I
My retirement from official duties as President has enabled me to
restore order on my plantations, and in some degree to repair the
neglected buildings which are fallen to decay. The constant coming of
guests――moved, I fear, more by curiosity than by other reasons――is
diminished owing to snows, unusual at this period of the year.
Owing to these favouring conditions, I have now some small leisure to
reflect on a life which has been too much one of action and of public
interests to admit, hitherto, of that kind of retrospection which is
natural, and, as it seems to me, fitting in a man of my years, who has
little to look forward to and much to look back upon.
My recent uneasiness lest I should be called upon to conduct a war
against our old allies, the French, is much abated, and I feel more
free to consider my private affairs. I am too far advanced in the
vale of life to bear much buffeting, and I have satisfaction in the
belief we have escaped a new war for which the nation has not yet the
strength. For sure I am, if this country is preserved in tranquillity
twenty years longer, it may bid defiance in a just cause to any powers
whatever, such in that time will be its power, wealth, and resources.
Increasing infirmity and too frequent aches and ailments remind me
that I am nearing the awful moment when I must bid adieu to sublunary
things, and appear before that Divine Being to whom alone my country
owes the success with which we have been blessed. But the great
Disposer of events is also the Being who has formed the instruments of
his will and left them responsible to the arbitration of conscience.
Therefore I have of late spent much time in considering my past
life, and how it might have been better or more successful, and in
thankfulness that it has escaped many pitfalls.
My reflections have brought back to mind a remark which seems to
me just, made by my aide, Colonel Tilghman, a man more given to
philosophic reflection than I have been. He asked me if I did not think
there was something providential in the way each period of my life had
been an education for that which followed it. I said that this idea had
at times presented itself to my mind, and when I betrayed curiosity,
he went on to say that my very early education in self-reliance and
my training as a surveyor of wild lands had fitted me for frontier
warfare, that this in turn had prepared me for action on a larger
stage, and that all through the greater war my necessities called for
constant dealing with political questions, and with men who were not
soldiers. He thought that this had in turn educated me for the position
to which my countrymen summoned me at a later time.
As I was silent for a little, this gentleman, who became my aide-de-camp
in June, 1780, and for whom I conceived a warm and lasting affection,
thinking his remark might have been considered a liberty, said as much,
excusing himself.
I replied that, so far from annoying me, I found what he had to say
interesting.
When, recently, these remarks of Colonel Tilghman recurred to me, I
felt that they were correct, and dwelling upon them at this remote
time, my interest in the sequence of the events of my youthful life
assumed an importance which has led me of late to endeavour, with the
aid of my diaries, to refresh my memories of a past which had long
ceased to engage my attention.
I remember writing once that any recollections of my later life,
distinct from the general history of the war, would rather hurt my
feelings than tickle my pride while I lived. I do not think vanity is
a trait of my character. I would rather leave posterity to think and
say what they please of me. Those who served with me in war and peace
will be judged as we become subjects of history, and time may unfold
more than prudence ought to disclose. Concerning this matter I wrote to
Colonel Humphreys that if I had talent for what he desired me to do, I
had not leisure to turn my thoughts to commentaries. Consciousness of
a defective education, and want of leisure, I thought, unfitted me for
such an undertaking. I did, however, answer certain questions put to
me by Colonel Humphreys concerning the Indian wars, but he has, so far,
made no use of these notes.
One of these considerations does not so much apply at present, for I
possess the leisure, and in recording my early reminiscences I shall
do so for myself alone, and assuredly shall find no satisfaction in
comments on the conduct of other officers who, like myself, were
honestly engaged in learning, and at the same time practising, a
business in which none of us had a large experience. I shall confine my
attention to recalling the events of my youth, and as I hate deception
even where the imagination only is concerned, I shall try, for my
own satisfaction, to deal merely with facts. General Hamilton, whose
remarks I have often just reason to remember, once wrote me that no man
had ever written a true biography of himself, that he was apt to blame
himself excessively or to be too much prone to self-defence. He went
on to state that an autobiography was written either from vanity and
to present the man favourably to posterity, or because he desired for
his own pleasure in the study of himself to recall the events of his
career. In the latter case there is no need of publication.
It is only in order to such self-examination as that to which he refers
that I am induced to set down the remembrances of my earlier days, and
because writing of them will, I feel, enable me more surely to bring
them back to mind. I have no other motive.
Whatever just ambitions I have had have been fully gratified; indeed,
far beyond my wishes. The great Searcher of hearts is my witness that
I have now no wish which aspires beyond the humble and happy lot of
living and dying a private citizen on my own farm. In my estimation,
more permanent and genuine happiness is to be found in the sequestered
walks of connubial life, so long denied me in the war, than in the
more tumultuous and imposing scenes of successful ambition. Nor can
I complain. I am retiring here within myself. Envious of none, I am
determined to be pleased with all; and with heartfelt satisfaction,
feeling that my life has been on the whole happy, I will move gently
down the stream until I sleep with my fathers.
There are indeed not many circumstances in my life before the war
which it now gives me pain to recall. I could not truthfully say this
of that great contest, nor of the political struggles of my service as
President. Mr. Adams, or perhaps Mr. Jefferson, once said of me that I
was a man too sensitive to condemnation. This I believe to be correct,
but I have not discovered that my ability to decide was ever largely
affected by either unreasonable blame or the bribes of flattery.
The treachery of men who professed for me friendship, and the intrigues
of those who, like Conway, Lee, Gates, and Rush, used ignoble means
to weaken my authority when it was of the utmost importance to our
common cause that it should be strengthened, were calculated to give
pain chiefly because they lessened my usefulness. Nor am I ever willing
to dwell upon the treason of Arnold, which cost me the most painful
duty of the war, and lost to the country a great soldier, who had not
the virtue to wait until, in the course of events, his services would
obtain their reward. It is, however, somewhat to be wondered at that in
so long a war, where hope did at times seem to disappear, the catalogue
of traitors was so small. It is strange that there were not more, for
few men have virtue to withstand the highest bidder. As to ill-natured
and unjust reflections on my conduct, I feel, and have felt, everything
that hurts the sensibility of a gentleman, but to persevere in one’s
duty and be silent is the best answer to calumny.
Dr. Franklin has wisely said that no examples are so useful to a man
as those which his own conduct affords, and that he was right in his
opinion I have reason to believe. This I have observed to be true of
anger, to which I am, or was, subject. I flatter myself that I have now
learned to command my temper, although it is still on rare occasions
likely to become mutinous. I do not observe that mere abuse ever
troubles me long, but in the presence of cowardice or ingratitude I am
subject to fits of rage.
Arnold’s treason distressed me, but the treachery of one of my cabinet,
Edmund Randolph, the nephew and adopted son of my dear friend Peyton
Randolph, disturbed my temper as nothing had done since the misconduct
of Lee at Monmouth. If in any instance I was swayed by personal and
private feelings in the exercise of official patronage and power, it
was in the case of Mr. Randolph; and this fact added to the anger
which his conduct excited.
I willingly turn from the remembrance of ingratitude, a sin that
my soul abhors. It is a severe tax which all must occasionally pay
who are called to eminent stations of trust, not only to be held
up as conspicuous marks to the enmity of the public adversaries of
their country, but to the malice of secret traitors, and the envious
intrigues of false friends and factions. But all this is over. I
willingly leave time and my country to pronounce the verdict of history.
As I wrote what just now I have set down, a remark of Mr. John Adams
came into my mind. He said it was difficult for a man to write about
himself without feeling that he was all the time in the presence of an
audience. This may be true of Mr. Adams, but I am not aware that it is
true of me.
The statement I shall now record of myself and for myself might be made
very full as to events by the use of the details of my diaries, but
this I desire to avoid. My intention is to deal chiefly with my own
youthful life and the influences which affected it for good or for ill.