THE CHERRY TREE AND LITTLE HATCHET
Whether the immortal cherry tree grew at this home on the Potomac,
or on the farm on the Rappahannock to which the family moved, we
are not instructed by the imaginings of "Parson Weems," Washington
Irving, and others; but the hatchet, if the cherry tree grew in
Westmoreland, must have been a very "little hatchet," indeed, for
Augustine Washington removed to a seat opposite Fredericksburg when
George was a small boy.
And just here the writer begs leave to enter a plea for the life of
this cherry tree! Irreverent biographers sneer at it as "a myth."
We have sacrificed much to truth. We have wiped from our canvas all
the "gay gallants" of Williamsburg, the love-lorn wandering curate,
"Sister Susie," the life in England, the charming portrait! Really,
we cannot give up our cherry tree! It is deeply rooted. It has
flourished more than one hundred and fifty years. Its lessons and
its fruits are the crowning glory of the board on the twenty-second
day of February. We positively decline to bury the little hatchet or
uproot the cherry tree!
[Illustration: Pohick Church, Mount Vernon, Virginia.]
"Parson Weems," who first told the story of the little hatchet,
was an Episcopal clergyman well known to General Washington. His
"Life of Washington" appeared several years before the great
man's death. "It was read by him and mildly commended," says one
writer. Certainly it was never contradicted. Parson Weems was an
eccentric character, but so kind and charitable that his "oriental
imagination" was indulgently condoned by his neighbors. He claimed
to have been rector of Pohick church which was attended by General
Washington. Not even this was contradicted at the time, and is
given the benefit of a doubt by the accurate old Bishop Meade
himself. He loved to make people happy. He would preach to the poor
negroes and then fiddle for them to dance. He probably believed with
George Herbert that:--
"A verse may find him who a sermon flies
And turn delight into a sacrifice."
He was a charming historian. If there were no interesting facts to
mitigate the dryness of a narrative, why then, of course, something
must be invented! So "his books have been read," says Bishop Meade,
"by more persons than those of Marshall, Ramsey, Bancroft and Irving
put together." Evidently the good bishop at heart liked him. He
thought him probably "too good for banning, too bad for blessing,"
but he admired, nevertheless, "the pathos and elegance of his
writings." Now, if General Washington did not stamp the cherry-tree
story as a falsehood, and if Bishop Meade does not contradict it, we
may leave it, as they did, to flower and fruit for the teaching of
American children.
The title of the clergyman's book was, "The Life of George
Washington; With Curious Anecdotes, Equally Honourable to Himself
and Exemplary to His Young Countrymen. By M. L. Weems, Formerly
Rector of Mount Vernon Parish." It may be interesting to relate the
original cherry-tree story as it appeared in this quaint little
book. The author says it was communicated to him by "an aged lady
who was a distant relative, and who, when a girl, spent much of
her time in the family." How convenient the aged lady, the distant
relative, has always been in tradition!
"When George was about six years old he was made the wealthy master
of a hatchet; of which, like most little boys, he was immoderately
fond, and 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 morning the old gentleman, finding
out what had befallen this tree, which, by the way, was a great
favorite, came into the house, and with much warmth asked for the
mischievous author, declaring at the same time that he would not
have taken five guineas for the 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 little hatchet.' 'Run to my arms, you
dearest boy,' cried his father in transports; '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 worth more than
a thousand trees, though blossomed with silver and their fruits of
purest gold.'
"It was in this way," adds Parson Weems, tagging on his moral, "by
interesting at once both his head and heart, that Mr. Washington
conducted George with great ease and pleasure along the happy paths
of pleasure."