by Glenn Beck
Loving thy neighbor as thyself means placing neighbor above self, and in the decades to follow, Washington would place his nation above himself so many times: in taking command of the Continental Army and subordinating military leadership to civilian control; in chairing the fractious Constitutional Convention and patiently allowing competing passions and interests to fuse themselves into a new nation; and in creating this new position of the presidency, fashioning it through his every nuance and action, molding it into an office of republican service rather than of royalist autocracy.
Many times, especially while watching the often gut-churning process of democracy play out, he must have been sorely tempted to merely decree that his will would be followed. He might easily have gotten away with it. But, on each occasion, the words of the Declaration of Independence’s complaint against the Crown rang in his ears: “He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil Power.”
Each time, Washington’s sense of duty surmounted his ego. Each time, patience overcame his pride.
March 8, 1796
Executive Mansion
Philadelphia
Gilbert Stuart dabbed not ink but paint.
He was accustomed to gazing into men’s faces and into their very souls. He had to. It was his stock-in-trade. Tradesmen artists paint faces. Great artists paint souls, and Gilbert Stuart was indeed a very great artist.
He paused as George Washington sat awkwardly before him, rigidly, perfectly still—once again doing his duty. But the truth revealed by Washington’s features suddenly galvanized Stuart’s conception of the man. His subject’s eye sockets were immense. The nose and the space between his eyes were as broad as any that Stuart had ever witnessed.
Stuart had made a veritable science out of interpreting human faces and he viewed them as a scientist might peer intently through a microscope. And through the powerful lens of his considerable experience, Stuart concluded that George Washington’s features constituted irrefutable evidence of a man who embodied immense passion.
Yet, as Washington learned from an early age, it was those same passions that could be a man’s downfall.
And so he worked to control them. As a boy, he painfully copied over seven dozen Jesuit maxims on civility because he knew that he was in need of self-control. Those Rules were signposts to what he wanted to become; a road map to ensuring that his passions were always a blessing and never a curse.
But following that map would not easy. Grand enthusiasms and antipathies remained at his core. So Washington made a choice—or rather he made a choice every single day of his life: he would tread the hard but straight path of duty and service, no matter the cost.
June 12, 1747
Dockside, Potomac River
Below Mount Vernon, Virginia
George Washington’s trunk was packed tight and already lay belowdecks.
His blue eyes shone with anticipation. The sea would now be his life. For years, his revered older half brother Lawrence had regaled him with tales of his own service in His Majesty’s Navy. From the romantic West Indies to the bloody storming of the Spaniards’ South American fortress at Cartagena—young George had heard all about his brother’s amazing exploits.
Lawrence had served under the bewigged Admiral Edward “Old Grog” Vernon—and had eventually named his Virginia estate, Mount Vernon, after him. But even beyond Lawrence’s stories, the open sea meant adventure and glamour to fifteen-year-old George Washington. Virginia, after all, was a humdrum world of isolated plantations. Even Williamsburg and Alexandria were little more than villages. But the ships—they held the promise of excitement and adventure! They were not mere assemblages of heavy wooden beams and thick canvas sails. Far from it! A life aboard a ship was a passport to the great ports of the world—to London and Amsterdam, to the exotic Caribbean, even to the Indian subcontinent and perhaps to the greater Orient itself. Life in colonial Virginia was a predictable treadmill of tobacco and white-tailed deer and slaves. But, as the adolescent Washington saw it, life at sea was life itself.
Washington received a royal midshipman’s warrant and prepared to board the ship for his first voyage. He stiffly embraced his strong-willed mother, the widowed Mary Ball Washington. The tall, jut-jawed woman feared her oldest son going off upon the ocean, perhaps facing enemy cannon fire. She knew for certain that he would face prejudice as a colonial in a navy ruled by British-born and bred officers. She thought of her three other sons and of her daughter Betty—all younger than George. She thought of how much she needed George’s help at home—he had grown up fast since his father’s death three years earlier.
But George needed to get away. The authoritative Mary Washington was, in fact, one of the primary reasons why Lawrence had advised George to exchange the comforts of hearth and home for a hard midshipman’s berth. She was a tough woman to live with.
Yet, as tough as Mary Washington was, she still found it difficult to tell her oldest son that he could not realize his most cherished dream. And time was quickly running out.
Now they stood together on the dock below Mount Vernon’s rolling hillsides, his naval ship stocked and ready to leave.
“Good-bye, mother,” George said, embracing her.
She pulled away. “George, you must not go—I need to have you at home.”
He stood there, stunned, his mouth agape, his eyes open wide in shocked disbelief.
He was stunned and humiliated—his mother had done this at the very last possible minute, and in public!
But humiliation and anger soon turned to rage. His fists clenched, he turned and walked slowly up the shaky wooden gangplank. He grasped no guide ropes. At that moment he did not care whether he tumbled into the shoreline muck or not.
Mary Washington’s thick black eyebrows arched. “George! Where are you going?” she said sharply.
He paused and turned to face her, his face reddened in anger. Before he spoke, he lowered his voice. “To retrieve my trunk, mother,” he answered coolly. “It is already on board.”
Rule number 108 from Rules of Civility was weighing on his mind: “Honor and obey your natural parents although they be poor.”
Honor and obedience ruled that day, but perhaps some measure of Divine Providence did as well. After all, had George Washington gotten on that ship he may very well have gone to grand destinations like London and Calcutta—but there’s a very good chance he would’ve never made it to far more humble locations, like Valley Forge and Yorktown.
April 29, 1796
Reviewing the Farewell Address
Executive Mansion
Philadelphia
George Washington took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. He could not believe that he was sitting behind this desk in Philadelphia, let alone working on an address to his fellow Americans explaining why he would not run for a third term as their president. A third term, he thought to himself. I did not even want the first two!
Seven years earlier, Washington, having completed his duties of presiding over the Constitutional Convention, had returned to Mount Vernon to peacefully live the rest of his days outside the public eye. It was all he’d ever wanted.
Mount Vernon—he had grown to love the place, to take quiet joy in cantering across its rolling fields and hillsides upon horseback, in surveying the white-masted schooners plying the Potomac’s waters below, of ensuring that harvests would be plentiful and guests would be graciously welcomed at his table. He’d mounted his horse and rode away from Mount Vernon so many times for his nation. To the west against the French. To Philadelphia and to the Continental Congress. To war for eight long years—and all with no salary. He had put his family, and himself, through more than should ever be asked of even the greatest patriot.
Then, when he thought he’d finally left it all behind, he’d been beckoned back to Philadelphia in 1787 to chair a new Constitutional Convention. He tried his best not to go. He made excuses that business was bad at Mount Vernon. He complained of his
painful rheumatism. And he plaintively asked if he had not yet done enough for his nation. The answer, of course, was yes, he had done enough. But he knew the truth: doing enough was not sufficient—his country demanded more. And so he left Mount Vernon and rode north once again.
After a long, hot summer in Philadelphia he returned to Mount Vernon to spend the rest of his days at home. But, less than two years later, his country had again called and asked him to serve—this time as its president. It was a painful choice.
As Washington once again bade adieu to Mount Vernon, private life, and domestic tranquility, he became tense and anxious. He had, of course, the best of intentions to render the service that his country required—but he had far less hope of answering its expectations.
And back at home, Martha was equally as troubled. “I am truly sorry to tell that the General is gone to New York …,” Martha would mournfully write to her nephew. “Whether he will ever come home again God only knows. I think it was much too late for him to go in to public life again, but it was not to be avoided….”
Given the precarious state of the country, some people had wanted George Washington to be ruler over this new United States—to be its monarch. But he consented only to serve, to be a president, a chief magistrate. Kings never freely abdicate their power, but Washington tried to step away in 1792—and was called back to serve again. His glorious burden was not yet ready to be lifted. But now, in 1796, he sensed, it finally was.
The American nation was advancing from infancy to headstrong youth. Its father might finally take his leave. Its people would have to choose another to lead them.
George Washington reached the end of his farewell message’s first paragraph and read these words softly to himself: “I should now apprise you of the resolution I have formed, to decline being considered among the number of those out of whom a choice is to be made.”
That was it: farewell, retirement, peace, and rest. It was time for the country to select a new president.
His message might have ended there, but difficult questions confronted the nation, threatening to sunder its newfound unity: issues of sectionalism and of partisanship and of a dangerous world beyond our shores. Issues that dealt with the very underpinnings of the freedoms they had all fought so hard for.
He might have now walked away from it all and allowed a fractious nation to stew in its own juices, or handed over all the issues to a new leader to figure out—but that would be abandoning duty. So, though he was leaving, Washington could not remain silent. He had so much to say and as he thought how to relay them all in the proper spirit, the memories of what had brought him to this place in life began to flood his mind.
February 3, 1776
Continental Army Encampment
Cambridge, Massachusetts
There was a chill in the air, but it had nothing to do with the weather.
The new Continental Army was assembling at Cambridge, across the Charles River from British-occupied Boston. In truth, it was hardly an army, and it was hardly continental—being composed largely of flinty New England yeoman farmers and tradesmen and merchants and fishermen.
At the same time, some Virginian riflemen had tramped their way north, and their fringed white linen uniforms had quickly caught the attention of their Yankee allies—particularly the stout seamen of the Marblehead, Massachusetts, militia. Yes, it was a bit chilly here in Massachusetts—and it was a feeling that seemed to be shared by both sides.
As the two sides met, one stinging word led to another. Snowballs soon began to sail across Harvard Yard, and that soon escalated into methods that the southerners were far more experienced with: exchanging kicks and punches, gouging eyes, and biting. A thousand Americans bloodied one another in as wild a brawl as the continent had ever seen.
As the fight worsened, a white man and a black man appeared on horseback. The white man bounded off his mount, tossed its reins to his companion, and rushed into the very heart of the melee. He roughly grabbed the two largest combatants he could find, one in each hand, pulling them apart from each other, and solemnly talking sense to them. A thousand other amazed soldiers quickly grasped the identity of the blue-cloaked giant who had waded into their midst and quickly dispersed.
In the wake of George Washington’s abrupt arrival, the two warring factions settled down; the fighting was over. Washington, who watched the aftermath from atop his horse on a nearby hill, did not take any great satisfaction in what had happened. All he could think about was what still lay ahead. It will be difficult, he thought, to forge one army—let alone a single nation—out of these men.
But he had no other choice.
April 29, 1796
Reviewing the Farewell Address
Executive Mansion
Philadelphia
Washington plodded on, continuing to scan his address. There were so many issues to confront; so many things he had to say. The night would be a long one.
Even though the war was over, the Constitutional Convention in 1787 illustrated just how much animosity remained between the different regions. Large states and small states battled over the system of representation. Northerners and southerners suspected each other. Rough-hewn pioneers on the frontier grew leery of the merchants and traders of the seaboard. Northern states were already working to abolish slavery. Farming states resented the new federal tariff.
Tonight, Washington took note of those divisions. He cautioned against “local discriminations” and reminded Americans that “with slight shades of difference, you have the same religion, manners, habits, and political principles … common dangers, sufferings, and successes.”
George Washington had relied on his gut his whole life. He judged people well and he saw events coming over the horizon when few others could. And now, once again, he saw ahead—perhaps beyond Yorktown to Fort Sumter, beyond Valley Forge to Gettysburg—and it sent an ominous chill down his spine.
January 12, 1777
Valley Forge, Pennsylvania
George Washington was angry.
“Why is your cart empty, soldier?” he demanded as he saw an empty wooden oxcart rumbling back into his army’s encampment. He had ordered his men out into the Pennsylvania countryside to secure food and blankets for his starving troops. Now he saw that this cart and the ones behind it were all returning as forlorn as when they’d departed.
A sergeant, a veteran of the Delaware militia, stammered nervously at his commander. He had never addressed George Washington, nor any general, before—and he was not enjoying the experience.
“No one would sell to us, General! They won’t accept our Continental dollars!”
Washington waved his hand to dismiss the man. No, it wasn’t his fault, Washington had to admit. It was the fault of a currency that had no real value—and of a debt-ridden government that asked its people to place its trust in worthless IOUs instead of hard currency.
April 29, 1796
Reviewing the Farewell Address
Executive Mansion
Philadelphia
Washington fiddled with the small, shiny silver piece that lay upon his desk. It was a half dime, minted not far from the Executive Mansion. Some said that it was Martha’s likeness that graced this, the first of all American coins. Washington laughed as he thought of this. No, it was no more Martha on the front than that plucked chicken on its reverse was an American eagle.
The modest half dime—it was only worth five cents—was a small beginning for American finance, but it was a start. A nation had to exist on a firm financial footing. As a farmer, Washington knew the difference between profit and loss, the benefits of prudence and frugality and the cost of borrowed capital. As a commander of an army, he sorely knew that a civil government must stand on sound financial footing to equip its forces. As a citizen, he knew the damage a worthless, inflated currency—money not “worth a continental”—could inflict.
Tyranny, he thought to himself, is a hard master. Arithmetic is a harder one, and the tyrann
y of debt is the heaviest of them all.
Now, how to convey that sentiment to the people?
After a few minutes of thought, Washington took up his quill pen and began to write. “Cherish public credit …,” he warned, “use it as sparingly as possible … by cultivating peace … not ungenerously throwing upon posterity the burden which we ourselves ought to bear. The execution of these maxims belongs to your representatives, but it is necessary that public opinion should cooperate.”
Yes, Washington was warning any future presidents or congressman or senator, but he also was warning the people themselves.
In the end, he knew that the survival of freedom would depend primarily on them.
January 8, 1791
Executive Mansion
Philadelphia
Thomas Jefferson shot up out of his seat and slammed his fist on the table. His flushed complexion nearly matched his red hair.
“You have no right to do this! None whatsoever!” Washington’s secretary of state screamed, his anger directed toward the nation’s first secretary of the Treasury, Alexander Hamilton.
“How many times are we going to go through this, Mr. Jefferson?” Hamilton responded rather matter-of-factly. While the issue they were debating, Hamilton’s plan for a national bank, was a serious one, it’s always easier to maintain one’s calm when one holds the winning hand.
And Hamilton’s winning hand was having the support of George Washington.
Jefferson knew this, of course, but it didn’t quell his rage. “You are trampling on states’ rights! You are ripping up the Constitution itself! You don’t even know what the Constitution is! Ask Madison! He’ll tell you why you have no right to do this! None! You’re creating an autocracy! A monarchy!”
Washington looked anxious. It was his habit to allow his subordinates to argue their positions freely, but this debate—actually, all the debates—between Jefferson and Hamilton were becoming far too personal. Jefferson’s last remark was too much for Hamilton. He bolted from his seat, rushing at Jefferson. They would have been nose-to-nose, save for the fact that Jefferson’s nose was a good six inches higher than Hamilton’s.