First of Men

by Ferling, John;

  On April 14 the treasury secretary wrote Washington a long, unsolicited letter on the subject. He began by telling the president that groups with three distinct views toward foreign policy existed in the country: one faction desired war with Britain; to further its political ends, another group sought to “keep alive irritation” with Britain, although it hoped to avoid hostilities; a third element favored peace “if it can be [attained] without absolute dishonor or the ultimate sacrifice of essential rights and interests.” Public opinion, Hamilton went on, supported the third position, for the people understood the dangers and uncertainties of war. Since he was certain that Britain also hoped to avoid conflict, the secretary added, every step should be taken to maintain the peace. “[O]ne more experiment of negotiation” was warranted, and “Mr. Jay is the only man in whose qualifications for success there would be thorough confidence.” Send him, Hamilton concluded, and send him unaccompanied by retaliatory trade embargoes, for measures of “menace and coertion” only would doom the talks and “precipitate a great conflict.” The secretary might have added, said his most recent biographer, that “Jay was among the few men who could be confidently counted on to carry out Hamilton’s own ideas.”30

  The following day Washington met with Jay, and the next afternoon he formally nominated him as “Envoy Extraordinary ... to his britannic majesty.” The appointment, said the president, “will announce to the world a solicitude for a friendly adjustment of our complaints, and a reluctance to hostility.” The Senate required only a few hours to approve the nomination, although the prospect of Jay’s mission inspired the Republicans to redouble their efforts to pass a retributive commercial measure. The House did just that, but a bill to sever trade with Britain failed by one vote—Vice President Adams’s tie-breaking ballot—in the Senate. Within the month Jay had embarked, off to seek “justice” by “fair, firm negotiation,” as Washington put it.31

  In his pocket Jay carried instructions signed by the secretary of state. In fact, they were the offspring of Alexander Hamilton’s quill. The emissary was told to obtain compensation for the ships and cargoes seized under the secret orders-in-council. In addition, he was to strive to draft a commercial treaty, a pact granting the United States access to the ports of the British West Indies, as well as the right to ship its cereals and manufactured goods to Great Britain and Ireland. Next Jay was to seek Britain’s immediate evacuation of the northwestern posts. In return for these British concessions, Jay was to offer to agree to the payment of America’s prewar debts to the former parent state. However, in only the most general way—virtually as a matter that “would be interesting to comprehend”—was the envoy to push for indemnification for the slaves liberated by Britain during the War of Independence. First and foremost John Jay had been dispatched on a mission to win favors for the interests of the northern Federalists. Had they been privy to the diplomat’s instructions, southern Republicans would have expected even less from this enterprise than they did. As it was many Republicans viewed the mission as tantamount to national humiliation and, as Jefferson wrote the president from Monticello, as unlikely to “force [Britain] to do justice.” But time would tell. Meanwhile, Washington said, “what may be the final result ... no mortal, I believe can tell.”32

  Whatever Jay ultimately brought home, Washington was proud of his own action in sending him. He had preserved the peace, and, at least for the moment, he had avoided a war that he feared might well be disastrous for the fragile, strife-torn political union. “If we are permitted to improve without interruption, the great advantages which nature and circumstances have placed within our reach,” he said, then within only a few years “we may be ranked not only among the most respectable, but among the happiest people on this Globe.” Besides, he continued, the warfare that plagued Europe was Europe’s quarrel. Washington’s outlook reflected a cardinal belief of his generation, one best articulated by Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Paine. When Franklin opted for separation from the parent state he spoke of the need to escape a people that ever “will drag us after them in all [their] plundering wars. ...” Paine testified that the monarchs of the Old World “hath little more to do than to make war.” Repeatedly Europe has been reduced to “blood and ashes,” compelling many of its inhabitants to flee “the cruelty of the monster” for the sanctuary offered by America. In the crisis of the 1790s Washington reiterated the sentiment, albeit in his customary terse, prosaic manner: it would be “unwise ... to involve ourselves in the contest of European Nations, where our weight could be but small; tho’ the loss to ourselves would be certain.”33

  The president had acted as an American nationalist, unmoved by his feelings toward the European rivals. While he may have longed to win the respect of a powerful England that had so often rejected him, he did not—as did Hamilton—exalt the former parent state. Moreover, although he had been sympathetic to France’s early republican reforms, he did not share Jefferson’s bubbling zeal for the French Revolution. His break with England had been complete, and he was too little the idealist and ideologue to be swayed philosophically by the events in France. Nor did Washington have an emotional need for war. His actions on the battlefields of two earlier wars had been sufficient to demonstrate whatever he had felt needed to be shown about himself. Never for a moment did he exhibit signs of inner turmoil over his pacific behavior.34

  Washington’s outlook was pragmatic and realistic. With a rich broad continent awaiting its attention, the United States had no need for the spoils of Europe. Nor did it labor under the “mistaken policy” of seeking the “destruction of any nation, under an idea that our importance will be increased in proportion as that of others is lessened.” For the United States Washington wished only that it be permitted to reap “all the advantages that nature and it’s [sic] circumstances would admit,” including the expansion of the “useful arts and manufactures,” so that their products might be “exchang[ed] on liberal terms” with the nations and colonies of Europe. His goals were shared by most of his countrymen, but to choose the path of peace in order to realize these ends was the most arduous—and the most statesmanlike—route he could have taken.35

  “I have no relish for formal and ceremonious engagements and only give into them when they cannot be avoided,” a weary Washington sighed half way through his presidency. It showed. Senator Maclay twice dined at the President’s House, and each time he was struck by Washington’s bored, and boorish, behavior. On each occasion the chief executive sat mute and listless at the head of the company, abstractedly drumming his fork against the table. People who rarely attended his levees found them dull affairs, so formal that they smacked more of a royal court than of a republican entertainment. On such occasions Washington dressed somberly in a black velvet suit, strapping to his side a dress sword encased in a white leather scabbard; usually he donned yellow gloves and black stockings, and he always wore his best highly polished buckle shoes. His hair was heavily powdered and drawn back severely, and he carried a cocked hat. As the guests filed past, Washington bowed gravely and solemnly, seldom speaking, never engaging in small talk. The secretary at the British legation felt right at home in such an environment. “I cannot call it republicanism, for . . . it is [a] very kingly style,” he thought.36

  If his levees and dinners were business engagements, Washington found other means of entertaining himself. The president hastened to see the circus when it came to Philadelphia, but even then he discovered that it was difficult to escape politics; on one occasion the proprietor of the circus halted the performance to toast the arrival of the First Family, a gesture that so displeased some patrons that “many put on their hats and went out.” He also continued to attend the theater, sometimes taking in two plays a week. On occasion he visited Peale’s museum and the Philadelphia waxworks, from time to time he enjoyed a concert, and once he paid to see an elephant that some entrepreneur had brought to town. Like the modern executive jogger, Washington enjoyed the opportunity to exercise, continuing
both his long-standing practice of riding horseback each morning and his habit of periodically taking a long stroll.37

  His activity kept him fit for the arduous treks to Mount Vernon, four-to-five-day journeys that he ordinarily undertook partly by horseback, partly by carriage. During his second term he returned home nine times, his visits ranging from only a few days to two eight-week stays. Customarily he lingered at home for about three weeks, and almost always one or two of those days were spent in meetings at Georgetown with the commissioners of the federal district. Although all pursuits took a backseat to business while he was at home, the president usually squeezed in some moments of recreation. He fished, visited with relatives and acquaintances, and dropped in on doings in Alexandria. He continued to disdain hunting, and he refused access to others who wished to hunt on his thousands of acres. In particular Washington zealously safeguarded his growing herd of English deer, and when he learned that someone had killed one of the bucks his fury knew no bounds, even though the animal had broken from his paddock and, when struck down, may not have been on the lands of Mount Vernon.38

  But these trips home were undertaken more for reasons of business than pleasure. The untimely death of George Augustine, his nephew and estate manager, left Washington anxious for the welfare of his Mount Vernon enterprises, and while isolated in the capital he dispatched about one letter per week to Anthony Whiting, his new manager. These usually were long missives packed with the most detailed instructions (what size gravel to use in his walkways, the requisite distance between newly planted trees, symptoms of dangerous illnesses among his slaves, what sort of fertilizer to use on his lawn). Nothing seemed to concern him more than his various overseers, for these men, in his estimation, were unreliable idlers given to “frolicking.” When a rash of robberies occurred at Mount Vernon, Washington directed Whiting to see that the overseers visit “the Negro quarters at unexpected hours.” He even ordered his overseers to hide in the thickets alongside the roads leading from the estate so that “the receivers of Stolen goods might be entrapped.” Whiting also was to watch after the gardner, another employee whom Washington thought required a constant prod. Strangely, Whiting himself seems to have pulled the wool over his boss’s eyes. Washington regarded him as honest, sober, and industrious, but after Whiting’s death in the fall of 1793 the president discovered that his manager “had drank freely, kept bad company . . . and was a very debauched person.”39

  With almost his entire second term still facing him, the revelation of Whiting’s misdeeds left Washington even more concerned about the subsequent management of his affairs. He immediately wrote to acquaintances seeking their aid in finding a man of experience, discretion, honesty, and talent for managing “the labor . . . done by negroes.” Only a few weeks passed before he hired William Pearce, a manager recommended by a planter on Maryland’s eastern shore. The two men met in Philadelphia, then at Mount Vernon so Pearce could judge whether “the part of the Country, the accommodations, the water, &ct were to his liking.” Pearce required only a day or two of ambling over Washington’s green rolling domain to consent to take the post, and after a bit of haggling over wages—the president ultimately agreeing to the prospective employee’s demands—a contract was signed. The retention of Pearce was a wise move by Washington. The new manager remained until the very end of Washington’s second term, performing his duties so well that his meticulous boss eventually expressed his “perfect confidence ... in your care, judgment and integrity.”40

  Washington’s ceaseless financial worries of the 1780s largely seem to have vanished until near the end of his presidency. He continued to plead economic difficulties to those who approached him for loans, but he assured his young confidant Tobias Lear that his affairs were in good condition. When he decided to dispose of much of his property during the second term, he solemnly told some that he was forced to take that step because of financial straits. Once again, however, he told Lear that he had other motives. Selling now would make his retirement years “more tranquil and freer from cares,” he said, and, besides, he added in a section of his letter marked “Private,” he planned to free the slaves who lived on the grounds he sold.41

  Not long after he hired Pearce, Washington announced his intention of leasing three of the farms at Mount Vernon. However, he did not wish to rent the lands to just anyone. As American farmers seemed capable only of destroying the land, he thought, he intended to secure English husbandrymen, yeomen who were “peaceable, industrious and skilled.” At the end of his term, more than three years after hatching the idea, his Mount Vernon properties remained un-rented. Washington likewise noised about his hope of selling his interest in the James River Canal Company, one hundred shares that had been given to him by Virginia. When Jefferson learned of Washington’s plans he urged the president to donate the proceeds from the sale to help defray the cost of transporting the faculty of the University of Geneva scholars, who sought refuge from the war that raged in Europe, to the United States; the Virginia assembly, meanwhile, asked Washington not to sell the stock but to donate it to an educational enterprise in Virginia. The president did neither. Unable to sell his holdings and unwilling to give them away, they still were in his possession at the time of his death. Washington did find a buyer for his interest in the Dismal Swamp Company. Henry Lee agreed to trade several shares in a newly chartered bank in the Federal City for Washington’s swamp lands. The president made no attempt to sell his interest in the Potomac Company.42

  While Washington frequently returned to Mount Vernon to superintend his business affairs, these treks—including the time spent on the road—amounted to less than 15 percent of the nearly fifteen hundred days of the second term. By contrast, his successor John Adams, spent as much as six months a year at his home in Massachusetts during his term. Washington however, preferred to remain in the capital. Annoyed as he may have been by the ceremonial obligations of his office, he enjoyed the assemblage of glittering personalities that surrounded him. Unlike Jefferson, who felt an “excessive repugnance” to the company of “wealthy aristocrats, the merchants connected closely with England, the new created paper fortunes” with which he was compelled to keep, Washington seemed comfortable in the presence of such people. Not surprisingly, given his facility for a chameleonlike metamorphosis from gravity to ease and mellowness in the presence of women, the president seemed to particularly enjoy the opportunity to mingle with a number of notable ladies. Both he and Martha remained close to Mrs. Robert Morris, and he developed a remarkably close relationship with Henrietta Liston, the Scottish-born wife of Robert Liston, George Hammond’s replacement as the British minister to the United States43

  Considerably younger than either Washington or her husband, Mrs. Liston had been married but two months when she disembarked in Philadelphia in the spring of 1796. A handsome rather than a beautiful woman, she exuded an arresting mix of urbanity and motherliness, part sophistication, part simple amiability. Washington immediately got on well with her, well enough to talk freely. Strangely, however, while he evidently felt relaxed in her presence, even opening up to her as he did with few others, she thought him quite reserved and guarded in his comments and felt that he selected his every phrase carefully and enunciated his thoughts hesitantly. Still, she thought him polite and “friendly”—again not the word his male acquaintances chose when describing him. For the private man she felt affection. The public Washington awed her with his noble demeanor and his “unaffected dignity”; she felt he comported himself more as a monarch than as an elected official.44

  But, of the women around Washington, none was closer to him than Elizabeth Willing Powel. A native Philadelphian, she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, the sister of Thomas Willing, Robert Morris’s long-time partner, a man said to bear such an uncanny resemblance to Washington that he often was mistaken for the president. Five years before the war she married Samuel Powel, probably the wealthiest bachelor in town and soon to be the last pre-Revolutionary mayor
of the city. He was a merchant, but, like Washington, he was intensely interested in farming, and he even belonged to the Society for Promoting Agriculture. Washington probably first met the Powels in 1774 when he attended the First Continental Congress. At that time Mrs. Powel was thirty-two years old, and had been married for four years. He next must have seen her in the course of his three visits to the city between 1775–77 (his first known letter to her was sent from the Morristown cantonment in 1777), and he certainly saw the couple often during his lengthy sojourn in the city following the victory at Yorktown, for he was their next door neighbor for five months. That Eliza and her husband had been only lukewarm patriots—many believed that the reception they had accorded the redcoats in occupied Philadelphia had gone beyond mere civility—apparently did not concern Washington. After the war he corresponded with Samuel, and while he was in Philadelphia for the Constitutional Convention he frequently visited the Powel’s home; later in 1787 he reciprocated their many kindnesses by entertaining them at Mount Vernon.

  When the two first met Eliza was a striking brunette, buxom and attractive. By the time Washington moved to Philadelphia as president she was nearly forty-eight, and her greying hair and ever so slightly puffy features lent her a matronly look. Of Eliza’s appearance in 1790, Abigail Adams, for instance, merely said that she looked her age. In two surviving paintings, Eliza Powel radiates confidence and strength. However, despite her air of composure and equanimity, she, like Washington, was dogged by a lack of self-esteem, which was reinforced, in her case, by a confessed inability to maintain friendships for long. On her first visit to Mount Vernon she excused herself from the dinner table in the midst of the meal, acting under the mistaken notion that her social ineptitude was spoiling the fun for all the others. Thinking herself dull, she hated social functions, and when thrust into illustrious company she sought to compensate for her presumed shortcomings by talking too much. But Washington, with his talent for getting along with women, put her at ease. Always a good listener, he must have enjoyed her steady prattle. When relaxed, she turned coquettish, exhibiting the sort of playfulness that Washington always enjoyed in women. Yet she was anything but shallow. Cultured and articulate, resolute and dogmatic, she was like many of the young men he had selected to surround him. And like young Hamilton and Reed and Lafayette, she understood this complex man, only she was even more candid with him than they were. When Washington thought of leaving the presidency after one term, she wrote to dissuade him. Because a towering ambition had been the “moving spring of all your acts,” she advised, the isolation and insignificance of Mount Vernon only would promote “the keenest sufferings” in his breast. She knew that he could be happy only when he was at the center of power. So did he.45The president and Eliza Powel seemed to fill each other’s needs. To be admired by such an attractive and urbane woman clearly would have gratified Washington’s compulsive desire for approval, whereas she must have found it exhilarating to win the attention and friendship of the nation’s most esteemed man. Whether their friendship ever was transformed into intimacy cannot be determined, although it is highly unlikely. For one thing their mates always were nearby, an inhibiting presence even had the two been so inclined. Also, there is no hint that such a connection existed in the records left by contemporaries, a generation that hardly shrank from tittle-tattle. And, in all likelihood, a close friendship was sufficient to fill the emotional needs of these two somewhat shy, insecure people.46