First of Men

by Ferling, John;

  Washington’s choice was not a surprise. Although he sincerely believed that his actions were in the best interests of the new nation, he was led by deep emotional impulses to adulate Britain. That far-away country had denied him at every step, rejecting his youthful entreaties to soldier in its uniform, jeopardizing his speculative ventures, treating him as a humble provincial, fighting him in a bitter struggle after 1775, even robbing him of the very people with whom he had the closest of ties, George William and Sally Fairfax. Yet Britain had remained a powerful figure for Washington. To win the affirmation of those who would have been his “lordly masters” remained a driving goal in his quest for self-esteem. Historians often err in treating the George Washington of the pre-1775 period and the older Washington, the man of the warrior-statesman persona, as two distinct characters. The Washington who began his amazing ascent by carefully identifying with the habits and styles of elite—and generally British—role models never abandoned the practice. After the war he carried on a regular correspondence with several eminent Englishmen, eliciting their advice, basking in their approbatory remarks about his “patriotic and heroic virtue,” and regaling them with predictions of America’s impending emergence as a power with which the European capitals would have to reckon. Even while he was chief executive, his letters to the Earl of Buchan, an English philanthropist, rang out with solicitations to “your Lordship” and “my Lord,” a form of address that was standard and proper, although one can hardly imagine a republican revolutionary such as Samuel Adams or Thomas Paine persisting in such a habit. In the years after the Revolution he remained drawn to the British example. He made Mount Vernon into a grand English country manor house, carefully fashioned and furnished after its counterparts across the ocean, and had he had his way it would have been worked by English farmers, not by American yeomen. Nor was that all. When choosing a plan for the presidential house in the new federal city, he selected a model from a book of architectural drawings prepared by an Englishman to cater to the tastes of the English gentry. He would have been pleased had he known of the high marks his presidency earned in the eyes of English officials. For instance, Robert Liston, the English minister, lauded Washington’s “marked aversion to the extravagences of democratick principles.” Others felt at home in the Philadelphia of Washington’s administration, finding his style delightfully similar to that of the courts of the Old World’s crowned heads of state. An English visitor thought his temper and manner akin to that of “a great European monarch,” and British diplomats in the American capital sometimes seemed to forget that they were not serving in a British colony, or at the royal court.67

  The affirmation of the merchant-financier elite of the urban Northeast was no less important to him. Those to whom he was closest after he departed Virginia in 1775—the Morrises, Samuel and Eliza Powel, Jay, Hamilton—came from that milieu. He tolerated their plotting at Newburgh, joined with them to write and ratify the Constitution of 1787, and surrounded himself with them during his presidency. On his travels he extolled the virtues of their society. As he prepared to leave the presidency he shipped home a household of elegant new furnishings acquired in the merchant coves of New York and Philadelphia, as if to remodel his country estate in the image of a town mansion. He even seemed to grow to prefer living in an urban environment to dwelling in the remote Northern Neck of Virginia, although he could anticipate that his area of the Potomac soon might become a burgeoning mercantile center in its own right, thanks to the new capital which he had helped secure for his neighborhood. Indeed, a year later when he wrote to Sally Fairfax for the first time in twenty-five years, his letter was full of the important changes that had occurred in his region of the Potomac since her departure in 1773, each change seeming to point toward the northernization of that southern entrepot.68

  Not surprisingly, Washington and the Federalist party, the backbone of whose strength stemmed from the northeastern mercantile classes, saw much to admire in Great Britain. When Washington thought of Great Britain he envisioned a unified, mercantile and manufacturing country, “a mighty Nation” with “inexhaustible” resources, an empire whose “fleets covered the Ocean,” whose “troops harvested laurels in every quarter of the globe.” The “energetic government” that he sought to establish would result in nothing less for America, he hoped, save that its empire would consist of hegemony over the North American continent coupled with a bountiful free commerce with the great trade centers of Europe. Unity, he knew, would permit expansion, expansion would safeguard against “luxury, dissipation, and corruption,” and that would procure “tranquility . . . safety . . . prosperity . . . Liberty.” The America he envisioned would become a “fortress,” a “Palladium of your political safety and prosperity.”

  Great Britain, however, held the key to the rapid fulfillment of Washington’s dreams. It was as though he could never escape the tentacles of that empire. Frustrated in his youthful ambitions by imperial officials, he had watched in continued frustration after 1783 as America was powerless to compel Britain to adhere to the Treaty of Paris. Ultimately he and Hamilton concluded that ties with Britain were crucial to the realization of their plans for the new American nation. British trade offered the fuel that could drive the American economy, solidify the Union, and bond the mercantile class to the new government. President Washington might have chosen a different route toward the same end. He might have sought leverage against Great Britain through the maintenance of close ties with France, as the Republicans urged, or he might have implemented an American navigation system, also a course advocated by Jefferson and Madison. But each alternative not only presented the risk of extirpating all chance for a rapprochement with Great Britain, but also without question, each promised to earn him the hostility of those whose plaudits he valued above all others. Thus, he permitted Hamilton to make clear to London his desire to normalize relations between the two nations, and with the Jay Treaty he swallowed a bitterly unpopular pact to further that end.

  Judged by the standards of peace and prosperity, Washington’s foreign policies were a success. They were no less successful for the fulfillment of Washington’s inner needs. In one way or another he often had warned, as he did again in his Farewell Address: “Against the insidious wiles of foreign influence (I conjure you to believe me, fellow citizens), the jealousy of a free people ought to be constantly awake.” At last, in his final great messages as president he could boast that the new nation had moved closer to his goal of true independence. The day was at hand, he said, when “we may defy” all who would seek to exert dominion over the United States. And, as in his own youthful struggle for independence, Washington could with satisfaction now see that his actions would permit his nation to “command its own fortunes.”69

  Washington’s last days in office were busy ones, though most of the frantic activity arose from the mad social whirl occasioned by his imminent departure and John Adams’s impending inauguration. Many old acquaintances wanted to say good-bye, and Washington, about to return to the isolation of his farm, seemed no less eager to partake of the festive mood that hovered about the capital. The grandest celebration had occurred on Washington’s birthday—his sixty-fifth. The day was made an official holiday in Philadelphia, and the citizenry lined the streets beneath flag-draped buildings for a parade and a round of speeches. That evening the president attended a ball in his honor, a great affair at which more than twelve hundred persons jammed Ricketts’s Amphitheater to mix exultation at having had Washington for so long with melancholy and foreboding at the thought that he soon would be gone.

  Not everyone joined in these celebrations, however. Some Republican legislators, including young Andrew Jackson, refused to consent to a congressional resolution of appreciation for his lengthy service. Presently many Republicans would toast him: “George Washington—down to the year 1787, and no farther.”70

  Soon all that remained was John Adams’s inauguration, and it was a brief and, for Washington, a thoroughly plea
sant affair. Garbed in his customary, stately black suit, President Washington arrived at Congress Hall a few minutes before the president-elect. Washington was greeted by clamorous cheering as he entered the chamber and took his seat before the congressmen and magistrates, the diplomatic corps and the guests. Jefferson, soon to be vice president, came in moments later and took a seat next to the president. At noon Adams was ushered in, accompanied by a short burst of polite applause. In his usual low, clipped tone, the anxious new president read a succinct address, then he took the oath. The Washington presidency was at an end. Save for Washington, Adams said later, there was not a dry eye in the legislative hall. In fact, Adams added, the general could not have seemed more pleased by these events. His “countenance was . . . serene and unclouded,” Adams wrote home the next day. “Methought I heard him say, ’Ay! I am fairly out and you fairly in! See which of us will be happiest!’ ”71

  PART FIVE

  19

  The Last Years

  “The shades of retirement”

  On the afternoon that he again became a private citizen, Washington walked the short distance from the President’s House to the Francis Hotel to call on his successor. A large crowd of Philadelphians walked along with him, silently, respectfully tagging behind to get one last glimpse of America’s most renowned son. The ex-president paid no heed until after he had entered the hostelry, then, before climbing the stairs to John Adams’s suite, he impulsively stepped back outdoors and waved to the throng. Those who were near the hotel entrance said that tears were streaming down George Washington’s cheeks.1

  The Washingtons lingered in the capital for five days following the inauguration of the new president, packing their belongings and saying their goodbyes, sharing mingled feelings at the impending change in their life, and, at the same time, moving others to a profound sense of loss. Eliza Powel was among those deeply affected by her friend’s imminent parting. During Washington’s final days in Philadelphia she sent him several missives. The initial notes were addressed to “My dear Sir,” the latter to “my very dear Sir.” Her earliest letter closed with the salutation, “Your unalterable Friend”; he wrote next, closing with, “Your sincere Affectionate Friend,” then “Your affectionate Afflicted Friend,” and, finally, “Truly & affectionately . . . your most Obed. & Obliged.”2

  On one of the Washingtons’ last nights in town the former First Family was honored at Rickett’s Circus, and on another evening he and Martha hosted Adams and Vice President Jefferson. On the 8th Washington called for the last time on the president. It was a social call, yet Washington had personal business on his mind too. Some of the furniture in the President’s House had been provided by the taxpayers, but to those items Washington had added curtains, chairs, carpets, even a chandelier, all purchased out of his own pocket. As Mount Vernon already groaned with furnishings, the ex-president had no desire to pay shipping costs to have these superfluous goods conveyed to Virginia. Thus, amidst their goodbyes, the first two presidents of the United States spent some time that afternoon discussing the price of the wares that Washington wished to vend. In the end Adams purchased only a few household articles, and he declined to buy the two horses that Washington also hoped to sell. In fact, Adams intimated to his wife that his predecessor had tried to gouge him on the equine deal, hoping to get a thousand dollars for two nearly middle-aged horses. He may have been correct, for when Washington eventually sold the mares to his friend Eliza Powel, he confided that the horses were older than he had represented them as being to Adams.3

  During their final days in the city the Washingtons did what country folk have done since time immemorial. They called on several urban merchants, busily shopping for items that were certain to be inaccessible in rural Virginia. When at last they were ready to depart the couple took along two newly acquired sideboards (evidently deciding that Mount Vernon’s great room and dining room could accommodate still more furniture), a new set of china, two pipes of Madeira, and several gallons of porter. In addition, Washington purchased a smoking jacket and a pair of new spectacles (for eighty cents apiece), while Martha bought new shoes and a jewelry box. They also paid for shoe repairs and had an artisan mend some broken china, and the two laid in a large supply of nuts, molasses, raisins, lime juice, candles, and assorted medicines. Washington even purchased new farm implements in Philadelphia, as he discovered that they were cheaper in the city than in Alexandria.4

  Finally, on March 9 everything was packed, all the personal business had been tended, and the Washingtons at last were ready to start home, heading for what Martha hoped would be “a more tranquil theater.” They slipped out of town in the morning. This time little ceremony attended the departure, an unusual circumstance for this city that enjoyed festivities, and which so often had fêted Washington with grandiose or solemn ceremonies to mark his comings and goings. By 7:00 A.M. the Washingtons’ carriage, buffeted by a strong, cold wind, had rattled over the last of Philadelphia’s empty cobblestone streets, swiftly conveying the family from the busy urban neighborhoods into the more serene environs of rustic southeastern Pennsylvania—a transition that could have been taken as a symbol of the transformation that was about to descend over Washington’s life. For the third time he was leaving public life and, like the mythic Cincinnatus he so admired, he was bent on withdrawal to Mount Vernon, there, he told himself, “to seek, in the shades of retirement, the repose I had always contemplated.” As in earlier times, however, he eventually discovered that he could not remain completely aloof from the vibrant public life he so enjoyed.5

  Graced by peace, and basking in the guidance of a series of generally competent estate managers, the Mount Vernon to which Washington returned in 1797 was in far better condition than he had found it to be both at the conclusion of his service in the French and Indian War and following the War of Independence. In particular, William Pearce, George Augustine’s successor, had done a good job before the gradual worsening of a painful, debilitating rheumatic disorder forced him into retirement. Just before the end of 1796 Washington replaced him with James Anderson, an experienced hand who been recommended by a trusted acquaintance. A Scotsman who had come to America only five years before, Anderson assumed his duties at a difficult time, taking up the reins just after a summer-long drought that had parched the estate’s already attenuated soil, then watching helplessly as one of the worst winters in memory afflicted the region from the Chesapeake to New England. Nevertheless, in the first days that followed Washington’s return, the owner discovered that the fields were in about as good shape as they ever were likely to be. The mansion, however, had suffered considerably during his long absence.6

  When Washington had come home the previous fall he had begun to suspect his troublesome cupola once again might need repairs, and it was obvious that rooms that had not been painted for a decade or more begged to be looked after. On this occasion, he had been home less than ten days before, to his surprise, he uncovered several structural matters that required work, and once the repairmen got to work they, in their timeless manner, located still more serious problems that demanded attention. Chimney repairs were in order. A mantel literally was pulling away from the wall. The stairway required attention. Windows had to be replaced. So long as he could not escape “the Music of hammers, or the odoriferous smell of Paint,” he arranged to transfer the dining room mantel to another chamber, and he set out to hire a craftsman to install handsome paneling and wainscotting in some rooms. In the midst of all the disorder Washington must have wondered whether there would be room for his possessions. En route from Philadelphia was a sloop bearing ninety-seven boxes, fourteen trunks, forty-three casks, thirteen packages, three hampers, and numerous “other things” that he and Martha had shipped home. Among the “other things” was an extensive collection of art that he had accumulated while president. His presidential papers were coming too. So voluminous were the writings from his long career, in fact, that he had begun to contemplate building an entire hous
e—a presidential library, perhaps—on the grounds at Mount Vernon, a building that would serve as a repository for “my Military, Civil and private Papers which . . . may be interesting.”7

  Outside the mansion only the gardens required work, the legacy, said Washington, of the incompetent artisan who recently had overseen this domain. Otherwise, the proprietor came home confident that his new manager had everything well in hand. Indeed, during his final weeks in Philadelphia Washington cheerfully welcomed several changes recommended by Anderson. The Scotsman wanted to put in a peach orchard and had suggested that the estate would profit from the construction of a threshing machine and the planting of corn at Dogue Run. He had also convinced his employer to permit him to build a still. Washington agreed to everything, although he demanded that the distillery be erected nearer the mansion than Anderson had proposed, “for I fear at the Mill, idlers (of which, and bad people there are many around it) . . . could not be restrained from visiting the Distillery, nor probably from . . . robbing the Still.” The still, an innovation that Washington had not previously considered, quickly turned into a money maker. Actually, Anderson constructed five stills, putting them in the care of his son. In short order they produced a thousand gallons a month, liquid gold that Washington turned into useful revenue.8