Evolution of a Leader... and a Republic: Mount Vernon Part II

Gracious mansions, handsome youths in uniform, flirtatious belles in lavish dresses, and devoted servants: Gone with the Wind’s portrayal of 19^th century plantation life seemed romantic when I was 16. A spring vacation trip to South Carolina with Andy to visit my grandmother added to the mystique. The heady scent of gardenias, trees shrouded with gray-green Spanish moss, and tales of destruction during Sherman’s March to the Sea cemented my teenage southern sympathies. 

How had I missed the stain of slavery permeating those impressions? How could a country touting equal rights and liberty condone it for over 200 years? How could George Washington, a man idolized for his virtue, have been a slave owner? 

In my 1960’s American History classes in Pennsylvania, we were taught that the roots of the Civil War were largely economic, a collision between the industrialized North and the agrarian South. Beyond that, we were told, pointedly, that slavery was not the cause: the war was fought over states’ rights. True enough, but, as Confederacy vice president Alexander Stephens proclaimed in his Cornerstone Speech, the right so fiercely pursued by Confederate states was the right to own humans. 

Why did my teachers hedge?

Our decade is not the first to dodge “discomfort” while teaching the young. Was it deemed too discordant for a country founded on equality and liberty to delve into the brutality and hypocrisy of slavery when televisions were broadcasting into American living rooms scenes of violence against peaceful civil rights protesters? Were those images already tarnishing, to a distressing degree, the heroic post-WW II image of the United States? Could be. From the country’s founding, denial has continued to prove dangerous in masking past shame, allowing the resulting wounds to linger, and impeding the attainment of democratic ideals.  

President Washington was born into a world where denial thrived as fortunes flourished due to enslaved labor. While field hands were kept cowed and at a distance, the intelligence, talents and humanity of house servants, skilled seamstresses, weavers, carpenters, cooks, and farmers would have been evident. One must imagine, for those of heart and integrity such as Washington, a constant struggle of conscience. 

Washington’s thinking, and, equally important, his willingness to voice it, evolved during the Revolutionary War. In the courage of Black soldiers, in his bond with his valet William Lee, and in meeting accomplished Black – female! - poet Phylis Wheatley, it would have been ever harder to deny what was apparent. In 1786, he said, “There is not a man living who wishes more sincerely than I do, to see a plan adopted for this abolition of [slavery] but there is only one proper and effectual mode by which it can be accomplished, & that is by legislative authority.” 

In his will, finally, he made peace with his conscience and freed his slaves. 

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On Saturday, as predicted, my friends and I woke to a light drizzle. In raincoats and sensible shoes, we left the Quarters, enjoying the scent of wood smoke wafting from the re-enactors’ encampment. George Washington as farmer and gardener was our focus, and Dean Norton, Director of Horticulture, was our guide. 

With eyes bright and every gesture conveying his knowledge and love of the glorious gardens and plants surrounding us, Dean was a font of anecdotes and information acquired during his fifty years at Mount Vernon. He led the way beneath towering trees planted by the first president and, as we strolled the brick path bordering thriving lettuces and prickly artichokes in the vegetable garden, pointed to the spot where he, Dean, had proposed to his wife. 

George Washington loved his home and grounds and was meticulous about documenting everything, including the timing and success of different plantings. He was fascinated by innovation and science, and when wrenched from home and family by duty to this new country, he wrote constantly to his farm managers with questions, instructions, and adaptions. Every change in approach brought new burdens for the enslaved, some of whom, one must note, also knew the agony of being wrenched from home and family. But Washington drove himself hard in all he undertook and demanded from his laborers the same devotion to work. 

One of our pilgrimages was to the memorials dedicated to Mount Vernon’s enslaved individuals. Some are buried in unmarked graves on a wooded rise not so far from George and Martha Washington’s tomb.  

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For over three centuries, presidents of these United States have commissioned or been honored with presidential libraries. The country’s first president - he who accepted the challenge of a radically new democracy and set the precedent honored until 2020 of a peaceful transfer of power - had none. The Mount Vernon Ladies Association (MVLA) wished to remedy that, and in 2010 launched a fundraising campaign to construct a library. They raised $106.4 million, all from private donors, and broke ground in 2011. The library opened in September of 2013, and in 2024, with Andy and archivist Rebecca Baird, we were invited into the inner sanctum.

Shelves of 18^th and 19^th century books lined the room, some formerly owned by the Washington family, others, actually the President’s. In one, held open by a looping “book snake,” Washington had written his name in the upper right corner of the title page, just as I have done in my books any number of times. Another volume, a replica of an original owned and acquired by the MVLA through heated bidding at a Sotheby’s auction, was Washington’s personal copy of the Constitution. Did I imagine the glow that seemed to surround it?     

And how to explain the aura in the conference room. Was it the lighting? The warmth of burnished sycamore paneling from a single three-hundred-year-old tree? Or was it the busts of the Founders, elevated on high, Washington presiding as Jefferson and Hamilton eyed each other warily from their plinths across the room? 

Encircled by images of those whose vision shaped our government, I sensed something beyond solemnity. Given today’s divisiveness and threat to Democracy, I was reminded of Benjamin Franklin’s charge in response to Elizabeth Willing Powel’s question in 1787: “Well Doctor, what have we got? A republic or a monarchy?”   

“A Republic, if you can keep it,” he replied.

Can we? Are we, the voters, going to honor that charge and prevent a Project 2025 styled dictatorship? 

If the Men Won't, "The Ladies" Will: Mount Vernon, Part I

What were her thoughts the day Louisa Cunningham spotted the derelict mansion on the grassy rise above the Potomac? She’d been visiting her daughter in Philadelphia and was probably preoccupied, worried about Ann Pamela’s declining health. Ever since a riding accident caused a spinal injury when she was 17, Miss Cunningham’s symptoms had worsened, and in 1853, in her mid-thirties, she was an invalid, tormented by chronic pain. While discomfort, mercury-laden purgatives, and laudanum would have agitated humans of any gender, her physician, a specialist in women’s “nervous diseases” recommended she rest and avoid mental stimulation. For an intelligent, once active young woman, those instructions must have been a stultifying sentence. 

As was tradition, at a certain point, when the steamboat bearing Ann Pamela’s mother chugged by on the river - the wind luffing her long skirts, gulls crying, water slapping the hull – the captain clanged the ship’s bell in tribute. One can imagine Mrs. Cunningham’s smile of anticipation fading as she turned her head and gazed at the peeling paint and rotted fences of George and Martha Washington’s former home, Mount Vernon. 

But her dismay led to inspiration: a way to engage her daughter while serving the country. Miss Cunningham had long been fascinated by George Washington, and despite the doctor’s orders, it was precisely mental stimulation, a mission, that might intrigue and uplift her.   

Unlike his famous great granduncle, John Augustine Washington III, the current owner of Mount Vernon, had been unable to manage the estate. Even though enslaved people continued to provide the labor, this particular Washington was unequal to the challenges posed by crop failure, erosion, and lawn-trampling, souvenir-stealing tourists. He wanted to sell but recognized the property’s symbolic importance to America’s foundation and wished to preserve it. Surely the Commonwealth of Virginia or federal government would be willing to invest the $200,000 Mr. Washington had decided to ask?

No. Both declined.   

The pain-plagued Miss Cunningham, however, embraced the cause, saying, “If the men of America are allowing the home of its most respected hero to go to ruin, then why can’t the women of America band together to save it.” She solicited women of means, contacts, and determination and formed the Mount Vernon Ladies Association (MVLA) to raise the money required for the purchase.

When Miss Cunningham and her committee launched their initiative, women could not vote, and married women could neither buy nor own property. Female intellect, desires, and efforts were generally dismissed or patronized. Despite the legal limitations on all but white, land-owning men, The Ladies persevered… and succeeded. The MVLA raised the money and bought the property. They have preserved, maintained, and owned it ever since. 

                                                                        

I’d never been to Washington’s home nor heard of the MVLA, and when my high school roommate, Andy, mentioned that she was on the board of Mount Vernon, I asked if I could hitch a ride during one of her trips down. Graciously, she agreed and extended an invitation to several other former classmates. Six of us were able to go, and we settled on dates in early May that coincided with a Revolutionary War Weekend at the estate.

Andy and I drove south together, and as we neared our destination, we swung past the Mount Vernon Inn, the walkway to the visitors’ center, and a series of parking lots. I saw no glimpse of the mansion itself as we pulled up to a locked security gate. Andy spoke into an intercom and was greeted by a disembodied male voice. The gate swung wide to admit us, and I surmised that this was not the usual entrance for most visitors. 

While planning the excursion, Andy had said we’d be staying on the property. 

“On the property?! At Mount Vernon?!” I could barely contain my glee.

“Yes, in the Quarters. It’s nice. Plenty of room.” 

In the days ahead, there would be much to learn about the enslaved who’d worked for our first president, but despite the name, our accommodations had not once been theirs. If only it had, for the Quarters were lovely, with comfy bedrooms, a living room, and a well-stocked kitchen. This was the residence of the regent and vice regents, “The Ladies” of the MVLA, when they came to meet and work. At that time, I didn’t know their story nor the critical role they continue to play… much less that Andy was the vice regent for Massachusetts.  

The afternoon was warm and sunny, but the forecast for the rest of the weekend was grim, so once everyone in our group had arrived, we headed out for a stroll around the mansion grounds and gardens. 

It has been over fifty years since the six of us were at school together. A host of movements – anti-war, feminism, civil rights, environmental activism – colored those times, and as girls, we were buoyed by the conviction that our generation would get it all right. For a while, it seemed we were making headway, and then… Well, it has not gone as we believed it would. So much has changed, yet, as I looked into the dear faces around me, I still saw the girls they had been. And on that day, reflected in each, was the same euphoria and near disbelief I was feeling, that we were together … at Mount Vernon.   

We strode briskly along in our vests, sweaters, and slacks: weather-appropriate, twenty-first century garb; not the norm, it turned out, during a “Rev War Weekend.” Outnumbered we were by those in capes, breeches, tri-corn hats, and sweeping skirts as hundreds of re-enactors bustled about pitching tents and arranging displays of antiques and colonial reproductions. We were excited about the tours Andy had lined up for the following day… as well as a chance to visit those vendors.