Mason Weems grew up as the youngest child in his family. The baby usually garners the most attention, but given that Mason had EIGHTEEN older brothers and sisters, he had to work extra hard to be in the family spotlight. Turns out, he made his whole life about staying in a spotlight from the time he was born in 1759.
He studied medicine, but then decided that preaching in front of an awed congregation was more to his taste, and instead became an Episcopal priest. Once he was assigned to a parish, he realized that he was better suited for the life of itinerant preaching. This displeased his Episcopal bishop, who asked for his resignation. Weems continued to travel and preach.
A prominent Philadelphia publisher heard him preach and realized immediately what a brilliant salesman Weems would make for his series on American histories and biographies. Weems was eager to take on the challenge of book sales; he’d been selling himself successfully since early childhood.
But even his publisher was amazed when, early on, Weems masterminded the merchandising coup of the season. During George Washington’s second term as President, Weems convinced Washington to endorse one of his books, and it became an immediate best seller.
When Washington died six years later, Weems and his publisher rushed to get the first biography of him into print, and did they ever succeed. It appeared only six months after Washington was buried: A History of the Life of Washington. It was written by “Parson Weems” since the author knew that using his ministerial title would denote a book of moral teachings and increase sales for families who wished to inspire their children.
While writing Washington’s life story at lightning pace, Weems realized he knew nothing about the President's childhood and had no time to research it. Never letting such pesky snags deter him, Weems couldn’t resist substituting his own childhood, which, unfortunately, had been completely unmemorable.
Except…except for his sixth birthday, when he was given his first hatchet, which caused him to to run into his father’s prized orchard and go on a chopping spree (similar to a shopping spree, but with splinters).
What American student during the last 200 years did not learn what happened next? Substituting his own father for Washington’s and thus moving his own hatchet prank into the spotlight, Weems had the elder Washington survey the cherry tree damage, ask George who might be responsible, and hear his mischievous but heroic little boy bravely cry out: “I can’t tell a lie, Pa. You know I can’t tell a lie. I did cut it down with my hatchet.” His father hugs him for his candor, teaching all future generations of elementary school students that honesty is indeed the best policy.
There is something delightfully ironic about American schoolchildren learning both history and ethics from Parson Weems, a man who was as dubious a moralist for his readers as the Wizard of Oz was for Dorothy and her friends. Both men were shameless self-promoters, and it must be admitted there is something quite American in this particular character trait. It has been noted that although there have been con men in our world since the first dupe was conned, no doubt much earlier than Biblical times, and although all countries have unscrupulous “professionals” who prey on the gullible, only in America has there ever been a large population of nattily-dressed gentlemen who made a good living by traveling and selling the medicinal properties of the oil from snakes.
In our own charming American era, the fable of Washington and the cherry tree seems downright quaint. If politicians today were caught on Youtube chopping up an entire old-growth forest, rather than claiming that they could not tell a lie, they would stare into the camera and sternly ask their constituents, “Who are you going to believe, me or your lying eyes?” And they would add, for good measure, a reference to six-year-old Washington’s favorite gift, by declaring that the whole sordid scenario was reported because they were framed by their evil political opponents’ “hatchet job”.
Back in the 1950’s, my family swallowed Parson Weems’ bogus fable hook, line, and cherry pie sinker, which my mom made for dessert on every President’s Day. And I swear my mother’s streusel topping was the finest in the whole country. I can’t tell a lie, Ma. You know I can’t tell a lie.
Email Elliot at huffam@me.com or click here