The Epic of New York City (31 page)

State legislators, however, were so avid for power, that they couldn't agree on a method for choosing Presidential electors. As a result, New York did not vote in the election that made George Washington our first President.

In 1789, the year Washington was inaugurated, Jacob Astor made his first real estate investment in Manhattan. Now an independent fur dealer who sold musical instruments as a sideline, Astor bought property between the Bowery and Elizabeth Street for forty-seven pounds. Later he picked up two adjoining lots. Shortly before his death, many years afterward, Astor was to wail, “Could I begin again, knowing what I know now, I would buy every foot of land on the island of Manhattan.”

Chapter 14

G
EORGE
W
ASHINGTON
was notified on April 14, 1789, of his election as the first President of the United States. He had hoped to end his days at Mount Vernon, preferring the privacy of home to the pageantry of power, but his sense of duty compelled him to accept the office. He declined to accept the salary that went with it. Washington, one of the richest men of his time, was so land-poor that he had to borrow money to pay his travel expenses to New York for the inauguration. On April 16 he left his estate and headed north.

His trip turned into a triumphal procession. Alexandria, Georgetown, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Trenton—all greeted him with high honors. And in a ceremony of exceeding splendor Washington was received in New York on April 23.

The nation's first Presidential mansion stood at 3 Cherry Street just east of the present City Hall; today the site is occupied by one of the granite supports of the Brooklyn Bridge. The house had been erected in 1770 by Walter Franklin, a merchant, for whom nearby Franklin Square was named. When Franklin died in 1780, the house passed to his son-in-law, Samuel Osgood of Massachusetts, whom Washington made our first Postmaster General. Osgood rented the house and its contents to the President-elect for 900 pounds a year.

New Yorkers called Osgood's house The Palace. Actually, it was a rather modest square brick building three stories high with a row of five windows across the front. Furthermore, it wasn't in Manhattan's fashionable residential area, then near Wall and Broad streets. Its ceilings were so low that a lady's headdress of ostrich feathers once touched the candles in a chandelier and burst into flame. One wall of the drawing room held a large portrait of Louis XVI in his state robes, a gift to Washington from the French king. The President-elect had eighteen servants, some clad in red and white livery. Although he had rejected a salary, he accepted $25,000 a year for expenses.

His inauguration was scheduled for Thursday, April 30, 1789. At dawn that great day the skies were overcast. Soon, though, the sun came out. The city's population of 30,000 was swollen by visitors from all parts of the Union. Private houses overflowed with guests, hotels were jammed, and strangers slept in tents hastily erected in fields and lots.

That morning all were jolted awake by gunfire heralding the occasion. Donning holiday attire, the people breakfasted on bacon, meat pastries, fish, cheese, and bread and jam, washing all this down with ale. Into town jogged mounted farmers, who nodded at grooms rubbing down horses and oiling harnesses. Packet boats brought multitudes down Long Island Sound and the Hudson River. The Brooklyn-Manhattan ferry was packed. Standing at the rails and gazing at the waterfront, passengers counted 100 ships rocking at anchor. Then, lifting their eyes, they stared at strange flags fluttering from the roofs of foreign legations.

Business was suspended for the day. By 8:30
A.M
. the streets had begun to fill up, and men and boys climbed onto the roofs of buildings near City Hall. This two-story building, with its central cupola, slanting roofs and four thin chimneys, was now known as Federal Hall because Mayor Richard Varick had lent it to Congress.

At 9
A.M
. church bells summoned people to pray for George Washington.
Soon afterward John Adams rode into town. Two days previously the crusty Massachusetts lawyer had been sworn in as Vice-President. Adams felt peevish. There had been eleven candidates for Vice-President, and he hadn't received enough votes to satisfy him. About the same time James Madison, the frail Virginian who considered Adams vain and gauche, emerged from his lodgings at 19 Maiden Lane.

About 10:30
A.M
. Senators and Representatives, still arguing about how to address the new Chief Executive, drifted into Federal Hall. By noon they had taken their seats, the Representatives on the first floor and the Senators on the second. John Adams annoyed some Senators with his fussy questions, such as: “Gentlemen, I wish for the direction of the Senate. The President will, I suppose, address the Congress. How shall I behave?” After a brief discussion a joint Congressional committee went to Washington's home to escort him to Federal Hall. The delegation, headed by Senator Ralph Izard of South Carolina, reached the mansion at 12:30
P.M.

The solemn-faced men found Washington clad in a brown suit of homespun broadcloth, presented to him by a Hartford mill. Washington usually wore imported silk, but that day he chose an American product to encourage domestic manufacturing. His somewhat drab appearance was relieved by white silk stockings, metal buttons embossed with eagles, cuff buttons studded with thirteen stars, and a sword encased in a white leather scabbard. Washington's powdered wig was caught behind in a silk bag.

Now he bowed to the committee members. Senator Izard announced that Congress was ready to receive him. Washington bowed again, took his cocked hat from an aide, and walked outdoors. A waiting crowd cheered as the tall, stately Virginian stepped into a cream-colored coach, decorated with cupids holding festoons of flowers in their pink hands. Hitched to the carriage were four superb horses, their prancing legs rippling in elongated shadows over cobblestones. A liveried postilion mounted the near horse, and two uniformed coachmen climbed into their rear seats.

The order of march had been carefully planned. Details were overseen by six mounted masters of ceremonies, led by Colonel Morgan Lewis. After surveying everything critically, Lewis flashed a signal, and the procession moved south to band music. During the half-mile ride to Federal Hall, Washington sat erect, his lips tight over his
wooden teeth, his blue-gray eyes masking his emotions, now and then bowing stiffly to shouting spectators massed along the streets.

Arriving at the Capitol, Washington stepped from his coach and was ushered inside. Surrounded by dignitaries, he walked to the second floor and entered the Senate chamber, a room forty feet square and fifteen feet high. The arched blue ceiling glittered with a sun and thirteen stars. The chamber held several fireplaces and eight large windows, four of them opening on a southern balcony.

Senator Izard escorted Washington down the main aisle and formally introduced him to Vice-President Adams. Adams asked Washington to be seated. The President settled in a crimson damask-covered chair. Adams had prepared a little speech, but in this tense moment he couldn't remember what he wanted to say. After an awkward silence Adams presented Washington to the assemblage and said, “Sir, the Senate and the House of Representatives of the United States are ready to attend you to take the oath required by the Constitution, which will be administered by the chancellor of the state of New York.”

Washington replied, in a low voice, “I am ready to proceed.”

Everyone rose. The chief notables led Washington out of the Senate chamber onto the balcony fronting on Wall Street and facing south down Broad Street. Alexander Hamilton watched from a window of his home at 33 Wall Street. The moment Washington appeared on the balcony, a roar welled from the waiting multitude. He bowed three times, sat down in a chair, and, overcome with emotion, dropped his head into his hands. The crowd hushed. Chancellor Robert R. Livingston, a red-headed man wearing black robes, asked if he was ready to take the oath of office. Washington nodded.

But no Bible could be found in Federal Hall. Livingston, grand master of the New York Masons, hurriedly sent a messenger to a nearby Masonic lodge to fetch one. When the Bible arrived, it was put on a crimson cushion held by Samuel Otis, secretary of the Senate. Otis was so short that his head barely showed above the Bible. Washington stood up, his deep-set eyes scanning the packed streets and crowded roofs. Again the spectators cheered. Washington placed his big right hand on his chest in mute and humble acknowledgment. Then, gently, unwaveringly, his hand came down on the open Bible. Fixing his eyes on Chancellor Livingston, he repeated the words: “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of the President
of the United States and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.” Then he didn't wait for Otis to lift the Bible to his lips but leaned down and kissed it. As he straightened up, he murmured, “So help me, God!”

“It is done!” cried Livingston with tears in his eyes. “Long live George Washington, President of the United States!”

The crowd took up the chant: “Long live George Washington, President of the United States!” An American flag rippled up a flagpole on Federal Hall, church bells bonged, the Battery cannon roared, a fifteen-gun salute thundered from a Spanish warship in the harbor, and a wave of cheers crashed against the great man himself. Livingston was so choked with emotion that he could only wave his hat. Like him, some spectators, cheeks frozen with ecstasy, eyes misting, and throats hardening, merely flourished their hats over their heads. Others shouted themselves hoarse. Later several people said that they could die happy, having seen George Washington sworn in as President. Overpowered by the thunderous ovation, Washington's granite will almost cracked. He swallowed hard, stood briefly in trembling dignity, bowed solemnly, and then withdrew inside the Senate chamber.

After fumbling through his inaugural address, he was escorted to nearby St. Paul's Chapel to pray. By an irony of fate, at almost the same moment George III entered St. Paul's Church in London to offer thanks for the return of his sanity. During his recent period of mental confusion the king had muttered over and over again, “I shall never lay on my last pillow in peace and quiet as long as I remember my American colonies.”

Because Washington found the Cherry Street house too small for his needs and too far out of town, he moved. For the second executive mansion he chose the finest private building in town, the four-story McComb House at 39 Broadway. On the sidewalk just outside this brick dwelling a fateful decision was made.

Congress was deadlocked on two issues: Should the federal government pay state debts incurred during the war, and where should the nation's permanent capital be located? As sectional rivalries thickened, these questions became intertwined. Northern states, with the largest debts, favored the assumption of state debts by the federal government. Southern states, most of them solvent, opposed the plan. Northern
states wanted the capital in the North. Southern states wanted it in the South.

Secretary of the Treasury Alexander Hamilton, leader of the Federalists, advocated a strong central government. He felt that assumption of state debts would establish the nation's credit and force creditors to look to the federal government for payment, thus winning their support of the new nation at the expense of the states. If the federal government took over all debts, then it must get all revenues. Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson, leader of the Democratic-Republicans, felt that federal authority was already too great. As a Southerner, he wanted the nation's capital located farther south—say, on the banks of the Potomac River.