April 28, 1758—James Monroe—fifth President of the United States and, according to former Presidential candidate and Monroe biographer Gary Hart, our "first national-security President" —was born the second of five children of a small planter in Westmoreland County, in what was then the colony of Virginia.
Two and a half years ago, on the same trip to the piedmont section of the state in which I visited the mansions of Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, Monticello and Montpelier, I also stopped at what their protégé, Monroe, called his "cabin castle": Ash Lawn-Highland. I have to admit that, having just come from Jefferson's iconic hilltop home-turned temple of democracy, I was surprised, even let down, by the Monroe's comparatively simple farmhouse.
Yet, as my eyes swept over Monroe's rolling 535 acres in the mountains of western Virginia, I was reminded that he was, after all, a plantation owner requiring many resources to sustain the lifestyle he desired as a man and required as a politician. Moreover, a longer look afforded some surprises.
Instead of one story high, which was how it looked from the north side, the house was, I soon noticed, tucked into a hillside that concealed a basement. Once past the modest exterior, I saw evidence of a man with a taste for sophisticated, even costly foreign furniture, usually French. Clearly, there was more to Monroe than a first glance suggested.
An Underestimated Chief Executive
For all the inevitable comparisons with Monticello and Montpelier, then, Ash Lawn-Highland should not be overlooked, anymore than Monroe's political legacy should be. The last of the "Virginia Dynasty" that dominated the Presidency at the start of the American Republic, Monroe was, like other Presidents down to the present day, used to being "misunderestimated."
Nobody—but nobody —thought he was smarter than his fellow Democratic-Republicans, Jefferson and Madison. Even his Cabinet doubted him. His Secretary of War, John C. Calhoun, regarded him as "slow." His Secretary of the Treasury, William Crawford, thought Monroe was so indecisive that he threatened his chief with a cane.
Yet Monroe, though still not placed among the great Presidents, has achieved greater stature among historians, even making the top 10 on occasion. The doctrine named for him has dominated American policy in the Western Hemisphere for nearly two centuries. He won two terms, the second in such near-unanimous fashion that his administration was dubbed, somewhat misleadingly, the "Era of Good Feelings."
Just as Monroe rebuilt the White House after its burning by the British in the War of 1812, so he led the United States to a new era of peace and prosperity. After two wars involving its mother country in its first 40 years, the United States would never experience a British invasion again — not unless you count a quartet of moptops singing on "The Ed Sullivan Show" in 1964.
Early in his career, Monroe would have been voted one of the least likely to be called a consensus-builder. His advocacy of the French Revolution while serving as America's envoy to the country led George Washington to recall him, and Monroe's self-justifying pamphlet upon his return further annoyed the President (who, incidentally, had been his commanding officer at the Battle of Trenton, where 18-year-old Monroe had been wounded). In December 1799, Monroe's election as Virginia's governor so enraged his old boss that Washington discussed it for an hour without taking off his snow-covered cloak – triggering the pneumonia that killed him a few days later.
Nor was Washington the only Federalist that Monroe angered during his time in Washington. Thoroughly convinced that Monroe was behind the exposure of his affair with Maria Reynolds, Alexander Hamilton challenged the Democratic-Republican to a duel. Only cooler heads prevented a Weehawken-style duel that, like Hamilton's a few years later with Aaron Burr, might have resulted in loss of a political career or a life. (As I noted earlier this year, the most likely culprit in the leak was an associate of the Virginia Dynasty, John James Beckley, who went on to become the first librarian of Congress.)
The Tales This House Could Tell
Like its longtime master, Ash Lawn-Highland has passed in and out and back into fashion. Dire financial straits forced Monroe to put the house up for sale only a year after he left the White House, and even to sue the government he once headed for reimbursement of expenses from a lifetime of public service.
In 1974, the home was bequeathed by its then-owner to Monroe's alma mater, the College of William and Mary. Income from admissions, shop sales, grants, and tax-deductible contributions go not only toward maintenance of the house, but also to merit scholarship recipients at William and Mary.
Guides at Ash Lawn-Highland were quick to point out to me and the other visitors on this golden autumn afternoon that Monroe had more executive experience than any prior American President – U.S. senator, four-term Governor of Virginia, Minister to Great Britain, Spain, and France, Secretary of State and Secretary of War.
How could a man with such accomplishments be overlooked? This property is a good place to start for an answer.
Like so much else in Monroe's life, it was influenced by Jefferson – from the location (only two and a half miles from Jefferson's estate in Charlottesville, personally selected by the great man himself), to the gardeners who started the orchards, even to the placement of the kitchen underneath the house.
Having taught the young Monroe the law and taken him under his wing as the new republic formed, Jefferson could be forgiven for offering a little architectural advice, too.
Some of his other counsel was not as benign. Upon inspecting Monroe's slave quarters, Jefferson told his protégé that they were too good for their occupants: even white guests, he noted, barely enjoyed better accommodations than the "servants" (the preferred euphemism for the "peculiar institution"). Perhaps he wasn't blessed with Jefferson's often stunning farsightedness, but Monroe was also not plagued by the stunning moral blindness that made the Sage of Monticello so maddening to posterity.
A Beloved But Aloof Beauty
The house interior also reflects another difference between the two: the presence of a wife. There is virtually no trace at Monticello of Martha Jefferson, who died when her husband was only halfway through his life. The sensibility of Elizabeth Kortright Monroe, on the other hand, comes through as strongly as that of her husband in virtually every room at Ash Lawn-Highland.
In the parlor, I scrutinized the portrait of Elizabeth as a young woman. You could see why Monroe was devoted to her throughout their married life, and why her death hastened his own a year later.
She retained much of her youthful beauty all the way into her fifties in the White House, with some observers even comparing her to a goddess. But that description also hints at unapproachability – a distinct disadvantage for a plantation owner and politician expected to lavish hospitality on an epic scale. Elizabeth was utterly without the genius for small talk that distinguished Dolley Madison, and she used her mounting illnesses to evade social engagements she dreaded.
“The Last of the Cocked Hats”
The "last of the cocked hats" (i.e., the last President to have fought in the American Revolution), James Monroe favored knee-buckled breeches and three-cornered Revolutionary hats, even during his Presidency. This identification with the republic's beginnings had become so complete that people figured it was natural that he would even die on July 4, 1831, just like Adams and Jefferson had done five years before.
Both old-fashioned and cosmopolitan, Monroe knew enough about the Old World's corruptions and convulsions that he would not allow it to regain lost traction in the New World. The doctrine that Secretary of State (and future President) John Quincy Adams formulated for him has served as the bedrock of American foreign policy ever since then. The little "cabin-castle" in Virginia reminded Monroe every day of everything valuable in his country.
Two and a half years ago, on the same trip to the piedmont section of the state in which I visited the mansions of Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, Monticello and Montpelier, I also stopped at what their protégé, Monroe, called his "cabin castle": Ash Lawn-Highland. I have to admit that, having just come from Jefferson's iconic hilltop home-turned temple of democracy, I was surprised, even let down, by the Monroe's comparatively simple farmhouse.
Yet, as my eyes swept over Monroe's rolling 535 acres in the mountains of western Virginia, I was reminded that he was, after all, a plantation owner requiring many resources to sustain the lifestyle he desired as a man and required as a politician. Moreover, a longer look afforded some surprises.
Instead of one story high, which was how it looked from the north side, the house was, I soon noticed, tucked into a hillside that concealed a basement. Once past the modest exterior, I saw evidence of a man with a taste for sophisticated, even costly foreign furniture, usually French. Clearly, there was more to Monroe than a first glance suggested.
An Underestimated Chief Executive
For all the inevitable comparisons with Monticello and Montpelier, then, Ash Lawn-Highland should not be overlooked, anymore than Monroe's political legacy should be. The last of the "Virginia Dynasty" that dominated the Presidency at the start of the American Republic, Monroe was, like other Presidents down to the present day, used to being "misunderestimated."
Nobody—but nobody —thought he was smarter than his fellow Democratic-Republicans, Jefferson and Madison. Even his Cabinet doubted him. His Secretary of War, John C. Calhoun, regarded him as "slow." His Secretary of the Treasury, William Crawford, thought Monroe was so indecisive that he threatened his chief with a cane.
Yet Monroe, though still not placed among the great Presidents, has achieved greater stature among historians, even making the top 10 on occasion. The doctrine named for him has dominated American policy in the Western Hemisphere for nearly two centuries. He won two terms, the second in such near-unanimous fashion that his administration was dubbed, somewhat misleadingly, the "Era of Good Feelings."
Just as Monroe rebuilt the White House after its burning by the British in the War of 1812, so he led the United States to a new era of peace and prosperity. After two wars involving its mother country in its first 40 years, the United States would never experience a British invasion again — not unless you count a quartet of moptops singing on "The Ed Sullivan Show" in 1964.
Early in his career, Monroe would have been voted one of the least likely to be called a consensus-builder. His advocacy of the French Revolution while serving as America's envoy to the country led George Washington to recall him, and Monroe's self-justifying pamphlet upon his return further annoyed the President (who, incidentally, had been his commanding officer at the Battle of Trenton, where 18-year-old Monroe had been wounded). In December 1799, Monroe's election as Virginia's governor so enraged his old boss that Washington discussed it for an hour without taking off his snow-covered cloak – triggering the pneumonia that killed him a few days later.
Nor was Washington the only Federalist that Monroe angered during his time in Washington. Thoroughly convinced that Monroe was behind the exposure of his affair with Maria Reynolds, Alexander Hamilton challenged the Democratic-Republican to a duel. Only cooler heads prevented a Weehawken-style duel that, like Hamilton's a few years later with Aaron Burr, might have resulted in loss of a political career or a life. (As I noted earlier this year, the most likely culprit in the leak was an associate of the Virginia Dynasty, John James Beckley, who went on to become the first librarian of Congress.)
The Tales This House Could Tell
Like its longtime master, Ash Lawn-Highland has passed in and out and back into fashion. Dire financial straits forced Monroe to put the house up for sale only a year after he left the White House, and even to sue the government he once headed for reimbursement of expenses from a lifetime of public service.
In 1974, the home was bequeathed by its then-owner to Monroe's alma mater, the College of William and Mary. Income from admissions, shop sales, grants, and tax-deductible contributions go not only toward maintenance of the house, but also to merit scholarship recipients at William and Mary.
Guides at Ash Lawn-Highland were quick to point out to me and the other visitors on this golden autumn afternoon that Monroe had more executive experience than any prior American President – U.S. senator, four-term Governor of Virginia, Minister to Great Britain, Spain, and France, Secretary of State and Secretary of War.
How could a man with such accomplishments be overlooked? This property is a good place to start for an answer.
Like so much else in Monroe's life, it was influenced by Jefferson – from the location (only two and a half miles from Jefferson's estate in Charlottesville, personally selected by the great man himself), to the gardeners who started the orchards, even to the placement of the kitchen underneath the house.
Having taught the young Monroe the law and taken him under his wing as the new republic formed, Jefferson could be forgiven for offering a little architectural advice, too.
Some of his other counsel was not as benign. Upon inspecting Monroe's slave quarters, Jefferson told his protégé that they were too good for their occupants: even white guests, he noted, barely enjoyed better accommodations than the "servants" (the preferred euphemism for the "peculiar institution"). Perhaps he wasn't blessed with Jefferson's often stunning farsightedness, but Monroe was also not plagued by the stunning moral blindness that made the Sage of Monticello so maddening to posterity.
A Beloved But Aloof Beauty
The house interior also reflects another difference between the two: the presence of a wife. There is virtually no trace at Monticello of Martha Jefferson, who died when her husband was only halfway through his life. The sensibility of Elizabeth Kortright Monroe, on the other hand, comes through as strongly as that of her husband in virtually every room at Ash Lawn-Highland.
In the parlor, I scrutinized the portrait of Elizabeth as a young woman. You could see why Monroe was devoted to her throughout their married life, and why her death hastened his own a year later.
She retained much of her youthful beauty all the way into her fifties in the White House, with some observers even comparing her to a goddess. But that description also hints at unapproachability – a distinct disadvantage for a plantation owner and politician expected to lavish hospitality on an epic scale. Elizabeth was utterly without the genius for small talk that distinguished Dolley Madison, and she used her mounting illnesses to evade social engagements she dreaded.
“The Last of the Cocked Hats”
The "last of the cocked hats" (i.e., the last President to have fought in the American Revolution), James Monroe favored knee-buckled breeches and three-cornered Revolutionary hats, even during his Presidency. This identification with the republic's beginnings had become so complete that people figured it was natural that he would even die on July 4, 1831, just like Adams and Jefferson had done five years before.
Both old-fashioned and cosmopolitan, Monroe knew enough about the Old World's corruptions and convulsions that he would not allow it to regain lost traction in the New World. The doctrine that Secretary of State (and future President) John Quincy Adams formulated for him has served as the bedrock of American foreign policy ever since then. The little "cabin-castle" in Virginia reminded Monroe every day of everything valuable in his country.
