On July 26th the Convention appointed a small committee – the Committee of Detail, they called it – to set their resolves, amendments and propositions into a workable agreement. The committee was by no means expected to produce a finished Constitution; they were given eleven days to prepare a Report based on Resolutions already passed. Meanwhile the Convention would adjourn.
Newspapers carried notices of the adjournment, and there was a flurry of letter writing by delegates and interested bystanders. A member from North Carolina apologized to the governor of his state for not being able to give out more information. Secrecy was very necessary, he said. “Many crude matters,” daily uttered on the floor, “might make an undue impression on the too credulous and unthinking mobility.” James Madison’s father, irked at receiving no news, wrote to suggest that his son might at least give some information as to what the Convention was not doing. Young James Monroe sent Jefferson a vague report and said he feared the country’s ruin should the Convention’s recommendations be rejected. He trusted, however, that General Washington’s presence would “overawe and keep under the demon of party,” and that the General’s signature to the new Constitution “would secure its passage through the union.”
The General himself had got on his horse and rode upcountry with friends, trout fishing. He was still living on Market Street with the Robert Morris family, who described their visitor as extraordinarily quiet and self-effacing. It was Washington’s habit, returning from the Convention, to slip into the house unannounced. No one knew he was home until they found him working over his papers or sitting quietly, meditating.
Washington’s reputation has shifted much from generation to generation. During his lifetime he suffered sharp criticism, both as Commander in Chief of the Continental Army, and even more so as President of the United States. With the years, the virulence of party feeling faded and the Washington legend began to grow, blooming and withering again according to the fashion of the day. Washington has been labeled as an American saint, a snobbish prude, a general who lost battles, a brilliant commander, a slow-witted country gentleman, a shadowy figure of Early America, apparently made of stone, with badly fitted false teeth. But among all the differing contemporary descriptions, one quality everyone seemed to agree on: “There is a remarkable air of dignity about him, with a striking degree of gracefulness,” wrote an Englishman in 1780; “I have never seen anyone who was more naturally and spontaneously polite.”
There is an anecdote, in different versions, concerning Gouverneur Morris and the General, that summer of 1787. Perhaps the story is mere legend, as are so many stories concerning Washington, but legends often are illustrative of the truth. Morris announced in company that he was afraid of no man on earth, whereupon Alexander Hamilton made a bet that Morris would not dare to greet General Washington by a slap on the back. Brash, cheerful, self-assured, Morris entered a drawing room a few evenings later and found Washington standing by the fireplace. “Well, General!” said Morris, laying a hand on Washington’s shoulder. The General said nothing. But at once Morris knew his mistake and was ready, he said afterward, to sink through the floor.
In a Convention of quarrelsome, fiery states it was well to have such a presiding officer, personally remote, in whom the quality of personal jealousy had been conquered and put down. “I do not think vanity is a trait of my character,” Washington wrote quite simply. One feels this influence in the Convention; one sees the General presiding, his face grave, attentive, and one feels his anxiety, his deep involvement. “It is not sufficient,” he had written, “for a man to be a passive friend and well wisher to the cause.”
