who remarked of the land deals in the piedmont that ‘every man now trys to ruen his neighbour’. For them land was a source of wealth, not the basis of God-given virtue.

There was, however, more wisdom in the world than the planters knew of.

In 1760, at the age of sixteen, Thomas Jefferson had been sent to William and Mary College in Williamsburg, where he had fallen under the influence of a remarkable teacher named William Small, and the experience marked him for life. In his autobiography, written in his seventies, Jefferson paid Small this tribute: ‘It was my great good fortune, and what probably fixed the destinies of my life that Dr. Wm. Small of Scotland was then professor of Mathematics, a man profound in most of the useful branches of science, with a happy talent of communication, correct and gentlemanly manners, & an enlarged & liberal mind.’ Jefferson was famously guarded in his emotions – this prompted Joseph P. Ellis, an especially perceptive observer, to call his biography of Jefferson American Sphinx – but where Small was concerned he became almost fulsome. ‘Dr. Small was … to me as a father,’ Jefferson confided to a friend. ‘To his enlightened and affectionate guidance of my studies while at college, I am indebted for everything.’ The brief reference in his autobiography to his real father, the great surveyor, is stark by comparison: ‘My father’s education had been quite neglected; but being of a strong mind, sound judgment and eager after information, he read much and improved himself.’

In 1760 Willliam Small was just twenty-four, a product of those Scots universities which bred in the likes of David Hume and Adam Smith a restless desire to find a rational key to understanding human nature and human society, and to sixteen-year-old Thomas Jefferson he must have seemed like an ideal elder brother. ‘He, most happily for me, became soon attached to me & made me his daily companion when not engaged in the school,’ Jefferson remembered gratefully, ‘and from his conversation I got my first views of the expansion of science & of the system of things in which we are placed.’

The most obvious consequence of Small’s company was that all his life Jefferson preferred to think of himself as a scientist rather than a politician. ‘Nature intended me for the tranquil pursuits of science, by rendering them my supreme delight,’ he wrote soon after his retirement from the presidency, ‘but the enormities of the times in which I have lived have forced me to take a part in resisting them and to commit myself on the boisterous ocean of political passion.’ Politics, even sometimes the United States itself, he would refer to as ‘an experiment’. In his house he hung portraits of Francis Bacon, modern science’s founding father, and Isaac Newton, its greatest luminary. He studied botany, the most highly developed science of the day, and prided himself on his membership of the American Philosophical Society, the country’s leading scientific body. In old age, he boasted to his friend and enemy John Adams, ‘I have given up newspapers in exchange for Tacitus and Thucydides, for Newton and Euclid, and I find myself much happier.’

It was Isaac Newton above all who had expanded science and shown how the system of things was made. The consequences of Newton’s laws of motion were fundamental to the development of physics and astronomy in general. In Newtonian physics there were theoretical explanations for every event, from the movement of the planets to the swing of a pendulum, and two brilliant analyses from his monumental Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica (Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy), published in 1687, provided what would prove to be the real starting-point for modern measurement. Newton deduced that instead of being a perfect sphere, the earth bulged at the equator and flattened at the poles; consequently, gravity would be stronger at the poles, because they were closer to the centre of the earth. Once the shape of the earth was known, the possibility of estimating its size offered eighteenth-century scientists a foundation for the first new way of measuring things to be devised in ten thousand years.

But Newton’s laws also taught a lesson that went beyond physics. In the universities of Aberdeen, Edinburgh and Glasgow, the belief was encouraged that just as it was possible to discover through rational enquiry the fundamental principles that governed the natural world, so reason made it possible to understand the principles governing human nature. This, the essential outlook of the movement known as the Enlightenment, was what William Small passed on, and what Jefferson meant by understanding ‘the system of things in which we are placed’.

‘Fix reason firmly in her seat, and call to her tribunal every fact, every opinion,’ he would later advise his young nephew, in an echo of Small’s teaching. ‘Question with boldness even the existence of a god; because, if there be one, he must more approve of the homage of reason, than that of blindfolded fear.’ Once rational enquiry had uncovered the principles of human nature, it would be possible to establish the conditions under which individuals could be allowed as much liberty as they desired, and yet a rational, self-regulating society would emerge.

Owning land, for example, would give society’s members an interest in building a law-abiding, democratically based community, and education would teach them how best to use their freedom. The ideal, therefore, was to distribute land and schools as widely as possible. By the same criterion, the accumulation of too much land by one person had to be opposed, because it prevented others acquiring it. Nothing illustrates better the difference between Peter and Thomas Jefferson than the father’s restless search for more acres, and the son’s unrelenting opposition to land speculators whose profits depended on driving up the price of empty land. ‘Whenever there are in any country uncultivated lands and unemployed poor,’ Thomas wrote soon after independence had been won, ‘it is clear that the laws of property have been so far extended as to violate natural right.’

That was the wisdom that Jefferson derived from William Small and his circle of friends. It appealed profoundly to a young man who, as Joseph Ellis observed, craved for ‘a world in which all behavior was voluntary and therefore coercion was unnecessary, where independence and equality never collided, where the sources of all authority were invisible because they had already been internalised’.

In 1764, Small returned to Britain, but Jefferson never ceased to feel gratitude to the man who, he acknowledged, ‘filled up the measure of his goodness to me, by procuring for me, from his most intimate friend G[eorge] Wythe, a reception as a student of law under his direction, and introduced me to the acquaintance and familiar table of Governor Fauquier, the ablest man who had ever filled that office. With him, and at his table, Dr. Small & Mr. Wythe … & myself, formed a partie quarrée, & to the habitual conversations on these occasions I owed much instruction.’

After independence was declared in July 1776, Jefferson returned to Virginia, where his reputation as the Declaration’s prime author led to his appointment to a committee revising the state’s laws so that they reflected republican rather than royalist values. It is a telling fact that at this, his first opportunity to put theory into practice, he put forward what might be called the full Small programme.

The best-known of his proposals is the ‘Statute for Establishing Religious Freedom’, a landmark in legislative tolerance; but no less significant were otherwise banal bills to change inheritance law so that a landed estate could be left equally to all the children rather than to the eldest son alone, and to prohibit clauses in a will preventing later generations dividing up land among several heirs. At the same time, Jefferson introduced a bill to give seventy-five acres to any Virginian who did not already have any land, and to offer a ‘head-right’ grant of fifty acres to every landless immigrant who arrived in the state from overseas. Together with Virginia’s generous promise of land to soldiers enlisting in its regiments – ranging from a hundred acres for enlisted men up to fifteen thousand acres for a major-general – Jefferson’s land grant proposals would have created a network of small farms guaranteeing the future health of democracy in the state.

To complete the Saxon ideal, Jefferson came up with a plan for wholesale administrative and educational reform – or as he put it, ‘I drew a bill for our legislature, which proposed to lay off every county into hundreds or townships of 5. or 6. miles square, in the centre of each of which was to be a free English school.’

As any of his fellow Virginians could have warned him, Virginia politics did not work like that. When the state came to dispose of its unoccupied land in 1783, the Act that finally emerged from horse-trading in the Assembly was designed to sell the territory with as little restriction as possible, and the process turned into a swill-bucket for speculators. Surveyors were bribed into setting aside the best plots, land warrants were acquired cheaply from army veterans, and wads of the state’s devalued paper currency, which carried the right to claim unoccupied land, were bought up for a quarter of their value.

One speculator, Robert Morris, acquired one and a half million acres of western Virginia, while another, Alexander Walcott, secured a million acres. On top of these claims, the Virginia legislature allowed speculators to benefit from any inaccuracies in the survey up to 5 per cent of the total – thereby adding a free bonus of seventy-five thousand acres to Morris’s allocation – and then generously added a clause permitting purchasers to keep anything more than that which might inadvertently have been included as a result of the ‘ignorance, negligence or fraud of the surveyors’.

As a dry run for Jefferson’s far more spectacular experiment involving the territory west of the Appalachians, this was a humiliating failure. Yet it was less wounding than a weakness of temperament that was exposed by the War of Independence – in moments of crisis, it became clear, emotion was liable to overcome Jefferson. In 1779 he was elected Governor of Virginia, but when the British army moved into the state in 1780, instead of calling out the militia he evidently froze, leaving the decision to be taken by others and allowing the state capital, Richmond, to be overrun. The inquiry launched into Jefferson’s conduct he described as ‘a wound on my spirit which will only be cured by the all-healing grave’. But evidence that this was not a freak reaction came soon afterwards in a second, more personal crisis.

In the autumn of 1782, Jefferson’s wife Martha died at the age of thirty-three after giving birth to their sixth child. They had been married for less than eleven years, and in that time Martha had been almost constantly pregnant, with six live children born, although only two survived beyond infancy, and three other pregnancies which ended in miscarriages. At her death, Jefferson was prostrated by a grief so consuming that for a month he could not face anyone and stayed secluded in a room where, his daughter recalled, he wept and groaned, emerging at last only to go for long, solitary horseback rides in the mountains. There may have been an element of guilt in this – the risk of repeated pregnancies to the health of delicate women was well understood – but whatever the source of his emotions it was obvious that the force of them made it impossible for Jefferson to function. In retreat from the pain of grief, he threw himself into work which absorbed all his energies and attention.

One year earlier, in October 1781, Lord Cornwallis and his British army, hemmed in by Washington on land and by the French fleet at sea, had surrendered, and American negotiators were now in Paris deciding the terms of the peace. At home the Continental Congress, which represented the nearest thing to a central government that the thirteen states could agree on, was attempting to work out the new nation’s future government and how to pay off the mountain of debt accumulated in paying for Washington’s continental army. Its single asset, if the negotiators could prise it from Britain’s grasp and the states were prepared to give up their own claims to it, was the land between the Appalachians and the Mississippi.

‘There are at present many great objects before Congress,’ wrote the Rhode Island delegate, David Howell, early in 1784, ‘but none of more importance or which engage my attention more than that of the Western Country.’

It might be sold to pay the country’s debts, it might be divided up to create new states, it might be administered on a new model, it might be made over to the pre-revolutionary land companies. The course decided upon would help to determine the relationship of the central government to the states.

In June 1783 Jefferson was elected a delegate from Virginia to the Continental Congress, and immersed himself in the many great objects before it, above all in the question of the western lands. Preserved in the Library of Congress are pages of his comments on proposed legislation, and draft bills whose margins are filled with his detailed annotations. In the space of less than a year, from June 1783 to May 1784, this escape into mental work produced numerous contributions to United States law, and three measures so substantial that they were to permeate every aspect of American life: the invention of the dollar, the procedure for creating new states from the Western Territory, and the means of surveying that territory. Had Jefferson had his way, there would have been a fourth: the invention of a new set of weights and measures. It indicates the cohesion of his thinking that all four formed part of a single logical structure.