In honor of Presidents’ Day, I’m going to discuss a little-known speech that George Washington made at a little-noted turning point in American history.

The date was March 15, 1783. The Revolutionary War had been won, but the Treaty of Paris, formally guaranteeing America’s independence, had not yet been signed. Meanwhile, a new crisis loomed.

In Newburgh, New York, officers of the Continental Army met together with mutiny in mind. Not only had they not been paid in years, they had received word from Philadelphia that the new government was without funds. They feared they might receive no compensation at all for their heroic services –- except the base ingratitude of their countrymen.

George Washington appeared to address the meeting. It was a moment that defined the measure of the man. Had Washington been a Caesar or Napoleon, intent on power for himself, he had only to give the order to march. He was trusted; he was popular. His men would have eagerly followed him to Philadelphia to overthrow the civilian authority and make him dictator.

Instead, Washington pleaded with the men for patience. He sympathized with their grievances, but he begged them not to reject the principle of representative government that they had fought a long and terrible war to establish.

Unfortunately, Washington was not exactly a spellbinding speaker. He was an 18th Century gentleman to his fingertips –- cool, formal, rational, and moderate in all things.

The following paragraph is typical of his brand of oratory, even on so urgent occasion as this:

“Let me entreat you, gentlemen … not to take any measures which, viewed in the calm light of reason, will lessen the dignity and sully the glory you have hitherto maintained; let me request you to rely on the plighted faith of your country, and place a full confidence in the purity of the intentions of Congress; that, previous to your dissolution as an army, they will cause all your accounts to be fairly liquidated, as directed in their resolutions, which were published to you two days ago, and that they will adopt the most effectual measures in their power to render ample justice to you, for your faithful and meritorious services. And let me conjure you, in the name of our common country, as you value your own sacred honor, as you respect the rights of humanity, and as you regard the military and national character of America, to express your utmost horror and detestation of the man who wishes, under any specious pretenses, to overturn the liberties of our country, and who wickedly attempts to open the floodgates of civil discord and deluge our rising empire in blood.”

As you might expect, Washington’s careful words did little to cool the rising tempers of his men.

When he saw that they wanted further assurances that the government would pay them what it owed them, Washington asked to read a letter he had received from a member of Congress, explaining the state of the government’s finances.

He drew out the letter, but the handwriting was too small and cramped for him to read it. So he stopped and reached into his coat pocket for his reading glasses. Since most of his officers had never seen him wear glasses before, they did not know he needed them. A hush fell over the assembly as Washington fumbled awkwardly with his spectacles. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he said as he looked up. “I have grown grey in your service, and now find myself growing blind.”

That simple, unplanned aside affected the officers more deeply than all that Washington had said before. He had been their commander for eight years. Every man present knew that he was sincere when he said he had grown grey in their service. The sentiment was real; it was human; and it touched the men’s hearts. Many of them wept openly.

When the meeting ended, the officers voted unanimously to leave the redress of their grievances in Washington’s hands. Washington’s magnificent aside had saved America’s fragile experiment in democracy.