canvas, all of whom also wore their regimentals. To Peale,
the notion of a realistic portrayal of a contemporary figure seemed like received wisdom, an obvious means of serving a hardscrabble
new nation that aspired to dignity, honor, and virtue but saw no need for the pretense of dressing up in the costume of an
ancient era.
Reynolds had promptly dismissed West’s approach as unworthy of an artist’s imagination and invention. Ever the pragmatic American,
however, West had patiently explained the logic of his painting: “[T]he event . . . commemorated took place on the 18th of
September 1758 in a region of the world unknown to the Greeks and at a period of time no such nation and heroes in their costume
any longer existed.” 34 Even if West had difficulty with the chronology (he was a year off in dating the battle, which took place in 1759), his The Death of General Wolfe had been a great sensation, and prints of it became bestsellers.
Following West’s lead, Peale decided his George Washington at Princeton was to be more than a portrait. To be certain he got
the context just right, in February 1779 Peale “set out on a journey to take perspective Views of Trent[on] & Prince Town.”
He made sketches of the battlefield terrain and of cannons. 35 Returning to his studio, he added in Nassau Hall, the principal building in Princeton. To one side of the canvas he painted
Washington’s horse to remind the viewer of Washington’s skills as a rider (Thomas Jefferson called him “the best horse man
of his age and the most graceful figure that could be seen on horse back”). 36 Holding the horse’s bridle is William Lee, the General’s body servant, who served as both valet and wartime companion. Peale
left the canvas untitled, but it was easily distinguished by the mise-en-scène around the tall figure as the Battle of Princeton
(it became the prototype for the “Princeton Portrait,” thereby distinguishing it from the “Continental Type,” like Hancock’s,
and the 1772 “Virginia Militia Type,” like Martha’s). Given the events memorialized by the big 1779 canvases, the name was
inevitable.
At front and center stands Washington, his hand on a cannon; a second cannon behind the first refers to the victory a week
earlier at Trenton. As he painted Washington from life for this commission—in the days between January 20 and February 2,
1779, the General sat for Peale—he brought to bear years of on-again, off-again exposure to his subject. Peale had been to
Washington’s home, painted him from life at least three times, and had had intermittent exposure to the General as a soldier
and officer in his army, including service during the long winter of 1778 spent at Valley Forge. He had made copies of his
own Washington paintings numerous times, producing life-size canvases and miniatures on ivory. Even if Washington never learned
to relax for those charged with taking his picture, Peale knew how to give Washington’s painted likeness a sense of relaxed
power. No doubt it stemmed, in part, from the military confidence that flowed from the big victory at Princeton, an event
that even in its own time was a recognizable turning point in the colonials’ fortunes on the field of battle. But Peale’s
knowledge of the man informed his brushwork, too.
The martial figure at center had seen a whirlwind of change in the seven years since Peale first painted Martha’s husband
at Mount Vernon. His citizenship had changed: He was an American now, no longer a subject of the English king. He had been
promoted by the unanimous vote of his peers in the Continental Congress from the rank of a Virginia militia colonel to general
and commander in chief. Although his battle-field successes had been outnumbered by the failures, his fellow citizens trusted
him as they did no other. On numerous occasions, he had led his men into battle, ignoring the bullets whistling by, winning
the notion of a realistic portrayal of a contemporary figure seemed like received wisdom, an obvious means of serving a hardscrabble
new nation that aspired to dignity, honor, and virtue but saw no need for the pretense of dressing up in the costume of an
ancient era.
Reynolds had promptly dismissed West’s approach as unworthy of an artist’s imagination and invention. Ever the pragmatic American,
however, West had patiently explained the logic of his painting: “[T]he event . . . commemorated took place on the 18th of
September 1758 in a region of the world unknown to the Greeks and at a period of time no such nation and heroes in their costume
any longer existed.” 34 Even if West had difficulty with the chronology (he was a year off in dating the battle, which took place in 1759), his The Death of General Wolfe had been a great sensation, and prints of it became bestsellers.
Following West’s lead, Peale decided his George Washington at Princeton was to be more than a portrait. To be certain he got
the context just right, in February 1779 Peale “set out on a journey to take perspective Views of Trent[on] & Prince Town.”
He made sketches of the battlefield terrain and of cannons. 35 Returning to his studio, he added in Nassau Hall, the principal building in Princeton. To one side of the canvas he painted
Washington’s horse to remind the viewer of Washington’s skills as a rider (Thomas Jefferson called him “the best horse man
of his age and the most graceful figure that could be seen on horse back”). 36 Holding the horse’s bridle is William Lee, the General’s body servant, who served as both valet and wartime companion. Peale
left the canvas untitled, but it was easily distinguished by the mise-en-scène around the tall figure as the Battle of Princeton
(it became the prototype for the “Princeton Portrait,” thereby distinguishing it from the “Continental Type,” like Hancock’s,
and the 1772 “Virginia Militia Type,” like Martha’s). Given the events memorialized by the big 1779 canvases, the name was
inevitable.
At front and center stands Washington, his hand on a cannon; a second cannon behind the first refers to the victory a week
earlier at Trenton. As he painted Washington from life for this commission—in the days between January 20 and February 2,
1779, the General sat for Peale—he brought to bear years of on-again, off-again exposure to his subject. Peale had been to
Washington’s home, painted him from life at least three times, and had had intermittent exposure to the General as a soldier
and officer in his army, including service during the long winter of 1778 spent at Valley Forge. He had made copies of his
own Washington paintings numerous times, producing life-size canvases and miniatures on ivory. Even if Washington never learned
to relax for those charged with taking his picture, Peale knew how to give Washington’s painted likeness a sense of relaxed
power. No doubt it stemmed, in part, from the military confidence that flowed from the big victory at Princeton, an event
that even in its own time was a recognizable turning point in the colonials’ fortunes on the field of battle. But Peale’s
knowledge of the man informed his brushwork, too.
The martial figure at center had seen a whirlwind of change in the seven years since Peale first painted Martha’s husband
at Mount Vernon. His citizenship had changed: He was an American now, no longer a subject of the English king. He had been
promoted by the unanimous vote of his peers in the Continental Congress from the rank of a Virginia militia colonel to general
and commander in chief. Although his battle-field successes had been outnumbered by the failures, his fellow citizens trusted
him as they did no other. On numerous occasions, he had led his men into battle, ignoring the bullets whistling by, winning
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