on law. Once he was admitted to the bar, Wilson left Philadelphia for Reading, and then Carlisle, Pennsylvania, where he developed a lucrative practiceamong Scotch-Irish settlers. Since many cases involved land disputes, he absorbed much privileged information about various parcels and soon succumbed to the lure of speculation: with borrowed money, he bought land and flipped it for a profit. In time, he acquired a home, a wealthy wife named Rachel Bird, and a slave, settling into a life he could not have imagined in his homeland. He and Rachel had six children.
Wilson found time to lecture on literature and other topics in Philadelphia. He was among the first intellectuals to argue that Parliament had no authority over the colonies, and he felt that the colonists should look instead to the king as their link to the Empire. Having analyzed Parliament’s decision to close the port of Boston in 1774 in response to the Boston Tea Party, Wilson called the act unconstitutional. That was a fascinating leap of logic, because under English law no act of Parliament could ever be considered unconstitutional. Wilson’s reasoning was ahead of its time. By presuming to judge whether a piece of legislation was correct, he implied that judges could, and should, second-guess legislators. This concept of judicial review would later become a central tenet of the U.S. legal system.
In Congress, the reserved, somewhat awkward Wilson cut an impressive figure with his six-foot height, his Scottish burr, and his dignified expression obscured behind thick, nerdy glasses. Declaration of Independence signer Benjamin Rush called him a “profound and accurate scholar,” continuing rapturously: “His mind, while he spoke, was one blaze of light.”
Wilson was a political moderate, though he grew more conservative with each passing year. He was sent to Congress in May 1775 and signed the Declaration of Independence in 1776. But later, when his new state was crafting a constitution that gave power to the citizens, Wilson attacked it. Although he believed that the power of any government rested with the people, he acted like a man lacking these beliefs. Eventually, such behavior made him unpopular with his constituents, and they voted him out of Congress in the fall of 1777.
In the years following the signing of the Declaration, Wilson transformed himself from a frontier lawyer into an odious corporate attorney. He also switched from being a Whig—the party that opposed royal power—to a virtual Tory. He even changed his religion; the traditional Scottish Presbyterian converted to the Episcopal faith. He bought a nice townhouse in Philadelphia, invested in land, and defended beleaguered Tory merchants in court. The city’s patriots grew to detest him. In the fall of 1779, when inflation was at an all-time high and food was scarce, a mob of angry, inebriated lower-class citizens and militiamen swarmed Wilson’s townhouse at Third and Walnut Streets. “Get Wilson!” was their rallying cry. Wilson and his cronies barricaded themselves inside and desperately fired on the crowd, which returned shots. Between three and seven people were killed; as many as nineteen may have been injured. Wilson decided to flee town until emotions cooled. The next spring, the legislature pardoned everyone involved in what was sarcastically called the Fort Wilson incident.
Wilson returned to public life after the war, when others like him—aristocratic in bearing and behavior—were in power. But he seemed to set all that aside when he walked into the 1787 Constitutional Convention. There he was a major force behind the creation of the U.S. Constitution, championing its most democratic principles. Friends with Benjamin Franklin since the days of the Declaration, Wilson sat near the older man and often read aloud Franklin’s notes and speeches. At age eighty-one, the once-spry Franklin was too tired to stand and address the delegates.
But Wilson was no mere
Wilson found time to lecture on literature and other topics in Philadelphia. He was among the first intellectuals to argue that Parliament had no authority over the colonies, and he felt that the colonists should look instead to the king as their link to the Empire. Having analyzed Parliament’s decision to close the port of Boston in 1774 in response to the Boston Tea Party, Wilson called the act unconstitutional. That was a fascinating leap of logic, because under English law no act of Parliament could ever be considered unconstitutional. Wilson’s reasoning was ahead of its time. By presuming to judge whether a piece of legislation was correct, he implied that judges could, and should, second-guess legislators. This concept of judicial review would later become a central tenet of the U.S. legal system.
In Congress, the reserved, somewhat awkward Wilson cut an impressive figure with his six-foot height, his Scottish burr, and his dignified expression obscured behind thick, nerdy glasses. Declaration of Independence signer Benjamin Rush called him a “profound and accurate scholar,” continuing rapturously: “His mind, while he spoke, was one blaze of light.”
Wilson was a political moderate, though he grew more conservative with each passing year. He was sent to Congress in May 1775 and signed the Declaration of Independence in 1776. But later, when his new state was crafting a constitution that gave power to the citizens, Wilson attacked it. Although he believed that the power of any government rested with the people, he acted like a man lacking these beliefs. Eventually, such behavior made him unpopular with his constituents, and they voted him out of Congress in the fall of 1777.
In the years following the signing of the Declaration, Wilson transformed himself from a frontier lawyer into an odious corporate attorney. He also switched from being a Whig—the party that opposed royal power—to a virtual Tory. He even changed his religion; the traditional Scottish Presbyterian converted to the Episcopal faith. He bought a nice townhouse in Philadelphia, invested in land, and defended beleaguered Tory merchants in court. The city’s patriots grew to detest him. In the fall of 1779, when inflation was at an all-time high and food was scarce, a mob of angry, inebriated lower-class citizens and militiamen swarmed Wilson’s townhouse at Third and Walnut Streets. “Get Wilson!” was their rallying cry. Wilson and his cronies barricaded themselves inside and desperately fired on the crowd, which returned shots. Between three and seven people were killed; as many as nineteen may have been injured. Wilson decided to flee town until emotions cooled. The next spring, the legislature pardoned everyone involved in what was sarcastically called the Fort Wilson incident.
Wilson returned to public life after the war, when others like him—aristocratic in bearing and behavior—were in power. But he seemed to set all that aside when he walked into the 1787 Constitutional Convention. There he was a major force behind the creation of the U.S. Constitution, championing its most democratic principles. Friends with Benjamin Franklin since the days of the Declaration, Wilson sat near the older man and often read aloud Franklin’s notes and speeches. At age eighty-one, the once-spry Franklin was too tired to stand and address the delegates.
But Wilson was no mere
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