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In 1796, George Washington struck six pointed sentences from his Farewell Address. I’d largely forgotten about them—the final address contains enough wisdom to fill volumes—until, on a whim, I revisited the drafts. What I found was revelatory: a chilling prophecy of the constitutional crisis now threatening to engulf our nation. These excised lines from the Farewell Address serve not only as a warning but as a prescient prophecy of the political turmoil and factionalism that would later shape the nation’s history. They reveal Washington’s deep understanding of the fragile nature of democratic institutions and the ever-present threats of demagoguery and partisan strife. This Presidents Day, these rediscovered warnings serve not as a eulogy for our experiment in self-governance, but as a rallying cry for its reinvigoration.
“In Republics of narrow extent,” Washington cautioned in this purged passage, “it is not difficult for those who at any time hold the reins of Power, and command the ordinary public favor, to overturn the established Constitution, in favor of their own aggrandisement.” Washington offered the blueprint of the modern demagogue, a Cassandra-like prophecy of executive overreach and populist fervor. His words eerily prefigure the rise of Andrew Jackson’s “spoils system,” Gov. Huey Long’s Louisiana fiefdom, and our current era of autocracy amplified by social media. Washington, having spurned a crown himself, recognized the siren song that could bewitch even ostensibly democratic leaders, particularly in polities where checks on power are easily subverted.
“Partial combinations of men, who though not in Office, from birth, riches or other sources of distinction, have extraordinary influence & numerous adherents” would subvert the very foundations of the republic, Washington warned. To become a demagogue, a president would need more than a powerful political party; he’d depend on a cabal of powerful citizens—the wealthy puppet masters, media barons, and shadow influencers—who could provide the scaffolding for a president to dismantle democratic norms. The enablers of tyranny, Washington predicted, wouldn’t be public servants, but private citizens who thought nothing of trading constitutional principles for a seat at the table of power.
Washington, who transitioned seamlessly from general to president and back to private citizen, could easily imagine a demagogue giving in to the perilous temptation to use martial power as a political cudgel. “By debauching the military force, by surprising some commanding citadel, or by some other sudden & unforeseen movement, the fate of the Republic is decided,” he warned, intimating that the president could deploy troops for domestic political ends, quelling protests, rounding up people he deems undesirable, and undermining electoral processes.
But then, suddenly, there’s good news. Washington’s analysis in this excised section pivots to a cautious optimism about large republics—at a time when the United States territory extended only to the Mississippi River. “But in Republics of large extent, usurpations can scarcely make its way through these avenues,” Washington writes to “Friends & Fellow-Citizens,” in an address that was published in newspapers rather than delivered to Congress. “The powers and opportunities of resistance of a wide extended and numerous nation, defy the successful efforts of the ordinary military force, or of any Collections which wealth and patronage may call to their aid.” Echoing James Madison in Federalist No. 10, he places faith in size as democracy’s invisible shield. The American experiment, sprawling across half a continent, was to be a Gordian knot too complex for any would-be Alexander to slice through.
Notably, Washington’s emphasis on “resistance” suggests a populace capable of thwarting tyranny through its sheer diversity and geographic spread—a prescient nod to the grassroots movements and state-level pushback that would often serve as bulwarks against federal overreach in centuries to come.
The last line Washington omitted, however, qualifies that optimism with a sobering coda: “In such Republics, it is safe to assert, that the conflicts of popular factions are the chief, if not the only inlets, of usurpation and Tyranny.” The Achilles’ heel of large democracies—their very diversity, if channeled into blind factionalism—could become the instrument of their undoing. Washington had no crystal ball, and yet he vaguely described a country where political tribes hunker in digital bunkers, consuming and creating partisan journalism, lobbing grenades across an ever-widening chasm of mutual incomprehension.
Why did Washington strike these pointed lines from his Farewell Address? Alexander Hamilton, by then a New York lawyer who still played the president’s éminence grise, wanted Washington to exit as he entered: a unifying figure optimistic about the “infant nation.” He warned that Washington’s draft, tinged with partisan bitterness, would not “wear well.” In 2025, however, it’s clear that Hamilton was being shortsighted. The irony stings: In preserving Washington’s unifying legacy, perhaps those words that could have unified Americans in a more important way—against the very factionalism now threatening our republic—were erased.
Is it too late? Now that we’ve unearthed these lines, we can’t unsee them. This Presidents Day, Washington’s cuts serve as a clarion call, challenging us to prove that a republic can indeed survive the very pluralism that defines it. They demand action: confront divisive rhetoric, safeguard democratic institutions, and remain vigilant against fast and furious authoritarianism. The choice is ours. History awaits our answer.
