By an Associate.
Continuing the narrative that began here.
At Washington’s earnest request, Susanna and I came to New-York as well, along with the children. He also induced Parson Weems to join us; and the evening Weems arrived, we spent two or three hours after supper discussing the protocol for the new office of the presidency.
“I thought perhaps,” said Washington, “we ought to come up with a kind of manual of forms of address. When the President is spoken of, for example, in what way is he styled? I had thought it might be something like “His Gracious and Exalted Majesty the President of the United States, by the Grace of God Defender of the Rights of the American People, Commander in Chief of the Army and Navy and of the Militias of the Several States, Appointer to Offices, Filler of Vacancies, Informer of the Congress as Regards the State of the Union, Arbiter of Opinions, Granter of Pardons, Maker of—”
“Do you think that might be somewhat cumbersome?” Susanna asked.
“Well, of course, the full title would be used only the first time the President was mentioned; after that, the title ‘His Gracious and Exalted Majesty’ would suffice.”
“I was thinking perhaps ‘Mr. President’ would do,” said Susanna.
“Is that not somewhat…common?” asked Washington.
“Not at all. Quite the reverse. In all the states of Europe, you will find gracious and exalted majesties, defenders of the faith, high and mighty autocrats, and so on. A man may rule a strip of land the size of a pocket-handkerchief, but his majesty is still gracious and exalted. Gracious and exalted majesties are a shilling a cartload. What no other country has is a President, a ruler whose power depends not on the number of titles he piles on top of his name, but on the genuine love of his people, whereof his very position is the proof and sign. When one has said ‘President,’ one has spoken a name whose luster eclipses all lesser titles, to which any addition must be a diminution.”
“Do you really think so?” Washington asked, obviously impressed.
“So firmly do I believe it, that in the future, I will venture to say, other countries will have Presidents rather than kings, and the most powerful rulers in the world will affect the title we Americans have given to our executive.”
“My word, Phillips!” cried Washington. “I had not thought of the thing in those terms, but ‘Mr. President’ it shall be!”
Some time later, after Washington had retired and we were walking back home to our lodgings, Parson Weems said, “That was very clever, Susanna—puncturing his bubble by pretending to inflate it.”
“I had to do something,” she replied, “and he’s grown too big to be conveniently punched in the face.”
A few days later, Washington was showing me the presidential office he had set up in his New-York residence, which would also serve as a kind of audience chamber. The best cabinetmakers in the city had been commissioned to make an immense desk and chair in Washington’s own size. “Here,” said Washington, “in the back of the house, I may meet privately with such men as I have business with, and we shall not be overheard or disturbed.”
“But is it wise for the President to conduct business with no witnesses?” I asked. “I will not say that there are dishonest men in our government, but misunderstandings may arise, which, without a witness on record, may be difficult to settle.”
“Ah,” Washington said with a sly nod, “in fact I have considered that eventuality;—or Hamilton has, which comes to the same thing.” He pointed to his desk. “In this office I have installed a system that silently records every conversation.”
“Every conversation?” I repeated incredulously. “But how is that possible?”
“You will, of course, keep this a secret as long as I am President,” said Washington; and he led me over to his desk. Lifting the top of it entirely away, he pointed down. I stood on my toes and peered into the desk. There, inside the Washington-sized desk, was a man sitting at an ordinary desk with a quill, a big pot of ink, and a narrow roll of paper, which proceeded from under the right side of the desk, passed across the writing surface, and was wound on a big spool under the left side of the desk.
“Mr. Shelton here,” Washington explained (and the man immediately started scribbling), “is a remarkably quick man with a quill. With a continuous roll of narrow paper, or ‘tape,’ as Hamilton calls it, he has no need to lose time changing sheets, and his shorthand can keep up with the fastest talker. Every conversation that takes place in this office is recorded on one of these ‘tapes,’ and I can retrieve the exact words that were spoken any time I like.”
He set the top back down, and Mr. Shelton was completely hidden.
“But isn’t it dark under there?” I asked. “How does he see?”
“I have no idea,” Washington replied. He lifted the top of the desk again. “It seems light enough under there now.” He set the top back down. “And the important thing is that all my presidential conversations are recorded on ‘tape,’ so that the chance of my being embarrassed in any way is virtually eliminated.”
“And you don’t worry that someone might use the very existence of such a record to embarrass you?”
“Gist, I hope I can say with confidence that I never say anything in this room of which I have cause to be ashamed. Indeed I find it difficult to imagine that the states would ever elect a man to the presidency who would be embarrassed by anything that might be recorded by such a system. The electoral mechanism is designed to select honorable men, and I have faith that it will continue to do so.”
Meanwhile the business of creating a government occupied most of the meetings of Congress; and as Congress created the positions, the President was required to nominate men to fill them. Of course Washington could think of only one man to be the Secretary of the Treasury, and Mr. Hamilton was hardly able to contain his joy at being able to found his own currency.
“We shall base it on tens,” he explained, “which will at a stroke eliminate the difficulties of converting between pounds, shillings, dollars, and all the other coins that jangle in our purses; and we shall have a national currency, so that there will be no complicated formula, as there is now, to convert the coin of New Hampshire to that of North Carolina. As the people are familiar with the name, and as it carries no memories of our oppression by the British, we shall call our coin the dollar, and if—”
“And these dollars,” Washington interrupted—“of what size and weight will they be?”
“The weight, of course, will depend on the value we assign to the United States dollar; as for the size, we shall consult with the men we choose to run our mint, who will be able to tell us how such and so much a weight of silver is best distributed in a coin.”
“These are very important considerations from the point of view of a coin’s projectile properties,” said Washington. “The Spanish milled dollar travels well through the air, and possesses enough heft to carry it to its target without being too much buffeted by the wind. I should hate to see an American dollar without those properties; for men who throw dollars for sport are very particular about the dollars they throw, and might reject our United States dollar if its range and accuracy do not meet their expectations.”
“I am certain you could persuade our mint to take those considerations into account,” said Hamilton. “Now, as I said, multiples of ten will—”
“A milled edge also improves the grip, which for sporting purposes is one of the most important considerations.”
“Yes. The grip. Now, as I was saying, we shall make our dollar divisible into tens, which we might call ‘dimes,’ as being, of course, the tenth part of a dollar. A tenth part of a dime would then be a ‘cent,’ because it is the hundredth part of—”
“I thought you said it was the tenth part.”
“It is the tenth part of a dime, and therefore the hundredth part of a dollar.”
“Why can’t it make up its mind?”
“It is both at the same time!”
“My word! That’s clever.”
“And then the tenth part of a cent would be a mill, bec—”
“Because it is the millionth part of a dollar!”
“No,” Hamilton explained with strained patience, “only the thousandth part.”
“Then why is it called a mill?”
“Because it is—”
“Why not a thou?”
“Because the names come from Latin, or rather—”
“Oh, Latin,” said Washington knowingly. “Well, Latin is another matter altogether.”
Hamilton was about to say something more, but then appeared to realize that he had won as much of a victory as he was likely to win in this discussion, and resumed his earlier topic. “As I was saying, the division into tens will make calculations much easier for ordinary shopkeepers and merchants, who will find their duties lightened considerably.”
“For example,” said Washington, “if I buy a turkey quill at Stimson’s in Alexandria for one bit, which is an eighth of a dollar, then that comes to…now let me see…”
“Twelve and a half cents,” said Susanna.
“Twelve and a half? Well, that doesn’t sound very easy at all. How is that easier than saying ‘one bit,’ Hamilton?”
“It just is!” Hamilton sputtered. “Tens are easier!”
I looked at Susanna, but she had nothing more to say. With Hamilton’s explosion, she had accomplished her goal.
It is perhaps too early to speak with authority, but generations to come may remember the planting of our new capital city as the most lasting achievement of Washington’s first term as President. The location of it was much debated, and it was early decided that, if the city were located on the border between two states, with perhaps land taken from both of them, it would more clearly appear to belong to the whole Union, and not to any individual state. But which border was to be chosen? To many in Congress, especially the representatives from Maryland and Pennsylvania, the border between Maryland and Pennsylvania seemed the obvious choice, as being the traditional line between North and South. Washington, however, favored a site at the head of navigation of the Potomac, which, he said, would give the new city water access to the Chesapeake, that great arm of the greater sea, and thus easy transportation to such important destinations as would not be similarly accessible from other sites. That the site was easy to reach from Mount Vernon may also have figured in his calculations. At any rate, Washington’s site was chosen, because it was usually easier to give Washington what he wanted if he seemed to be set on getting it.
The business of surveying the new capital and beginning its construction gave Washington an excuse to get back to Mount Vernon, where he always felt more at home, and thus for us to get back to our house on Prince-street. Washington threw himself into the project with much enthusiasm, and he was delighted to report to us that he had found a little Frenchman named Pierre L’Enfant who was just the man to lay out his new city. He invited us to meet this man at Mount Vernon, where he would explain exactly where he had chosen to place the capital.
When we arrived at Mount Vernon, we expected to find a pale little Frenchman; but the man who was seated (on a very tall stool) at Washington’s immense table, with various maps and surveys spread out before him, was nearly as dark as Susanna.
“This is Mr. Banneker, Mr. L’Enfant’s assistant,” Washington told us. “Mr. Banneker, my good friends Mr. Gist and Colonel Phillips.”
Mr. Banneker looked puzzled for a moment; and then he appeared to recall that Washington had his quirks, and accepted the introduction as it came to him.
“And is Mr. L’Enfant here?” I asked after the usual greetings.
Mr. Banneker hesitated, but Washington answered for him: “Oh, Mr. L’Enfant is not visible in the strict sense.”
Mr. Banneker smiled helplessly, but we simply accepted the information as it came to us.
“Now, Mr. Banneker,” Washington continued, “what does Mr. L’Enfant think of the site?”
“Mr. L’Enfant thinks it’s mostly a swamp,” replied Mr. Banneker. “Mr. L’Enfant wonders why you don’t put the city somewhere on higher ground.”
“But this is the best possible site. Look—it’s a perfect square. Where else would you find that?”
“It is a perfect square,” said Banneker, “because you drew it that way on the map.”
“Well, yes. Of course I did. Why would I draw it in a shape that it is not?”
Banneker paused for a moment, wearing that expression common to all who entered thus into a debate with Washington and found themselves unaccountably bested. Then he continued: “The site also includes two cities already extant, namely Georgetown and Alexandria.”
“That should present no problem. They can be moved. So, since we have overcome all objections, it seems to me that Mr. L’Enfant can continue with his plans.”
It happened that Mr. Banneker was staying in Alexandria on Duke-street; so, although Washington had sent a coach to fetch him, we offered to take him home in ours, an offer he gladly accepted. In the coach Susanna did not let much time pass before saying, “Tell me about Mr. L’Enfant.”
Her smile left Banneker in no doubt that she understood most of the story already, so he was quite candid with us. “Mr. L’Enfant is a creation of my own. I realized, madam, that my color might obscure my abilities, and I thought if I described myself as the assistant to a well-known French engineer, I might be able to secure a better class of client. I did not expect President Washington to choose me for such an important commission, and I was certain that my deception would be discovered when he demanded to see Mr. L’Enfant personally. But when I insisted that Mr. L’Enfant could not be seen, President Washington took me more literally than I had expected. It seems there is some person by the name of Irving—”
“Not a person,” I told him. “A mule.”
“Ah,” said Banneker, and he seemed not to know what to say after that.
“I don’t believe the deception was necessary,” said Susanna. “The President believes I am a white man named Phillips. That the fact is otherwise should, in spite of my masculine garb, be apparent to you.”
“Abundantly,” said Banneker, with an expression that brought me a momentary pang of jealousy. “That said, will you betray me to him? I have no doubt I deserve it, but—”
“I do not think it would be possible to change Washington’s mind about you,” I said. “He has known my wife Susanna for thirteen years, and not even the arrival of our children could persuade him that she is anything other than Colonel Phillips.” I own I added these details partly in order to forestall any false impressions Banneker might have about Susanna. When a man possesses a single precious jewel, he may at times seem overcautious.
“So you will not betray me?”
“Vive L’Enfant, as far as I’m concerned.”
Banneker soon had a draft of his plan ready, and Susanna and I, along with Parson Weems, were privileged to be at Mount Vernon when he presented it to Washington.
“You see that the pattern of the streets is very rational,” Banneker explained. “They go north and south, or east and west; the former numbered, the latter named by letters of the alphabet.”
“Oh, yes, this is very fine,” said Washington. “I foresee a mighty city rising here—a city whose position at the head of navigation on the Potomac will give rise to undreamt-of prosperity; a city of globe-circling commerce, of gleaming towers and verdant parks; a center of learning and the arts—”
“A city called Washington?” asked Parson Weems.
“No, of course not. Don’t be absurd. It would be presumptuous of me in the extreme to establish a capital bearing my own name. I was thinking of ‘Columbia,’ after the great navigator who discovered the New World. How does that sound?”
“A fine name,” Susanna said with what sounded like relief.
“Now, this round thing here,” Washington continued—“what is that?”
“A natural basin, which we shall improve as a promenade for the residents. I was thinking it might look especially splendid in the spring if we planted the perimeter with cherry trees.”
“I think not,” said Washington, suddenly stiff.
“But the blossoms would make—”
“No cherries. I particularly desire you, for very good and sufficient reasons, not to plant cherry trees.”
“Of course if you insist—”
“I think we can do without the cherries.—Now, you have all these streets going straight up and down or back and forth.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this is the President’s house here. And the Capitol, where the Congress meets, here. Now, what happens if the President needs to go to the Capitol to address Congress?”
“Then he can walk down past this street, and this, and then turn left and walk straight to the Capitol like this,” replied Banneker.
“Would it not,” asked Washington, picking up the quill and dipping it in the ink, “be more efficient to have a street connecting the two points directly?” He drew a straight line between the President’s house and the Capitol on the map.
Banneker looked horrified. “But it destroys the logical symmetry of it all. If you—”
“And then to get from here to here you could have a street going directly like this.” He drew a diagonal straight across Mr. Banneker’s neat horizontals and verticals. “And from here to here” (he drew another line), “and here to here, and here to here.”
“But I had a perfectly neat system of numbered and lettered streets!” And then, recollecting himself, Banneker added, “I mean, Mr. L’Enfant had.”
“I’m sure Mr. L’Enfant will see the wisdom of these improvements. We could name these more direct streets after states of the Union. This one could be Pennsylvania, this one New-York, this one Virginia, this one Wisconsin, this one Georgia, and so on.”
“There’s no state called ‘Wisconsin.’ ”
“We could make one to match the street. Plenty of room in the Northwest. I don’t see why some of my land can’t be set aside for states with whimsical names.”
Mr. Banneker sighed and said, “I’ll present the idea to Mr. L’Enfant.”
Later, as we were on our way home in our coach, Susanna asked me, “Will anyone be able to find his way in our capital city once Washington has done with altering the plans?”
“Probably not,” I replied. “But consider the advantages. If we ever go to war again, the enemy will never successfully invade our capital. Any invading force would find itself hopelessly lost and easily overcome.”
“I do love your good cheer,” said Susanna, “but please, just this once, will you admit to me that the man is an imbecile?”
To be continued in Chapter XIV.