Washington had other cogent reasons for making the trip. To refute stories about his supposedly regal style, he decided to travel with only Tobias Lear, David Humphreys, and William Jackson, in addition to six servants. Since he was traveling to Massachusetts, Washington thought it proper to invite along Vice President Adams, who committed a major faux pas by snubbing his invitation. The trip would also enable Washington, after his recent prolonged illness, to indulge in fresh air, exercise, and relaxation. To rebuild his shattered health, he now rode for two hours each morning and strolled for an hour in the late afternoon, but he still led a confined existence in New York and must have eagerly anticipated the freedom of the open road.

When he set out in mid-October, the business of government did not grind to a halt. Congress had instructed Alexander Hamilton to draw up a report on public debt and to devise an all-encompassing plan to fund it. It was a huge and punishing task—Congress wanted it in hand when it reconvened in early January—but Hamilton, a dynamo who thrived on hard work, gloried in his ability to produce outstanding results on short notice. Prior to leaving New York, Washington also signed a proclamation for the first Thanksgiving on November 26, declaring that “Almighty God” should be thanked for the abundant blessings bestowed on the American people, including victory in the war against England, creation of the Constitution, establishment of the new government, and the “tranquillity, union, and plenty” that the country now enjoyed.2

To execute a sweeping tour of the northern states, Washington knew, he would encounter many problems that had bothered him before. He had no flair for impromptu public speaking or small talk and could not divert audiences with a casual joke or anecdote. “In public, when called on for a sudden opinion, he was unready, short, and embarrassed,” Jefferson recalled, noting that Washington “had neither copiousness of ideas, nor fluency of words.”3 He also had to worry about a more humiliating possibility: his dentures popping out unexpectedly. Opening his mouth relaxed the pressure on the curved metal springs connecting the upper and lower dentures, which might cause them to slip out. That Washington risked such embarrassment in order to make direct contact with the people shows his self-sacrificing nature. Perhaps afraid he would be held captive to the hospitality of various families and eager to salvage some privacy, he laid down a rule that he would not stay in private residences during the trip.

By now Washington well understood the machinery of fame. Usually he rode through the countryside in an open carriage, attended by servants in livery and jockey caps. Behind him a baggage wagon rumbled along, and one of his slaves, either Paris or Giles, supervised his white charger in the rear. As they entered a town, Washington would dismount from his carriage, mount the white steed, then enter with magnificent solemnity. He clung to the hope that he might avoid fanfare and enter cities unobtrusively, and at his first stop in New Haven, Connecticut, he deliberately bypassed the welcoming committee. “By taking the lower road,” he admitted in his diary, “we missed a committee of the assembly who had been appointed to wait upon and escort me into town.”4 Typically, as word leaked out about his imminent arrival, a volunteer cavalry corps rushed to greet him before he could outwit them. Doomed to his own celebrity, he tried to submit with the best possible grace.

Aside from scouting places for future canals, roads, and other internal improvements, Washington kept a weather eye out for innovations in manufacturing and agriculture. The country already stood in the early throes of the Industrial Revolution, and unlike Jefferson, Washington did not recoil from the mills that had begun to dot the landscape. He stopped by the Hartford Woolen Manufactory and examined its textile business. While he did not find their broadcloths to be first-rate, he ordered a suit for himself and material for breeches for his servants. Engaging in a bit of amateur sociology, he observed the greater income equality of the northern states. Soon after crossing into Massachusetts, he wrote, “There is a great equality in the people of this state. Few or no opulent men and no poor—great similitude in their buildings . . . The farms . . . are small, not averaging more than 100 acres.”5 His comment provides yet another example of Washington’s growing appreciation of the northern states and his shedding of a purely Virginia identity.

Boston loomed as the first major city on the itinerary; plans for a full-dress military parade as he entered the city only stoked Washington’s anxiety. A committee of Boston dignitaries traveled to meet him in Spencer, west of Worcester, and, just as he feared, they presented their celebratory plans. Not for the last time during the trip, Washington fell on his sword: “Finding this ceremony was not to be avoided, though I had made every effort to do it, I named the hour of ten to pass the militia of the above county at Cambridge and the hour of 12 for my entrance into Boston.”6

Boston had never properly thanked Washington for its liberation from the British, and it now intended to seize the opportunity. Knowing this would be a tribute to his wartime prowess, Washington departed from his usual practice and decked himself out in his Continental Army uniform, topped by rich gold epaulettes. If he had been resistant at first to the adulation of the Boston populace, he entered wholly into the spirit of the occasion. The morning of his arrival was cold and overcast, and his cavalcade was halted at Cambridge by a dispute as to whether state or local authorities would receive him. The president grew irritated with the maddening delay. “Is there no other avenue into the town?” he demanded.7 The stern reproof had an immediate effect: he would be greeted by municipal officials.

As he entered Boston, church bells chimed, and a French fleet in the harbor erupted with bursts of artillery fire. In a symbolic gesture, cannon roared from Dorchester Heights, recalling the triumph Washington had engineered there during the Boston siege. People crammed the streets, bent on seeing him as he trotted by on his white steed. “He did not bow to the spectators as he passed,” said one observer, “but sat on his horse with a calm, dignified air.”8 At the State House he passed beneath an enormous arch emblazoned with the words “To the man who unites all hearts,” surmounted by a laurel wreath with the inscription “Boston relieved March 17th. 1776.”9 When Washington appeared on a balcony of the building and set eyes on the vast multitude below, there arose a tremendous roar. George Washington was always more emotional than people realized, and by the time he emerged from the State House and heard a choir crooning an ode to him, he could no longer contain himself, giving way to tears. One startled eyewitness described how “every muscle of his face appeared agitated, and he was frequently observed to pass . . . his handkerchief across his eyes.”10

Washington’s visit to Boston embroiled him in a delicate diplomatic impasse with Governor John Hancock, who invited him to stay in his richly decorated Beacon Hill home. Hancock was something of a strutting peacock, wearing fancy clothes and riding about in a radiant coach. In replying to this invitation, Washington explained his decision to stay in prearranged lodgings, although he accepted an invitation to dine informally with Hancock. Always scrupulously attentive to form, Washington assumed that Hancock would obey protocol and call on him at his lodgings before he went to this dinner. Pleading gout, Hancock failed to do so. To Hancock’s emissaries, Washington expressed his displeasure. He knew that Hancock was trying to establish that he outranked the president in Massachusetts. Behind the dispute over etiquette lay an unspoken struggle between state and federal power. “I informed them in explicit terms that I should not see the Gov[erno] r unless it was at my own lodgings,” Washington wrote in his diary.11 Perhaps he remembered Hancock’s peevish reaction when Washington had been appointed commander in chief instead of him. Hancock quickly got the message. Writing grandly about himself in the third person, he told Washington that “the Governor will do himself the honor to pay his respects in half an hour. This would have been done much sooner had his health in any degree permitted.”12 To flaunt his martyrdom, Hancock wrapped himself up in red flannel bandages and had his servants carry him into Washington’s lodging.