John Hancock and Samuel Adams are still fighting for the nation's soul

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Second only to how much the this country accomplished in two decades — no set of colonies had ever liberated itself, nor since Rome had anyone designed a republic that could endure — was how much the founders quarreled among themselves.

There were petty feuds, lifelong feuds, intermittent feuds, inexplicable feuds, deadly feuds. Those who lived and worked closely together quarreled. Those who spent little time in the same room quarreled. Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson fell out. Jefferson and John Adams fell out. So did Adams and Ben Franklin, Thomas Paine and George Washington, Washington and Jefferson. When John Adams sailed to France to negotiate a treaty of peace at the end of the war, Jefferson wondered with whom he would side. Adams hated both the French and the British. He also hated his colleagues, Franklin and John Jay.

The language could be rich — and brutal. The most peevish, John Adams, naturally proved the most quotable. He found Franklin's life "one continued insult to good manners and decency." He called Hamilton "a bastard brat of a Scotch peddler" — three times, in three different letters, over 10 years. He deemed Washington "illiterate, unlearned, unread for his station." Paine was to his mind "a mongrel between pig and puppy, begotten by a wild boar on a bitch wolf." There was ample reason Jefferson should compare Adams — with whom he ultimately reconciled, a decade before their deaths — to "a poisonous weed."

The collisions tell us a great deal about the personalities at play; a straight-spined, word-spewing John Adams was never going to fare well with a supple, silent Thomas Jefferson. But the collisions also reveal deep-seated, warring strains in the national character.

Nowhere was that more apparent than in the ill-starred friendship of John Hancock and Samuel Adams. The two spent the most hair-raising hours of their lives in each other's company. They worked side by side over nearly three decades. But they did so intermittently, as for much of that time they were not on speaking terms.

Having inherited one of New England's greatest fortunes at a young age, Hancock was an early American plutocrat. He lived and entertained, reported one neighbor, "like a prince." In modern terms Hancock was the billionaire philanthropist who never met a naming opportunity he could resist. He gave Boston a fire engine, a bandstand, streetlights, trees, a library, a church bell. (There were no media companies in those days.) He liked to be thanked and got his money's worth; his name was everywhere bandied about. The common people, a minister noted, would support Hancock even if they knew nothing of his character. There was reason one Boston visitor called him "the king of the rabble."

Fifteen years Hancock's senior, Adams was a principled, penniless political operator, an unwavering republican who trusted that once colonial tempers calmed, the clock would reset itself, and piety, education and virtue would among them save the American day.

An expert reader of men, Adams had early on encouraged Hancock's political ambitions. He guessed that the attention would please the young man, whose fortune would please the party. Adams remained on hand to soothe a petulant Hancock when wayward comments left him bruised. He coaxed him back to the fold when Hancock attempted to skulk off. He directed him to the spotlight, Hancock's preferred address.

It made for an uneasy pairing. One man was all preening and extravagance, the other all austerity and ideals. Hancock displayed in his mansion the magnificent John Singleton Copley portrait of Adams that today hangs in Boston's Museum of Fine Arts, a portrait Hancock most likely commissioned. But at various junctures he also attempted to distance himself from his mentor. Crown officials compared Adams's recruiting of Hancock with the devil's seduction of Eve. Every time the younger man attempted to liberate himself, Adams would — like a squid — "discharge his muddy liquid," disorienting Hancock all over again.

Early in the 1770s, Hancock finally succumbed to the blandishments of the royal governor, who reminded him of the toll Adams and his radical politics were taking on Hancock's private affairs. He bought off Hancock with a corps of ceremonial cadets; Hancock threw himself into ordering musical instruments and uniforms, outfitting his men in scarlet coats and beaver hats. He swore off all connection with Adams, whom he hoped never to see again. He then started a campaign to oust Adams from the Massachusetts House, proposing an inquiry into his finances. (They were a morass.) Hancock managed to detach nearly a third of Boston voters from Adams, who was forced to run about town, defending himself against comments he had never made.

The two arrived together at the second Continental Congress but would fall out spectacularly on that larger stage. Adams was particularly disgusted by Hancock's attempt to arrange for a formal farewell ceremony before a Philadelphia departure; it was the kind of ostentation that Adams abhorred in a nascent republic. Hancock traveled north with a troop of light horse and liveried servants that left the country people gaping in awe. Adams quietly made the same trip several weeks later. Tavern keepers along the way complained: Hancock and his enormous retinue had neglected to settle their bills.

Back in Boston, Hancock lost no time in maligning Adams. He nursed a rumor that Adams had participated in the Conway Cabal, a shadowy plot against General Washington. Adams could only stutter in disbelief. He did his best to ignore the slight, but it stung. To any and all he insisted that though Hancock considered him his enemy, he considered Hancock a friend.

The two disagreed violently about Shays' Rebellion in 1786, when western Massachusetts farmers rose up in armed revolt against new taxes. Adams saw the ringleaders as a threat to a legitimately elected government. He believed they should hang. As governor, Hancock pardoned them.

Though the two reconciled briefly before Hancock's death, their ghosts continued to fight it out in the press, precisely as their spirits do today.

We have landed at the very intersection where the founders parted ways, tax cuts leading in one direction, Medicare and Social Security in the other. We appear to be agreed that, once again, it's the economy, stupid. But beyond inflation and unemployment looms a far more ominous concern. Can democracy survive a stampede of billionaires? Can a capitalist country remain a country of equals?

To the 18th-century merchant elite, the demands of the people endangered the nation's prosperity. Wall Street makes the same case today when it argues in favor of trickle-down economics. To Adams's mind, the greater danger came from the elite calling the shots. Privilege, he believed, should step aside, to make room for opportunity and industry.

Adams's vote was for progress and prosperity across the board, for what matured into the American dream. He could not have imagined that torrents of money might one day spill noiselessly into elections, any more than he could have imagined that — appropriate though it might be — he was to live on as a beer, John Hancock as an insurance company.