by Ron Chernow
An enduring mystery of Washington’s presidency is why he relegated John Adams to a minor role. A Washington biographer is struck by the paucity of letters exchanged between the two men; Adams was clearly excluded from the inner circle of advisers. Partly this was a structural phenomenon. Under the Constitution, the vice president served as president of the Senate, thus overlapping two branches of governments. Nowadays we tend to think of the vice president as the president’s agent in the legislature, but Adams saw the vice president as a creature of that branch. He stated bluntly, “The office I hold is totally detached from the executive authority and confined to the legislative.”27 On another occasion he insisted that the Constitution had created “two great offices,” with one officer “placed at the head of the executive, the other at the head of the legislature.”28 As Washington tried to protect the presidency from senatorial intrusion, Adams was bound to suffer a demotion in the process.
Washington also had a long memory for wartime critics and knew that in the Congress Adams had sometimes been a vocal opponent of his performance. The Virginian demanded loyalty from those around him, and Adams had forfeited that trust during the war, never to regain it completely. An envious man, Adams was secretly exasperated by Washington’s unprecedented success. Always brooding about history’s judgment, he dreaded that Washington and Franklin would dwarf him in the textbooks. As he memorably told Dr. Benjamin Rush, the crux of the story would be “that Dr. Franklin’s electrical rod smote the earth and out sprung General Washington. That Franklin electrified him with his rod and thenceforward these two conducted all the policy, negotiations, legislatures, and war.”29 Adams went so far as to say privately that Washington’s waiving of his salary as commander in chief and retiring after the war had been egotistical acts: “In wiser and more virtuous times, he would not have [done] that, for that is an ambition.”30 There was also a profound temperamental gulf between Washington and Adams. Both were stubborn, gritty men with courageous devotion to American liberty, but Washington was far more restrained and self-effacing. It also couldn’t have helped relations between the two men that Adams was an age peer and political rival to Washington, who preferred drawing on the talents of younger men, such as Madison and Hamilton. Of his time as vice president, John Adams would render a glum assessment: “My country has, in its wisdom, contrived for me the most insignificant office that ever the invention of a man contrived or his imagination conceived.”31
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Rays of Genius
THROUGHOUT 1789 George Washington was oppressed by the need to make appointments to the new government. With nearly a thousand posts to fill—the federal government was quite unlike the states in its preponderance of appointed posts—the president was inundated with several times as many applications. Among the tidal wave of letters flooding in were those from wounded veterans and women who had sacrificed husbands or sons in the war. William Maclay noted the unending crush of aspiring officeholders who besieged the hapless president: “Men of pride, ambition, talents all press forward to exhibit their abilities on the theater of the general government.”1 At its inception, the executive branch was extraordinarily small—Washington initially oversaw a larger staff of slaves and servants at Mount Vernon than he did as president of the United States—but the new government quickly overshadowed his estate in size.
In dealing with office seekers, Washington became hypersensitive to pressure, which usually backfired. As Jefferson once observed of him, “To overdo a thing with him is to undo it.”2 Washington believed that forming an honest, efficient civil service was a critical test for the young republic. A model president in making appointments, he never cut deals or exploited patronage and ruled out “blood or friendship” in picking people.3 The criteria he valued most were merit, seniority, loyalty to the Constitution, and wartime service, as well as an equitable distribution of jobs among the states. By sticking to a policy of “utmost impartiality” with appointees, he sought to strengthen the government’s legitimacy.4 “If injudicious or unpopular measures should be taken . . . with regard to appointments,” he told nephew Bushrod, “the government itself would be in the utmost danger of being utterly subverted.”5 He turned down Bushrod’s own request for a job as U.S. attorney in Virginia, preferring to hire older and more seasoned lawyers.
Washington fretted over the design of the new government, which was still formless. From the Confederation Congress, he had inherited four departments—Foreign Affairs, War, Post Office, and the Board of Treasury—that would report to Congress until new departments were created; meanwhile they kept Washington up to date with reports. Only lightly did the Constitution sketch in the contours of the executive branch, giving Washington freedom to maneuver. In the summer of 1789 Congress created in rapid succession the Department of Foreign Affairs (soon renamed the State Department), the War Department, and then the Treasury Department in September. Assigned to lower rungs were the offices of the attorney general, who would advise the president on constitutional matters, and the postmaster general, who would preside over post offices and postal roads. That these departments belonged to the executive, not to the legislative branch, as under the Articles of Confederation, signaled a major shift in the American polity.
While the Constitution talked about executive departments, it made no reference to a cabinet, stipulating only that the president could request “the opinion, in writing” of department heads.6 Once again constitutional brevity presented an opportunity for Washington. At first he drew on the model of his wartime councils, requesting opinions from department heads, but this differed from the true cohesion of a cabinet that met to thrash out policy. As Alexander Hamilton, the first treasury secretary, later told a British minister, “We have no cabinet and the heads of departments meet on very particular occasions only.”7 Thomas Jefferson, the first secretary of state, would dub Washington “the hub of the wheel,” with the department heads arrayed like brilliant spokes around him.8
In choosing those heads, Washington surrounded himself with a small but decidedly stellar group. With his own renown secure, he had no fear that subordinates would upstage him and never wanted subservient courtiers whom he could overshadow. Aware of his defective education, he felt secure in having the best minds at his disposal. He excelled as a leader precisely because he was able to choose and orchestrate bright, strong personalities. As Gouverneur Morris observed, Washington knew “how best to use the rays” given off by the sparkling geniuses at his command. 9 As the first president, Washington assembled a group of luminaries without equal in American history; his first cabinet more than made up in intellectual fire-power what it lacked in numbers.
The one holdover from a previous executive department was Henry Knox, who was confirmed as secretary of war in early September. Washington retained his old wartime affection for Knox and used the word love to describe his feelings for his rotund friend. A few years earlier Washington had told Knox that he should “be assured that, to correspond with those I love is among my highest gratifications, and I persuade myself you will not doubt my sincerity when I assure you, I place you among the foremost of this class.”10 Expert at fending off political pressure, Washington established a rule that nobody could discuss political appointments with him unless he first brought up the topic. Frustrated by this rule, Roger Sherman of Connecticut asked Hamilton if he would champion a certain appointment with the president. “No, I dare not do it,” Hamilton replied. “I know General Washington too well. But I can tell you where your only hope lies. Go to General Knox. They say Washington talks to him as a man does with his wife.”11 With his hearty appetite and ebullient personality, Henry Knox stood forth as an immense social presence in the new administration. Maclay aptly referred to him as “a Bacchanalian figure.”12
On most political issues, Washington saw eye to eye with Knox, who had labored hard for the new Constitution. But Knox was destined to be the least capable of the three department heads. He worked diligently, g
ave Washington unquestioning loyalty, and promptly responded to requests, but he was not an original policy thinker and was relatively passive compared to the assertive Hamilton and the quietly tenacious Jefferson. He also worked in an area where Washington himself was highly competent. The War Department further suffered from the popular bugaboo about a standing army, which meant that Knox started out with 840 federal troops and never supervised a force larger than 5,000 men.
For the all-important Treasury post, Washington turned to the war’s preeminent financier: Robert Morris. En route to the inauguration, Washington had broached the subject with him in Philadelphia. Pleading business reasons, Morris declined the invitation and recommended Hamilton in his stead. James Madison also touted Hamilton as the person “best qualified for that species of business,” although he later came to rue his sponsorship.13
Even before the inauguration, Washington had received anonymous warnings about Hamilton, previewing things to come. A poison-pen artist who styled himself “H.Z.” warned the president-elect to “beware of the artful designs and machinations of your late aide-de-camp, Alexander Hamilton, who, like Judas Iscariot, would, for the gratification of his boundless ambition, betray his lord and master.”14 (Even Madison said later that Hamilton “spoke disparagingly of Washington’s talents” after the war.15) Hamilton was also trailed by accurate rumors that at the Constitutional Convention he had advocated a president who would serve for life on good behavior, planting the notion that he was a closet monarchist. Nevertheless Washington was convinced of Hamilton’s talents and integrity and selected him for the Treasury post, for which he was easily confirmed in early September. Whatever their wartime differences—and Hamilton was much too headstrong to admire anyone uncritically—the two men had worked together closely and productively during the first two phases of the American experiment, the Revolutionary War and the Constitutional Convention. Now they would collaborate on the critical third phase: the formation of the first federal government.
Although Washington seemed unaware of it, Hamilton had been training for the Treasury post throughout the war, boning up on subjects as diverse as foreign exchange and central banks. Like Washington, Knox, and other Continental Army officers, Hamilton had perceived an urgent need for an active central government, and he grasped the reins of power with a sure-handed gusto that set the tenor for the administration. He headed a Treasury Department that, with thirty-nine employees, instantly surpassed the rest of the government in size. Of particular importance, he presided over an army of customs inspectors whose import duties served as the government’s main revenue source.
In Hamilton, Washington found a cabinet secretary of tireless virtuosity who would function as his unofficial prime minister. Taunted as an aspiring upstart by his enemies, Hamilton did not hide his intellectual lights under a bushel. At a time when politicians were supposed to be self-effacing, Hamilton was openly ambitious and, in many respects, the antithesis of his mentor. Where Washington had no compulsion to shine in company, Hamilton, who was charming, urbane, and debonair, wanted to be the most brilliant figure in every group, and he usually was. A prolific writer of letters, essays, and pamphlets, he was a systematic thinker who knew how to translate principles into workable policies. Hamilton saw the advantage of setting a brisk tempo to the administration and pushing through quickly an ambitious legislative package. Setting a pattern for future administrations, he wanted to capitalize on the short-lived goodwill granted to a new president. However sophisticated Washington was as a businessman, he found public finance an esoteric subject and had to rely on Hamilton’s expertise, whereas he could question Knox on war matters or Jefferson on foreign affairs from personal experience.
Nothing drew the contrast between Hamilton and Jefferson so graphically as the speed with which the former accepted the Treasury post versus the latter’s reluctance to become secretary of state. At first Washington had favored John Jay for the State Department, but when Jay preferred the chief justice spot, Washington opted for Jefferson. Although he had seen little of Jefferson in recent years, he cherished fond memories of him from the House of Burgesses, where he had “early imbibed the highest opinion” of him.16 Since Jefferson was crossing the ocean that September, returning temporarily from his ministerial post in Paris, Washington could not consult him before picking him. Only two months later, when Jefferson arrived in Norfolk, Virginia, did he learn of Washington’s decision. As a sympathetic spectator of the budding French Revolution, Jefferson would have preferred to return to France and therefore reacted with extreme ambivalence to the cabinet offer. Still, he had the good grace to tell Washington that, if he took the job, “my chief comfort will be to work under your eye, my only shelter the authority of your name and the wisdom of measures to be dictated by you.”17 In late January 1790 Jefferson, still vacillating, had to be cajoled by both Washington and Madison into accepting the post. Washington pushed him gently. “I know of no person who, in my judgment, could better execute the duties of it than yourself,” he reassured him.18 Not until February did Jefferson formally accept the post, and he arrived in New York only in late March. In pointed contrast, Hamilton had bustled into office with irrepressible energy and immediately launched a far-reaching series of programs.
One wonders whether Jefferson’s hesitation reflected an equivocal attitude toward the new federal government itself, since he had been, at best, a lukewarm supporter of the Constitution. At first he had preferred tinkering with the Articles of Confederation and favored only “three or four new articles to be added to the good, old, and venerable fabric.”19 He was especially chagrined by the absence of a bill of rights and the “perpetual re-eligibility” of the president, which he feared would make the job “an office for life first and then hereditary.”20 Jefferson also retained a congenital distrust of politics, which he personally found a form of sweet torture, the source of both exquisite pain and deep satisfaction. He especially hated bureaucracy, whereas Hamilton had no such qualms.
On Sunday, March 21, 1790, Washington spent the morning in prayer at St. Paul’s Chapel before setting eyes on his new secretary of state at one P.M. The next day the two were locked in policy discussions for more than an hour. Jefferson was tall and lean, with reddish hair, hazel eyes, and a fair complexion. Jefferson, who was slightly taller than Washington but long-limbed and loose-jointed, and his new boss would have stared each other straight in the eye, both towering over Hamilton. A reserved man whose tight lips bespoke a secretive personality, Jefferson had calm eyes that seemed to comprehend everything. Shrinking from open confrontations, he often resorted to indirect, sometimes devious methods of dealing with disagreements. He could show a courtly charm in conversation and was especially seductive in small groups of like-minded listeners, where he became a captivating talker and natural leader. At the same time his mild manner belied his fierce convictions and relentless desire to have his views prevail. The idealism of his writings and his almost utopian faith in the people did not quite prepare his foes for his taste for political intrigue.
Washington relied upon younger men during his presidency, much as he had during the war. Jefferson was a decade and Hamilton more than two decades younger. Whatever their later differences, Jefferson started out by venerating Washington; he had once identified Washington, along with Benjamin Franklin and David Rittenhouse, as one of three geniuses America had spawned. “In war we have produced a Washington, whose memory will be adored while liberty shall have votaries, whose name shall triumph over time.”21 He adorned Monticello with a painting of Washington and a plaster bust of him by Houdon. Jefferson always revered Washington’s prudence, integrity, patriotism, and determination. “He was, indeed, in every sense of the words, a wise, a good, and a great man,” he stated in later years.22 Jefferson claimed that his dealings with President Washington were always amicable and productive. “In the four years of my continuance in the office of secretary of state,” he was to say, “our intercourse was daily, confidential,
and cordial.”23
Nevertheless, as the years progressed, Jefferson’s judgment of Washington grew far more critical. He viewed the president as a tough, unbending man: “George Washington is a hard master, very severe, a hard husband, a hard father, a hard governor.”24 Nor did he see Washington as especially deep or learned: “His time was employed in action chiefly, reading little, and that only in agriculture and English history.”25 He also found Washington leery of other people: “He was naturally distrustful of men and inclined to gloomy apprehensions.”26
If profound foreign policy differences emerged between Washington and Jefferson, some of this can be ascribed to contrasting outlooks. At least on paper, Jefferson was quixotic and idealistic, even if he could be ruthless in practice. Washington was a hardheaded realist who took the world as it came. Jefferson would be far more hostile than Washington toward the British and far more sympathetic to the unfolding French Revolution. While Washington grew increasingly apprehensive about the violent events in Paris, Jefferson viewed them with philosophical serenity, lecturing Lafayette that one couldn’t travel “from despotism to liberty in a feather-bed.” 27 Unlike Washington, Jefferson regarded the French Revolution as the proud and inevitable sequel to the American Revolution.
From the outset Jefferson was dismayed by the political atmosphere in New York. In his cultivated taste for fine wines, rare books, and costly furnishings, he was very much a Virginia aristocrat. One British diplomat noted his regal ways: “When he travels, it is in a very kingly style . . . I am informed that his secretaries are not admitted into his carriage but stand with their horses’ bridles in their hands, till he is seated, and then mount and ride before his carriage.”28 Nonetheless Jefferson was extremely vigilant about the possible advent of a pseudo-aristocracy in America. His years spent witnessing the extravagant court of Versailles had only confirmed his detestation of monarchy. As he made the rounds of New York dinner parties, he was appalled to hear people voice their preference for “kingly over republican government.”29 Only Washington, he thought, could check this fatal drift toward royal government, although he finally harbored doubts as to whether he would do so. It also upset Jefferson that Hamilton seemed to be poaching on his turf, a problem partly of Washington’s own making. With departmental lines still blurry, Washington invited all department heads to submit opinions on matters concerning only one of them, producing sharp collisions and intramural rivalries. On the other hand, this method gave the president a full spectrum of opinion, saving his administration from monolithic uniformity.
