That rising entered history as the Shays Rebellion, named for a leader about whom little is known. Though they won no military success, the rebels upended Massachusetts politics; the next elections returned a legislature that slashed taxes and adopted other reforms. The rebels terrified men like Washington, who thought the union might crumble. “Without some alteration in our political creed,” Washington wrote to Madison, “the superstructure we have been seven years raising at the expense of much blood and treasure, must fall. We are fast verging to anarchy & confusion!” He feared the worst: “Thirteen Sovereignties pulling against each other, and all tugging at the federal head, will soon bring ruin on the whole.”23
The proposed Philadelphia Convention provided the best opportunity to change the government. Madison reported from Richmond that the Virginia Assembly would endorse the convention, and that Washington must be listed as a delegate to give weight to the gathering.24
Washington’s sense of duty inclined him to heed Madison’s call, but he stumbled over a question of politics and etiquette. The Society of the Cincinnati would meet in Philadelphia at the same time. Washington already had announced that he could not attend that session. To participate in this other convention in the same city at the same time would insult his fellow veterans. In addition, attending the convention would violate his pledge to leave public life.25
Left unstated were the risks of participating in the convention. If the meeting produced no better blueprint for government, then Washington would have led the country to failure. Alternatively, if a new government emerged, Washington would surely be called to lead it, exposing him to the accusation that he had sought power all along. Then again, if he ignored the convention, he might be denounced for neglecting his duty.
Convention proponents, beginning with Governor Edmund Randolph of Virginia, took turns urging him to attend. Madison insisted that Washington “could not be spared.” When Washington stalled, each man wrote again. At least, Madison pleaded, keep the door open “in case the gathering clouds should become so dark and menacing as to supersede every consideration but that of our national existence.”26
John Jay and Knox took a different approach. In January 1787, they wrote long letters canvassing the government changes needed, prodding Washington to crystallize his own thoughts. By February, five states had joined Virginia’s call for the convention. When Madison persuaded Congress to endorse the Philadelphia meeting, Washington grew concerned that his absence might seem “an implied dereliction of republicanism.”27
Washington’s attention to the national situation had lapsed in early January with the unexpected death of his brother Jack. It came only six months after the passing of Nathanael Greene, which Washington had felt deeply. Washington tried to be stoic about death. He had known so much of it, both within his family and during the war. But this latest death was hard. Of his siblings, Washington had written most often to Jack, and on more personal matters. He relied on Jack to manage their mother. After the war, Jack had visited Mount Vernon annually. Washington sponsored and trusted Jack’s eldest son, Bushrod, above his other nephews. (He later named Bushrod executor of his will, and John Adams would appoint Bushrod to the Supreme Court.)28
Three months after Jack’s death, Washington’s grief was still sharp. He lamented to Knox that he had “just bid an eternal farewell to a much loved brother who was the intimate companion of my youth,” adding that Jack also was “the most affectionate friend of my ripened age.” Jack’s death left an emptiness that could not be filled.29
Jack’s death may have sapped Washington’s enthusiasm for traveling to Philadelphia. Also, he may not have looked forward to long days of debate over the principles of government. Washington was a man of deeds, not of theory, and did not eagerly spar with nimble thinkers like Madison and Hamilton. Since he rarely left Mount Vernon, he might have felt ill prepared for the convention. Diligent newspaper reading could not supply all the nuances of a complex situation. His unsatisfactory experience at the convention of the Cincinnati also might have made him reluctant to return to such a setting. As ever, he did not wish to be seen seeking power.
Washington’s modesty remained a singular trait. His achievements could easily have bred arrogance or narcissism. He received a dozen obsequious letters a month celebrating his greatness. Public ceremonies honored him. His arrival in a town made church bells clang and cannons roar, triggered fireworks, processions, and balls. Yet he remained affable and unassuming. He seems never to have forgotten the insecurity of the youth visiting the Fairfaxes of Belvoir, careful not to set a foot wrong and anxious to conceal his anxiety.
Washington came to accept that his participation in the Philadelphia Convention would increase its chance of success, and also the public’s willingness to accept any changes it proposed. It might well be, he acknowledged, “the last peaceable mode” for repairing the government. The legacy of the American Revolution, for which he had fought so long, was at risk. In view of who he was, and the country’s parlous situation, he agreed to attend.30
* * *
Once more Washington prepared for a long absence from home, from Martha, and from family, which now included nephew George Augustine Washington, back from the Caribbean and recently married to Martha’s niece, Fanny Bassett. Washington installed the new bridegroom as estate manager, adding an experienced English farmer to supervise some of the farms. Washington now required a written farm report every week, which would be sent to Philadelphia during the convention. His French dentist paid two visits to Mount Vernon in the winter of 1787, so his mouth pain had been addressed, however imperfectly.31
To prepare for Philadelphia, Washington took notes on the advice sent by Knox, Jay, and Madison.32 All three proposed adding executive and judicial departments to create a three-branch government. Jay urged a dramatic demotion of the states, with national officers appointing and removing state officials. Knox also endorsed a supreme national government, but Madison suggested a middle way, which Washington called “a due supremacy of the national authority” that did not “exclude the local authorities whenever they can be subordinately useful.” Madison also urged that the national government have only specific powers, including the power to tax, plus a veto over state laws.33
Washington shared his sentiments with Madison in late March. As was true before the Revolution, he had no interest in half-measures. He wanted the delegates to “probe the defects of the constitution to the bottom, and provide radical cures.”34 By setting that tone, he had a powerful impact on the convention’s work.
As Washington prepared to leave, word arrived that his mother and sister Betty were near death. He rushed to Fredericksburg, riding fifty miles in less than eight hours, and found his sister almost recovered, but his mother “exceedingly reduced and much debilitated by age and the disorder.” Only two months before, appalled that his mother had sought money from his nephew George Augustine, he sent her what he described as his last 15 guineas. Money anxiety would ever connect mother and son. At that time, Washington had invited her to live at Mount Vernon, but the invitation had been ungracious, emphasizing the inconveniences of a household he called a “well resorted tavern,” with constant visitors. She did not accept the lukewarm gesture.35
With Martha choosing to remain at Mount Vernon with her grandchildren, Washington left for Philadelphia on May 9, traveling alone in an enclosed carriage. Riding outside through rain, high winds, and muddy roads, were the coachman, Paris, the groom, Giles, and William Lee, the valet who had been by his side through the war. Washington’s retirement from public life was over.
Chapter 40
America’s Rebirth
On a rainy afternoon in mid-May 1787, Philadelphia greeted Washington with the customary commotion. A cavalry escort met him at the Schuylkill River. Cannons fired thirteen rounds. Bells rang. Citizens cheered, a local newspaper wrote, “the coming of this great and good man.”1
Washington intended to lodge at the boardinghouse where many Virginians stayed, having declined Robert Morris’s offer of a room in his home. In the hubbub of arrival, Morris and his wife renewed their offer. This time Washington accepted. The public acclamation underscored the advantages of a private resting place.
The general immediately paid an hour-long call on Ben Franklin, Philadelphia’s leading citizen at age eighty-one. The imagery was powerful: America’s most celebrated figures joining together to reconsider the nation’s government. They knew each other, but not terribly well, having intersected during the French and Indian War, then again in the Second Continental Congress.2 Three days later, Franklin hosted a dinner for the Pennsylvania and Virginia delegates, the only ones present so far; they would be allies through much of the convention. Wet weather and bad roads delayed the others. The impatient Washington called the delay “highly vexatious to those who are idly, and expensively, spending their time here.”3
As delegates trickled in, the Virginians went to work. In addition to Washington, the delegation included Madison, Randolph, and Mason, along with three lesser lights (George Wythe, James McClurg, and John Blair). They met in the morning at the boardinghouse where Madison lodged, to work out a government structure. In the afternoons, they walked to the State House (now called Independence Hall) to greet arriving delegates and calculate how far they were from a quorum.4
The preliminary effort produced the “Virginia Plan,” nineteen resolutions that would frame the convention’s work. It called for three branches of government: a true executive, a two-house legislature, and courts. That government would be superior to the states, as Washington had long advocated. The new constitution would not be submitted to the approval of state legislatures, who would resent any loss of power, but for ratification by special conventions chosen by the people.5
Several deserve credit for the Virginia Plan. Madison, who had prepared for months for the convention, surely presented concrete ideas and held the pen that sketched it out, while Mason was wise about government. Randolph unveiled the plan in the convention’s opening speech. Yet, at its core, the plan embodied Washington’s demand for radical cures. His determination that the government must be remade gave the Virginians the essential political cover to propose scrapping the Articles of Confederation and starting over. His implicit yet unmistakable sponsorship of the Virginia Plan made it the starting point for the convention’s work.6
On May 25, eleven days late, the convention mustered a quorum in the main chamber of the State House. By prearrangement, Robert Morris nominated Washington as convention president. For the second time—the first had been his 1775 appointment as commander in chief—Washington was unanimously elected by his peers. The first occasion had been a striking vote of confidence; this second, twelve years later, confirmed that the nation’s confidence had been well placed.
Washington delivered a few words of acceptance, according to Madison, “in a very emphatic manner.” He asked the delegates’ forgiveness for “involuntary errors which his inexperience might occasion,” though he had as much experience in deliberative bodies as any delegate present, from county court and parish vestry to the House of Burgesses, two Continental Congresses, and numberless councils of war.7
Through the next four months of spirited, sometimes angry debate, Washington largely muzzled himself. Even in the opening weeks, when another delegate presided over sessions that the delegates conducted as the “committee of the whole,” Washington sat silently. Because he cast votes within the Virginia delegation, however, his preferences became known over the summer.
Washington’s near silence reflected his preference to listen rather than speak, as well as the comfort he felt acting as the neutral presiding officer. Moreover, most delegates assumed that Washington would lead any executive branch they created. The Virginian chose not to wrangle over a government he might well manage.
Thus, Washington said nothing when the delegates argued over how to allocate legislative representation, the issue that came closest to blowing up the convention. Delegates from small states insisted that each state have an equal vote; Pennsylvanians and Virginians demanded that their states’ greater populations should command larger representation. Nor did Washington take the floor in August, when disputes over the slave trade and trade regulation fostered more sharp disagreements.
Yet Washington’s influence was plain. For several years, he had argued for a stronger continental government, first in his 1783 circular to the states, and then in letters that were shown around Congress and shared among influential politicians. The Virginia Plan, which framed the debate, carried Washington’s imprimatur. Known to support a stronger government, he could preside benignly over the proceedings, the perfect Washingtonian posture.
The convention met six days a week through the summer heat, taking breaks only for the Fourth of July weekend and for ten days in late July and early August, when a five-man committee created a first draft of the Constitution. A total of fifty-five men represented twelve states over the summer. New Hampshire’s representatives did not arrive until late July. Two of the three New Yorkers left after six weeks, unhappy with the movement toward limiting state powers; that left Hamilton as the lone New York delegate, barred by his state’s rules from acting alone. Rhode Island, certain that the convention would deny the states the right to issue paper currency (as it did), never sent delegates to Philadelphia.
For three months after the convention stopped meeting as the committee of the whole, Washington presided over every session, able to guide debate subtly. He could choose which speaker to recognize, an angry voice or one inclined to conciliation. His demeanor could be persuasive. On one occasion, Washington indicated approval of a motion presented by Franklin and disapproval of Hamilton’s objection. The delegates quickly adopted the motion.8
Washington inspired respect, even fear. After only three weeks, the delegates were permitted to make copies of the Virginia Plan so long as they kept them confidential. When delegate Thomas Mifflin (him again!) found a copy abandoned outside the State House, Washington frostily lectured the delegates to be more careful not to make premature disclosures of their proceedings. “I know not whose paper it is,” he said, “but there it is.” He contemptuously threw it on the table before him. “Let him who owns it, take it.” He bowed, took up his hat, and exited “with a dignity so severe that every person seemed alarmed.” No one claimed the document.9
Washington’s procedural rulings could be significant. Early on, he decided that when the states voted 5–4–1 on a matter—each state cast one vote, and a state delegation might deadlock—the motion was approved even though it had not commanded a majority of the ten states voting.10
When combined with another procedural decision, that ruling took on significance during the explosive dispute over legislative representation. In the early going, the large states prevailed in their quest for proportional representation. With small-state delegates threatening to leave unless equal state votes were restored, another vote was taken. A Georgia delegate unexpectedly changed sides, deadlocking his delegation so it cast no vote on the measure. The absence of a Maryland delegate, Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer, allowed the sole remaining Marylander to cast that state’s vote (under Maryland’s rules) in favor of one-state/one-vote. The result was a 5–5–1 tally, derailing the drive for proportional representation and causing consternation among the delegates.
At that moment, the absent Jenifer of Maryland entered the chamber. Quick-witted Rufus King of Massachusetts realized that if Jenifer could vote on the motion that had just failed, he would deadlock Maryland again and shift the outcome to 5-4-2 in favor of proportional representation. King moved to renew the motion. Washington refused to allow a second vote, which he called “too extraordinary.”11
Yet the convention rules permitted a motion for reconsideration on the same day if no delegate objected, or after one day’s notice
if there was an objection.12 Under that rule, Washington should have granted King’s motion, or at least scheduled a second vote on it for the next day. By doing neither, Washington may have been trying to encourage a compromise between large and small states. Indeed, his ruling did help force that compromise, which established proportional representation in the House of Representatives and equal state votes in the Senate. That compromise prevailed by that narrowest of margins, one that Washington had previously recognized as binding: 5–4–1.13
Washington shared his fears about the convention in a letter to Hamilton, who had left for New York. Matters, Washington wrote on July 10, “are now, if possible, in a worse train than ever . . . I almost despair of seeing a favorable issue to the proceedings of the Convention.” Those delegates who opposed “a strong and energetic government,” he added, “are in my opinion narrow minded politicians, or are under the influence of local views.”14
Madison recorded a few of Washington’s specific votes, noting that the general favored a single individual as president, and approved multi-term presidencies. He also supported a requirement that revenue legislation arise in the proportionally chosen House of Representatives, which was part of the large-state/small-state compromise.15
Washington’s presence may have been felt most powerfully on June 1, when the delegates first addressed the new executive branch. Because delegates expected Washington to be the first president, they evidently were reluctant to discuss the office in his presence. After a long silence, Franklin encouraged them to speak, while John Rutledge of South Carolina noted the “shyness of gentlemen.” Some thought later that the Constitution’s broad grant of executive power unwisely reflected their confidence in Washington. “The first man put at the helm will be a good one,” Franklin told the delegates, then added the warning that, “nobody knows what sort may come afterwards.”16
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