The Life of George Washington
by Mason Weems
Apart from regular sales through bookstores,
itinerant peddlers
often hawked books from farm to farm in
the countryside.
If a book had appeal, these kinds of sales
could be very
lucrative to publisher and peddler alike. And
they could be
especially profitable if the publisher and
peddler were
one in the same.
One such
barn-door entrepreneur was Mason Weems,
a onetime preacher,
who used the dignity associated with his
former office
to help sell his own biography of General
George Washington.
His efforts were further legitimized by
Washington's
written endorsement of one of Weem's earlier
volumes, a guide
to self-improvement. That he had never
known Washington
did not seem important to Weems. Nor did
the fact that
he made up many of the stories and anecdotes
of Washington's
early life. All that was important,
apparently,
was that book sales spread like wildfire.
Americans loved
this book. The "cherry tree incident" was
reprinted everywhere,
and is still the single most familiar
act associated
with Washington.
In the
excerpts from Weems' biography that
follow, try
to explain why these myths of Washington's
childhood can
have had such an enduring life in this
country.
The Life of George Washington
Chapter II
To this
day, numbers of good Christians can
hardly find
faith to believe that Washington was, bona fide,
a Virginian!
"Pshaw! Impossible!" they say. "He was
certainly a
European. So great a man could never have been
born in America."
So great
a man could never have been born in
America!
Why, that's the very prince of reasons why he
should
have been born here! Nature, we know, is fond of
harmonies.
'Great things to great, is the rule she delights
to work by.
Where, for example, do we look for the whale,
"the biggest
born of nature?" Not in a mill pond, but in
the main ocean.
There go the great ships, and there are the
spoutings of
whales amidst their boiling foam.
By the
same rule, where shall we look for
Washington,
the greatest among men, but in America -- that
greatest continent,
which, rising from beneath the frozen
pole, stretches
far and wide to the south, and sustains on
her ample sides
the roaring shock of half the watery globe.
And equal to
its size is the furniture of this vast
continent, where
the Almighty has reared his cloudcapt
mountains, and
spread his sea-like lakes, and poured his
mighty rivers,
and hurled down his thundering cataracts in a
style of the
sublime, so far superior to anything of the
kind in the
other continents, that we may fairly conclude
that great men
and great deeds are designed for America.
This seems
to be the verdict of honest analogy,
and, accordingly,
we find America the honored cradle of
Washington,
who was born on Pope's creek in Westmoreland
county, Virginia,
the 22d of February, 1732. His father,
whose name was
Augustin Washington, was also a Virginian,
but his grandfather
was and Englishman, who came over and
settled in Virginia
in 1657.
His father,
fully persuaded that a marriage of
virtuous love
comes nearest to angelic life, early stepped
up to the altar
with glowing cheeks and joy sparkling eyes,
while by his
side, with soft warm hand, sweetly trembling in
his, stood the
angel-form of the lovely Miss Dandridge.
After
several years of great domestic happiness,
Mr. Washington
was separated by death from this excellent
woman, who left
him and two children to lament her early
fate.
Fully
persuaded still that it is not good for man
to be alone,
he renewed, for the second time, the chaste
delights of
matrimonial love. His consort was Miss Mary
Ball, a young
lady of fortune, and descended from one of the
best families
in Virginia.
From his
intermarriage with this charming girl,
it would appear
that our hero's father must have possessed
either a very
pleasing person, or highly polished manners,
or perhaps both;
for, from what I can learn, he was at that
time at least
40 years old! while she, on the other hand,
was universally
toasted as the belle of the Northern Neck,
and in the full
bloom and freshness of love-inspiring
sixteen.
By his first wife, Mr. Washington had two
children, both
sons -- Lawrence and Augustin. By his second
wife, he had
five children, four sons and a daughter --
George, Samuel,
John, Charles, and Elizabeth. Those over
delicate folk,
who are ready to faint at the thought of a
second marriage,
might do well to remember, that the
greatest man
that ever lived was the son of this second
marriage!
Little
George had scarcely attained his fifth
year, when his
father left Pope's creek, and came up to a
plantation which
he had in Strafford, opposite to
Fredericksburg.
Some,
when they look up to the oak, whose giant
arms throw a
darkening shade over distant acres, or whose
single trunk
lays the keel of a 'man of war', cannot bear to
hear of the
time when this mighty plant was but an acorn,
which a pig
could have demolished. But others, who know
their value,
like to learn the soil and situation which best
produces such
noble trees. Thus, parents that are wise,
will listen
well pleased, while I relate how moved the steps
of the youthful
Washington, whose single worth far outweighs
all the oaks
of Bashan and the red spicy cedars of Lebanon.
Yes, they will
listen delighted while I tell of their
Washington in
the days of his youth, when his little feet
were swift towards
the nests of birds; or when, wearied in
the chase of
the butterfly, he laid him down on his grassy
couch and slept,
while ministering spirits, with their
roseate wings,
fanned his glowing cheeks, and kissed his
lips of innocence
with that fervent love which makes the
Heaven!
Never
did the wise Ulysses take more pains with
his beloved
Telemachus, than did Mr. Washington with George,
to inspire him
with an early love of truth. "Truth,
George," said
he, "is the loveliest quality of youth. I
would ride fifty
miles, my son, to see the little boy whose
heart is so
honest, and his lips so pure, that we may depend
on every word
he says. Oh, how lovely does such a child
appear in the
eyes of everybody! His parents doat on him.
His relations
glory in him. They are constantly praising
him to their
children, whom they beg to imitate him. They
are often sending
for him to visit them; and receive him,
when he comes,
with as much joy as if he were a little
angel, come
to set pretty examples to their children.
"But,
Oh! How different, George, is the case
with the boy
who is so given to lying, that nobody can
believe a word
he says! He is looked at with aversion
wherever he
goes, and parents dread to see him come among
their children.
Oh, George! My son! Rather than see you
come to this
pass, dear as you are to my heart, gladly would
I assist to
nail you up in your little coffin, and follow
you to your
grave. Hard, indeed, would it be to me to give
up my son, whose
little feet are always so ready to run abo
ut with me,
and whose fondly looking eyes, and sweet prattle
make so large
a part of my happiness. But still I would
give him up,
rather than see him a common liar."
"Pa,"
said George very seriously, "do I ever tell
lies?"
"No, George,
I thank God you do not, my son, and
I rejoice in
the hope you never will. At least, you shall
never, from
me, have cause to be guilty of so shameful a
thing.
Many parents, indeed, even compel their children to
this vile practice,
by barbarously beating them for every
little fault:
hence, on the next offence, the little
terrified creature
slips out a lie! just to escape the rod.
But as to yourself,
George, you know I have always told you,
and now tell
you again, that, whenever by accident, you do
anything wrong,
which must often be the case, as you are but
a poor little
boy yet, without experience or knowledge, you
must never tell
a falsehood to conceal it; but come bravely
up, my son,
like a little man, and tell me of it. And
instead of beating
you, George, I will but the more honor
and love you
for it, my dear."
This,
you'll say, was sowing good seed! Yes, it
was. And
the following anecdote is a case in point. It was
related to me
twenty years ago by a aged lady, who was a
distant relative,
and, when a girl, spent much of her time
in the
Washington family:
"When
George," said she, " was about six years
old, he was
made the wealthy master of a hatchet! of which,
like most little
boys, he was immoderately fond. He was
constantly going
about chopping everything that came in his
way. One
day, in the garden where he often amused himself
hacking his
mother's pea-sticks, he unluckily tried the edge
of his hatchet
on the body of a beautiful young English
cherry tree,
which he barked so terribly, that I don't
believe the
tree ever got the better of it. The next m
orning the old
gentleman, finding out what had befallen his
tree, which,
by the by, was a great favorite, came into the
house, and with
much warmth asked for the mischievous
culprit, declaring
at the same time, that he would not have
taken five guineas
for his tree. Nobody could tell him
anything about
it. Presently George and his hatchet made
their appearance.
'George', said his father, 'do you know
who killed that
beautiful little cherry tree yonder in the
garden?'
This was a tough question, and George staggered
under it for
a moment, but quickly recovered himself, and
looking at his
father, with the sweet face of youth
brightened with
the inexpressible charm of all-conquering
truth, he bravely
cried out, 'I can't tell a lie, Pa. You
know I can't
tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.'
'Run to my arms,
you dearest boy,' cried his father. 'Run
to my arms.
Glad am I, George, that you killed my tree, for
you have paid
me for it a thousand fold. Such an act of
heroism in my
son is more worth than a thousand trees,
though blossomed
with silver, and their fruits of purest
gold."
It was
in this way, by interesting at once both
his heart and
head, that Mr. Washington conducted George
with great ease
and pleasure along the happy paths of
virtue.
But well knowing that his beloved charge, soon to
be a man, would
be left exposed to numberless temptations,
both from himself
and from others, his heart throbbed with
the tenderest
anxiety to make him acquainted with that GREAT
BEING, whom
to know and love, is to possess the surest
defense against
vice, and the best of all motives to virtue
and happiness.
To startle George into a lively sense of his
Maker, he fell
upon the following very curious but
impressive expedient:
One day
he went into the garden, and prepared a
little bed of
finely pulverized earth, on which he wrote
George's name
at full, in large letters -- then strewing in
plenty of cabbage
seed, he covered them up, and smoothed all
over nicely
with the roller. This bed he purposely prepared
close along
side of a gooseberry walk, which happened at
this time to
be well hung with ripe fruit, he knew would be
honored with
George's visits pretty regularly every day.
Not many mornings
had passed away before in came George,
with eyes wild
rolling, and his little cheeks ready to burst
with great news.
"Oh, Pa!
Come here! Come here!"
"What's
the matter, my son, what's the matter?"
"Oh, come
here, I tell you, Pa. Come here, and
I'll show you
such a sight as you never saw in all your
lifetime."
The old
gentleman, suspecting what George would
be at, gave
him his hand, which he seized with great
eagerness, and
tugging him along through the garden, led him
up point blank
to the bed whereon was inscribed, in large
letters, and
in all the freshness of newly sprung plants,
the full name
of
GEORGE WASHINGTON
"There,
Pa!" said George, quite in an ecstasy of
astonishment,
"Did you ever see such a sight in all your
lifetime?"
"Why it
seems like a curious affair, sure enough,
George!"
"But,
Pa, who did make it there, who did make it
there?"
"It grew
there by chance, I suppose my son."
"By chance,
Pa! Oh, no! No! It never did grow
there by chance,
Pa. Indeed that it never did!"
"High!
Why not, my son?"
"Why,
Pa, did you ever see anybody's name in a
plant bed before?"
"Well,
but George, such a thing might happen
though you never
saw it before."
"Yes,
Pa, but I did never see the little plants
grow up so as
to make one single letter of my name before.
Now, how could
they grow up so as to make all the letters
of my name?
And then standing one after another, to spell
my name so exactly
-- and all so neat and even, too, at top
and bottom!
Oh, Pa, you must not say chance did all this.
Indeed, somebody
did it. And I dare say now, Pa, you did do
it just to scare
me, because I am your little boy."
His father
smiled, and said, "Well, George, you
have guessed
right. I, indeed, did it. But not to scare
you, my son,
but to learn you a great thing which I wish you
to understand.
I want, my son, to introduce you to your
true Father."
"High,
Pa, ain't you my true father, that has
loved me, and
been so good to me always?"
"Yes,
George, I am your father as the world calls
it, and I love
you very dearly, too. But yet with all my
love for you,
George, I am but a poor good-for-nothing sort
of a father
in comparison of one you have."
"Aye!
I know, well enough whom you mean, Pa.
You mean God
Almighty, don't you?"
"Yes,
my son, I mean him indeed. He is your true
Father, George."
"But,
Pa, where is God Almighty? I did never see
him yet."
"True,
my son. But though you never saw him, yet
he is always
with you. You did not see me when ten days ago
I made this
little plant bed, where you see your name in
such beautiful
green letters. But though you did not see me
here, yet you
know I was here!"
"Yes,
Pa, that I do. I know you was here."
"Well,
then, and as my son could not believe that
chance had made
and put together so exactly the letters of
his name, then
how can he believe that chance could have
made and put
together all those millions and millions of
things that
are now so exactly fitted to His good. That my
son may look
at every thing around him, see! What fine eyes
he has got!
And a little pug nose to smell the sweet
flowers, and
pretty ears to hear sweet sound, and lovely
mouth for his
bread and butter. And, oh, the little ivory
teeth to cut
it for him, and the dear little tongue to
prattle with
his father, and precious little hands and
fingers to hold
his playthings, and beautiful little feet
for him to run
about upon. And when my little rogue of a
son is tired
with running about, then the still night comes
for him to lie
down, and his mother sings, and the little
crickets chirp
him to sleep. And as soon as he has slept
enough, and
jumps up fresh and strong as a little buck,
there the sweet
golden light is ready for him. When he
looks down into
the water, there he sees the beautiful
silver fishes
for him, and up in the trees there are the
apples, and
peaches, and thousands of sweet fruits for him,
and all, all
around him, wherever my dear boy looks, he sees
every thing
just to his wants and wishes -- the bubbling
springs with
cool sweet water for him to drink, and the wood
to make him
sparkling fires when he is cold, and beautiful
horses for him
to ride, and strong oxen to work for him, and
the good cows
to give him milk, and bees to make sweet honey
for his sweeter
mouth, and the little lambs, with snowy
wool, for beautiful
clothes for him. Now, these and all the
ten thousand
other good things more than my son can ever
think of, and
all so exactly fitted to his use and delight
-- now how could
chance ever have done all this for my
little son?
Oh, George! --"
He would
have gone on, but George, who had hung
upon his father's
words with looks and eyes of all-devouring
attention, here
broke out --
"Oh, Pa,
that's enough! It can't be chance,
indeed -- it
can't be chance that made and gave me all these
things."
"What
was it then, do you think, my son?"
"Indeed,
Pa, I don't know, unless it was God
Almighty!"
'Yes,
George, he it was, my son, and nobody
else."
"Well,
but Pa," George continued, "Does God
Almighty give
me everything? Don't you give me some things,
Pa?"
"I give
you something indeed! Oh how can I give
you anything,
George! I who have nothing on earth that I
can call my
own, no, not even the breath I draw!"
"High,
Pa! Isn't that great big house your
house, and this
garden, and the horses yonder, and oxen, and
sheep, and trees,
and everything -- aren't they all yours,
Pa?"
"Oh, no,
my son! No! Why you make me shrink
into nothing,
George, when you talk of all these belonging
to me, who can't
even make a grain of sand! Oh, how could
I, my son, have
given life to those great oxen and horses,
when I can't
give life even to a fly? No! For if the
poorest fly
were killed, it is not your father, George, nor
all the men
in the world, that could ever make him alive
again!"
At this,
George fell into profound silence, while
his pensive
looks showed that his youthful soul was laboring
with some idea
never felt before. Perhaps it was at that
moment, that
the good Spirit of God engrafted on his heart
that germ of
piety, which filled his after life with so many
of the precious
fruits of morality.
Chapter III
Thus pleasantly,
on wings of down, passed away
the few short
years of little George's and his father's
earthly acquaintance.
Sweetly ruled by the sceptre of
REASON, George
almost adored his father, and obeyed him
sweetly with
all the cheerfulness of LOVE. His father
doated on George,
and though very different in their years,
yet parental
and filial love rendered them so mutually dear,
that the old
gentleman was often heard to regret that the
school took
his little companion so much from him -- while
George, on the
other hand, would often quit his playmates to
run home and
converse with his more beloved father.
But George
was not long to enjoy the pleasure or
the profit of
such a companion. For scarcely had he
attained his
tenth year, before his father was seized with
the gout in
his stomach, which carried him off in a few
days.
George was not at home when his father was taken ill.
He was on a
visit to some of his cousins in Chotank, about
twenty miles
off. And his father, unwilling to interrupt
his pleasures,
would not at first allow him to be sent for.
But finding
that he was going very fast, he begged that they
would send for
him in all haste. He often asked if he was
come, and said
how happy he should be, once more to see his
little son,
and give him his blessing before he died. But
alas!
He never enjoyed that last mournful pleasure. For
George did not
reach home until a few hours before his
father's death,
and then he was speechless! The moment he
alighted, he
ran into the chamber where he lay, but oh!
what were his
feelings when he saw the sad change that had
passed upon
him! when he beheld those eyes, so late so
bright and fond,
now reft of all their lustre, faintly
looking on him
from their hollow sockets, and through
swelling tears,
in mute but melting language, bidding him a
last, last farewell!
Rushing with sobs and cries, he fell
upon his father's
neck -- he kissed him a thousand and a
thousand times,
and bathed his clay-cold face with scalding
tears.
But, though
George had lost his best of friends,
yet he never
lost those divine sentiments which that friend
had so carefully
inculcated. On the contrary, interwoven
with the fibres
of his heart, they seemed to 'grow with his
growth, and
to strengthen with his strength.' The memory of
his father,
often bathed with a tear , imposed a more sacred
obligation on
him to do whatever he knew would rejoice his
departed shade.
And this was very happily displayed, in
every part of
his deportment, from the moment of his
earliest intercourse
with mankind.
*From The Life of George Washington, by Mason
Weems.
J.B. Lippincott, (Philadelphia: 1857).
Return
to Study Guide #6
Revised
October 10, 2003
by Tom Gallup, e-mail address: tom_gallup@westvalley.edu
West Valley College
http://www.westvalley.edu/wvc/ss/gallup/gallup.html