George Washington, Liar?

Recently I was working through my past lives with a state-licensed past life regression therapist, when I came upon a rather damning bit of evidence concerning our august first president's extolled propensity to never tell a lie. The year was 1738, and our little George "I Cannot Tell A Lie" Washington was proud possessor of a hatchet. Back then sharp blades, blunderbusses, cannons, barrels of black powder and various other things were common toys for those kids who weren't a bunch of sissified pansies—as today's children are—though this is beside the point. Anyway, it was the spring of '38 and our little George Washington was using his hatchet to chop at things in a decidedly feckless manner. Feckless chopping being thirsty work, young George soon required a tall glass of Virginia’s finest—lemonade, that is. So, he sent his valet inside for some, while he finished his chopping.

So it was then, while George was engaged in his unpurposed chopping and his valet was fetching the lemonade, that my past-life self enters into the story. I was, at the time, in my former life, a simple, sturdy and thrifty yeoman farmer—not entirely dissimilar to the person I am today. It so happened, that at the time of this story, there was a party coming up at the Washington residence, and I had been contracted to provide a whole mess of sundry agricultural goods, the types that might be expected to be consumed by party-goers in the mid 18^th century, and which I don’t wish to describe because that would require more research than I deem necessary. Also, to describe these goods incorrectly would cast unjust aspersions upon the noble profession of the state-licensed past life regression therapists.

Anyway, I, yeoman farmer, was pulling up to the Washington residence with an ox-cart laden with agriculturally-themed mid 18^th century party goods. This was my first time catering a party for the Washingtons, so I was unfamiliar with the lay of the land, and got myself somehow a bit turned around on the way to the servants’ entrance. This spot I was in required that I put my oxcart in reverse, while making a sharp turn. Unfortunately, this delicate maneuver put directly in my path the prized oriental cherry tree of the Senior Washington. The tree being, I can only assume, a particularly weak specimen, unused to its unwonted Virginian home and doubtless having a weakly root structure, easily fell under the crushing sway of my humble oxcart with a resounding crack.

Honest though I was, the thought of reimbursing Senior Washington the cost of his tree on a meager agrarian’s salary was rather distasteful. I thought that I could deliver my goods and be gone before my small mistake could harm my chances of further good and profitable relations with the Washingtons. I would have succeeded, too, in my aim had not young George at that moment, hatchet in hand, discovered me standing over the wreck of his father’s cherry tree. He seemed frightened at first at the destruction wrought by my cart, and seemed ready to run to some figure of authority to report the deed, and I, seeing his intent, bid him wait a moment.

Something about my kindly countenance and rustic manner of speech doubtless persuaded him to stay, and he quickly took on the air of a scolding and arrogant master, whose servant had done him ill by his foolishness. This childish display of haughtiness, so thoroughly mimicked by one so young, immediately caused in me sentiments of amusement, and I fostered this display by continuing to play the bumpkin rôle young George so readily assigned me. After a few minutes and a few surreptitious inquiries, I discovered beneath George’s haughty exterior lay a child greedy for sweetmeats, candies, and confections. This information, thought I, would be an excellent foundation for a scheme to escape the blame for the wholly venial crime committed by my oxcart.

Being full of crafty folk wisdom, a plot soon germinated in my mind by which I could convince young George to give up his confessorial intentions. “What do you say, Master George,” says I, “if I could set you up for life with all the pastries, sweetmeats, and goodies your heart desires?” Now George, already a clever and precocious child, immediately understood the thrust of my wheedling speech, and after a few dozen bites of my wife’s delicious baked goods, he was more the willing to implicate himself in the felling of his papa’s cherry tree. And so it was, that not ten minutes after my humble oxcart was on its way from the Washington farm, young George, belly filled with cakes and sundry goodies, told Senior Washington that, “I cannot tell a lie,” with a cherubic air and a solemn countenance. Had I known then what I now know, I think I could fairly say that I was the man who initiated America’s first president into the deviously ramified paths, the labyrinthine corridors of politics.

Now, you’ll not find the name Silas Blake in any biography or history which concerns itself with George Washington’s youth, but there’s no doubt in my mind that this tale is true. What convinced me, you ask? Was it the assurances of the fame-greedy, state-licensed past life regression therapist? No. All the proof I needed is in the picture: