THE LAST YEARS
Washington had entered upon the presidency with the utmost reluctance,
and at the sacrifice of all he considered pleasantest and best in
life. He took it and held it for eight years from a sense of duty,
and with no desire to retain it beyond that which every man feels
who wishes to finish a great work that he has undertaken. He looked
forward to the approaching end of his second term with a feeling of
intense relief, and compared himself to the wearied traveler who sees
the resting-place where he is at length to have repose. On March 3 he
gave a farewell dinner to the President and Vice-President elect, the
foreign ministers and their wives, and other distinguished persons,
from one of whom we learn that it was a very pleasant and lively
gathering. When the cloth was removed Washington filled his glass and
said: "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the last time I shall drink
your health as a public man. I do it with sincerity, wishing you all
possible happiness." The company did not take the same cheerful view
as their host of this leave-taking. There was a pause in the gayety,
some of the ladies shed tears, and the little incident only served to
show the warm affection felt for Washington by every one who came in
close contact with him.
The next day the last official ceremonies were performed. After
Jefferson had taken the oath as Vice-President and had proceeded with
the Senate to the House of Representatives, which was densely crowded,
Washington entered and was received with cheers and shouts, the waving
of handkerchiefs, and an enthusiasm which seemed to know no bounds.
Mr. Adams followed him almost immediately and delivered his inaugural
address, in which he paid a stately compliment to the great virtues of
his predecessor. It was the setting and not the rising sun, however,
that drew the attention of the multitude, and as Washington left the
hall there was a wild rush from the galleries to the corridors and
then into the streets to see him pass. He took off his hat and bowed
to the people, but they followed him even to his own door, where
he turned once more and, unable to speak, waved to them a silent
farewell.
In the evening of the same day a great banquet was given to him by
the merchants of Philadelphia, and when he entered the band played
"Washington's March," and a series of emblematic paintings were
disclosed, the chief of which represented the ex-President at Mount
Vernon surrounded by the allegorical figures then so fashionable.
After the festivities Washington lingered for a few days in
Philadelphia to settle various private matters and then started for
home. Whether he was going or coming, whether he was about to take the
great office of President or retire to the privacy of Mount Vernon,
the same popular enthusiasm greeted him. When he was really brought in
contact with the people, the clamors of the opposition press and the
attacks of the Jeffersonian editors all faded away and were forgotten.
On March 12 he reached Baltimore, and the local newspaper of the next
day said:--
"Last evening arrived in this city, on his way to Mount Vernon, the
illustrious object of veneration and gratitude, GEORGE WASHINGTON. His
excellency was accompanied by his lady and Miss Custis, and by the son
of the unfortunate Lafayette and his preceptor. At a distance from
the city, he was met by a crowd of citizens, on horse and foot, who
thronged the road to greet him, and by a detachment from Captain
Hollingsworth's troop, who escorted him in through as great a
concourse of people as Baltimore ever witnessed. On alighting at the
Fountain Inn, the general was saluted with reiterated and thundering
huzzas from the spectators. His excellency, with the companions of his
journey, leaves town, we understand, this morning."
Thus with the cheers and the acclamations still ringing in his ears
he came home again to Mount Vernon, where he found at once plenty
of occupation, which in some form was always a necessity to him. An
absence of eight years had not improved the property. On April 3 he
wrote to McHenry: "I find myself in the situation nearly of a new
beginner; for, although I have not houses to build (except one, which
I must erect for the accommodation and security of my military, civil,
and private papers, which are voluminous and may be interesting),
yet I have scarcely anything else about me that does not require
considerable repairs. In a word, I am already surrounded by joiners,
masons, and painters; and such is my anxiety to get out of their
hands, that I have scarcely a room to put a friend into or to sit
in myself without the music of hammers or the odoriferous scent of
paint." He easily dropped back into the round of country duties and
pleasures, and the care of farms and plantations, which had always
had for him so much attraction. "To make and sell a little flour
annually," he wrote to Wolcott, "to repair houses going fast to ruin,
to build one for the security of my papers of a public nature, will
constitute employment for the few years I have to remain on this
terrestrial globe." Again he said to McHenry: "You are at the source
of information, and can find many things to relate, while I have
nothing to say that would either inform or amuse a secretary of war at
Philadelphia. I might tell him that I begin my diurnal course with the
sun; that if my hirelings are not in their places by that time I send
them messages of sorrow for their indisposition; that having put these
wheels in motion I examine the state of things further; that the more
they are probed the deeper I find the wounds which my buildings have
sustained by an absence and neglect of eight years; that by the time
I have accomplished these matters breakfast (a little after seven
o'clock, about the time I presume that you are taking leave of Mrs.
McHenry) is ready; that this being over I mount my horse and ride
round my farms, which employs me until it is time to dress for dinner,
at which I rarely miss seeing strange faces, come, as they say, out of
respect for me. Pray, would not the word curiosity answer as well?
And how different this from having a few social friends at a cheerful
board. The usual time of sitting at table, a walk, and tea bring me
within the dawn of candle-light; previous to which, if not prevented
by company, I resolve that as soon as the glimmering taper supplies
the place of the great luminary I will retire to my writing-table and
acknowledge the letters I have received; that when the lights
are brought I feel tired and disinclined to engage in this work,
conceiving that the next night will do as well. The next night comes
and with it the same causes for postponement, and so on. Having given
you the history of a day, it will serve for a year, and I am persuaded
you will not require a second edition of it. But it may strike you
that in this detail no mention is made of any portion of time allotted
for reading. The remark would be just, for I have not looked into a
book since I came home; nor shall I be able to do it until I have
discharged my workmen; probably not before the nights grow longer,
when possibly I may be looking in Doomsday book."
There is not much that can be added to his own concise description of
the simple life he led at home. The rest and quiet were very pleasant,
but still there was a touch of sadness in his words. The long interval
of absence made the changes which time had wrought stand out more
vividly than if they had come one by one in the course of daily life
at home. Washington looked on the ruins of Belvoir, and sighed to
think of the many happy hours he had passed with the Fairfaxes, now
gone from the land forever. Other old friends had been taken away
by death, and the gaps were not filled by the new faces of which he
speaks to McHenry. Indeed, the crowd of visitors coming to Mount
Vernon from all parts of his own country and of the world, whether
they came from respect or curiosity, brought a good deal of weariness
to a man tired with the cares of state and longing for absolute
repose. Yet he would not close his doors to any one, for the Virginian
sense of hospitality, always peculiarly strong in him, forbade such
action. To relieve himself, therefore, in this respect, he sent
for his nephew Lawrence Lewis, who took the social burden from
his shoulders. But although the visitors tired him when he felt
responsible for their pleasure, he did not shut himself up now any
more than at any other time in self-contemplation. He was constantly
thinking of others; and the education of his nephews, the care of
young Lafayette until he should return to France, as well as the
happy love-match of Nellie Custis and his nephew, supplied the human
interest without which he was never happy.
Before we trace his connection with public affairs in these
closing years, let us take one look at him, through the eyes of a
disinterested but keen observer. John Bernard, an English actor,
who had come to this country in the year when Washington left the
presidency, was playing an engagement with his company at Annapolis,
in 1798. One day he mounted his horse and rode down below Alexandria,
to pay a visit to an acquaintance who lived on the banks of the
Potomac. When he was returning, a chaise in front of him, containing a
man and a young woman, was overturned, and the occupants were thrown
out. As Bernard rode to the scene of the accident, another horseman
galloped up from the opposite direction. The two riders dismounted,
found that the driver was not hurt, and succeeded in restoring the
young woman to consciousness; an event which was marked, Bernard tells
us, by a volley of invectives addressed to her unfortunate husband.
"The horse," continues Bernard, "was now on his legs, but the vehicle
still prostrate, heavy in its frame, and laden with at least half a
ton of luggage. My fellow-helper set me an example of activity in
relieving it of the internal weight; and when all was clear, we
grasped the wheel between us, and to the peril of our spinal columns
righted the conveyance. The horse was then put in, and we lent a
hand to help up the luggage. All this helping, hauling, and lifting
occupied at least half an hour, under a meridian sun, in the middle of
July, which fairly boiled the perspiration out of our foreheads." The
possessor of the chaise beguiled the labor by a full personal history
of himself and his wife, and when the work was done invited the two
Samaritans to go with him to Alexandria, and take a drop of "something
sociable." This being declined, the couple mounted into the chaise and
drove on. "Then," says Bernard, "my companion, after an exclamation at
the heat, offered very courteously to dust my coat, a favor the return
of which enabled me to take deliberate survey of his person. He was
a tall, erect, well-made man, evidently advanced in years, but who
appeared to have retained all the vigor and elasticity resulting from
a life of temperance and exercise. His dress was a blue coat buttoned
to his chin, and buckskin breeches. Though the instant he took off his
hat I could not avoid the recognition of familiar lineaments, which
indeed I was in the habit of seeing on every sign-post and over every
fireplace, still I failed to identify him, and to my surprise I found
that I was an object of equal speculation in his eyes." The actor
evidently did not have the royal gift of remembering faces, but the
stranger possessed that quality, for after a moment's pause he said,
"Mr. Bernard, I believe," and mentioned the occasion on which he had
seen him play in Philadelphia. He then asked Bernard to go home with
him for a couple of hours' rest, and pointed out the house in the
distance. At last Bernard knew to whom he was speaking. "'Mount
Vernon!' I exclaimed; and then drawing back with a stare of wonder,
'Have I the honor of addressing General Washington?' With a smile
whose expression of benevolence I have rarely seen equaled, he offered
his hand and replied: 'An odd sort of introduction, Mr. Bernard; but
I am pleased to find you can play so active a part in private, and
without a prompter.'" So they rode on together to the house and had a
chat, to which we must recur further on.
There is no contemporary narrative of which I am aware that shows
Washington to us more clearly than this little adventure with Bernard,
for it is in the common affairs of daily life that men come nearest
to each other, and the same rule holds good in history. We know
Washington much better from these few lines of description left by
a chance acquaintance on the road than we do from volumes of state
papers. It is such a pleasant story, too. There is the great man,
retired from the world, still handsome and imposing in his old age,
with the strong and ready hand to succor those who had fallen by the
wayside; there are the genuine hospitality, the perfect manners, and
the well-turned little sentence with which he complimented the actor,
put him at his ease, and asked him to his house. Nothing can well be
added to the picture of Washington as we see him here, not long before
the end of all things came. We must break off, however, from the quiet
charm of home life, and turn again briefly to the affairs of state.
Let us, therefore, leave these two riding along the road together in
the warm Virginia sunshine to the house which has since become one of
the Meccas of humanity, in memory of the man who once dwelt in it.
The highly prized retirement to Mount Vernon did not now, more than
at any previous time, separate Washington from the affairs of the
country. He continued to take a keen interest in all that went on,
to correspond with his friends, and to use his influence for what he
thought wisest and best for the general welfare. These were stirring
times, too, and the progress of events brought him to take a more
active part than he had ever expected to play again; for France,
having failed, thanks to his policy, to draw us either by fair words
or trickery from our independent and neutral position, determined,
apparently, to try the effect of force and ill usage. Pinckney, sent
out as minister, had been rebuffed; and then Adams, with the cordial
support of the country, had made another effort for peace by sending
Pinckney, Marshall, and Gerry as a special commission. The history of
that commission is one of the best known episodes in our history. Our
envoys were insulted, asked for bribes, and browbeaten, until the two
who retained a proper sense of their own and their country's dignity
took their passports and departed. The publication of the famous X, Y,
Z letters, which displayed the conduct of France, roused a storm of
righteous indignation from one end of the United States to the other.
The party of France and of the opposition bent before the storm, and
the Federalists were at last all-powerful. A cry for war went up from
every corner, and Congress provided rapidly for the formation of an
army and the beginning of a navy.
Then the whole country turned, as a matter of course, to one man to
stand at the head of the national forces of the United States,
and Adams wrote to Washington, urging him to take command of the
provisional army. To any other appeal to come forward Washington would
have been deaf, but he could never refuse a call to arms. He wrote to
Adams on July 4, 1798: "In case of _actual invasion_ by a formidable
force, I certainly should not intrench myself under the cover of age
or retirement, if my services should be required by my country to
assist in repelling it." He agreed, therefore, to take command of the
army, provided that he should not be called into active service
except in the case of actual hostilities, and that he should have the
appointment of the general's staff. To these terms Adams of course
acceded. But out of the apparently simple condition relating to the
appointment of officers there grew a very serious trouble. There were
to be three major-generals, the first of them to have also the rank of
inspector-general, and to be the virtual commander-in-chief until the
army was actually called into the field. For these places, Washington
after much reflection selected Hamilton, Pinckney, and Knox, in the
order named, and in doing so he very wisely went on the general
principle that the army was to be organized _de novo_, without
reference to prior service. Apart from personal and political
jealousies, nothing could have been more proper and more sound than
this arrangement; but at this point the President's dislike of
Hamilton got beyond control, and he made up his mind to reverse the
order, and send in Knox's name first. The Federalist leaders were of
course utterly disgusted by this attempt to set Hamilton aside, which
was certainly ill-judged, and which proved to be the beginning of the
dissensions that ended in the ruin of the Federalist party. After
every effort, therefore, to move Adams had failed, Pickering and
others, including Hamilton himself, appealed to Washington. At a
distance from the scene of action, and unfamiliar with the growth of
differences within the party, Washington was not only surprised, but
annoyed by the President's conduct. In addition to the evils which he
believed would result in a military way from this change, he felt that
the conditions which he had made had been violated, and that he had
not been treated fairly. He therefore wrote to the President with
his wonted plainness, on September 25, and pointed out that his
stipulations had not been complied with, that the change of order
among the major-generals was thoroughly wrong, and that the
President's meddling with the inferior appointments had been hurtful
and injudicious. His views were expressed in the most courteous
way, although with an undertone of severe disapproval. There was no
mistaking the meaning of the letter, however, and Adams, bold man and
President as he was, gave way at once. Mr. Adams thought at the time
that there had been about this matter of the major-generals too much
intrigue, by which Washington had been deceived and he himself made a
victim; but there seems no good reason to take this view of it, for
there is no indication whatever that Washington did not know and
understand the facts; and it was on the facts that he made his
decision, and not on the methods by which they were conveyed to him.
The propriety of the decision will hardly now be questioned, although
it did not tend to make the relations between the ex-President and
his successor very cordial. They had always a great respect for
each other, but not much sympathy, for they differed too widely in
temperament. Even if Washington would have permitted it, it would have
been impossible for the President to have quarreled with him, but at
the same time he felt not a little awkwardness in dealing with his
successor, and was inclined to think that that gentleman did not show
him all the respect that was due. He wrote to McHenry on October 1:
"As no mode is yet adopted by the President by which the battalion
officers are to be appointed, and as I think I stand on very
precarious ground in my relation to him, I am not over-zealous
in taking _unauthorized_ steps when those that I thought _were
authorized_ are not likely to meet with much respect."
[Illustration: HENRY KNOX]
There was, however, another consequence of this affair which gave
Washington much more pain than any differences with the President. His
old friend and companion in arms, General Knox, was profoundly hurt at
the decision which placed Hamilton at the head of the army. One cannot
be surprised at Knox's feelings, for he had been a distinguished
officer, and had outranked both Hamilton and Pinckney. He felt that he
ought to command the army, and that he was quite capable of doing so;
and he did not relish being told in this official manner that he had
grown old, and that the time had come for younger and abler men to
pass beyond him. The archbishop in "Gil Blas" is one of the most
universal types of human nature that we have. Nobody feels kindly to
the monitor who points out the failings which time has brought, and we
are all inclined to dismiss him with every wish that he may fare well
and have a little more taste. Poor Knox could not dismiss his Gil
Blas, and he felt the unpleasant admonition all the more bitterly from
the fact that the blow was dealt by the two men whom he most loved and
admired. Hamilton wrote him the best and most graceful of letters, but
failed to soothe him; and Washington was no more fortunate. He tried
with the utmost kindliness, and in his most courteous manner, to
soften the disappointment, and to show Knox how convincing were the
reasons for his action. But the case was not one where argument could
be of avail, and when Knox persisted in his refusal to take the place
assigned him, Washington, with all his sympathy, was perfectly frank
in expressing his views.
In a second letter, complaining of the injustice with which he had
been treated, Knox intimated that he would be willing to serve on the
personal staff of the commander-in-chief. This was all very well; but
much as Washington grieved for his old friend's disappointment, there
was to be no misunderstanding in the matter. He wrote Knox on October
21: "After having expressed these sentiments with the frankness of
undisguised friendship, it is hardly necessary to add that, if you
should finally decline the appointment of major-general, there is none
to whom I would give a more decided preference as an aide-de-camp, the
offer of which is highly flattering, honorable, and grateful to my
feelings, and for which I entertain a high sense. But, my dear General
Knox, and here again I speak to you in a language of candor and
friendship, examine well your mind upon this subject. Do not unite
yourself to the suite of a man whom you may consider as the primary
cause of what you call a degradation, with unpleasant sensations.
This, while it was gnawing upon you, would, if I should come to the
knowledge of it, make me unhappy; as my first wish would be that my
military family and the whole army should consider themselves a band
of brothers, willing and ready to die for each other."
Knox would not serve; and his ill temper, irritated still further
by the apparent preference of the President and by the talk of his
immediate circle, prevailed. On the other hand, Pinckney, one of the
most generous and patriotic of men, accepted service at once without a
syllable of complaint on the score that he had ranked Hamilton in the
former war. It was with these two, therefore, that Washington
carried on the work of organizing the provisional army. Despite his
determination to remain in retirement until called to the field, his
desire for perfection in any work that he undertook brought him out,
and he gave much time and attention not only to the general questions
which were raised, but to the details of the business, and on November
10 he addressed a series of inquiries, both general and particular,
to Hamilton and Pinckney. These inquiries covered the whole scope of
possible events, probable military operations, and the formation of
the army. They were written in Philadelphia, whither he had gone, and
where he passed a month with the two major-generals in the discussion
of plans and measures. The result of their conferences was an
elaborate and masterly report on army organization drawn up by
Hamilton, upon whom, throughout this period of impending war, the
brunt of the work fell.
Careful and painstaking, however, as Washington was in the matter of
appointments and organization, dealing with them as if he was about to
take the field at the head of the army, there was never a moment when
he felt that there was danger of actual war. He had studied foreign
affairs and the conditions of Europe too well to be much deceived
about them, and least of all in regard to France. He felt from the
beginning that the moment we displayed a proper spirit, began to arm,
and fought one or two French ships successfully, that France would
leave off bullying and abusing us, and make a satisfactory peace. The
declared adherent of the maxim that to prepare for war was the most
effectual means of preserving peace, he felt that never was it more
important to carry out this doctrine than now; and it was for this
reason that he labored so hard and gave so much thought to army
organization at a time when he felt more than ever the need of repose,
and shrank from the least semblance of a return to public life. In
all his long career there was never a better instance of his devoted
patriotism than his coming forward in this way at the sacrifice of
every personal wish after his retirement from the presidency.
Yet, although he closely watched the course of politics, and gave, as
has been said, a cordial support to the administration, his sympathies
were rather with the opponents of the President within the ranks
of their common party. The conduct of Gerry, who had been Adams's
personal selection for a commissioner, was very distasteful to
Washington, and was very far from exciting in his mind the approval
which it drew from Mr. Adams. He wrote to Pickering on October 18:
"With respect to Mr. Gerry, his own character and public satisfaction
require better evidence than his letter to the minister of foreign
relations to prove the propriety of his conduct during his envoyship."
He did not believe that we were to have war with France, but he was
very confident that a bold and somewhat uncompromising attitude was
the best one for the country, and that above all we should not palter
with France after the affronts to which we had been subjected. When
President Adams, therefore, made his sudden change of policy by
nominating Murray as a special envoy, Washington, despite his desire
for peace, was by no means enthusiastic in his approval of the methods
by which it was sought. The President wrote him announcing the
appointment of Murray, and Washington acknowledged the letter and
the information without any comment. He saw, of course, that as the
President had seen fit to take the step he must be sustained, and he
wrote to Murray to impress upon him the gravity of the mission with
which he was intrusted; but he had serious doubts as to the success of
such a mission under such conditions, and when delays occurred he was
not without hopes of a final abandonment. The day after his letter to
Murray he wrote to Hamilton: "I was surprised at the _measure_,
how much more so at the manner of it! This business seems to have
commenced in an evil hour, and under unfavorable auspices. I wish
mischief may not tread in all its steps, and be the final result of
the measure. A wide door was open, through which a retreat might have
been made from the first _faux pas_, the shutting of which, to those
who are not behind the curtain and are as little acquainted with
the secrets of the cabinet as I am, is, from the present aspect of
European affairs, quite incomprehensible." He hoped but little good
from the mission, although it had his fervent wishes for its success,
expressed repeatedly in letters to members of the cabinet; and while
he was full of apprehension, he had a firm faith that all would end
well.
For this anxiety, indeed, there was abundant reason. A violent change
of policy toward France, the disorders occasioned by political
dissensions at home, and the sudden appearance of the deadly doctrine
of nullification, all combined to excite alarm in the mind of a man
who looked as far into the future and as deep beneath the surface of
things as did Washington. It was then that he urged Patrick Henry to
reenter public life, and exerted his own influence wherever he could
to check the separatist movement set on foot by Jefferson. He was
deeply disturbed, too, by the tendencies of the times in other
directions. The delirium of the French Revolution was not confined
to France. Her soldiers bore with them the new doctrines, while far
beyond the utmost reach of her armies flew the ideas engendered in
the fevered air of Paris. Wherever they alighted they touched men and
stung them to madness, and the madness that they bred was not confined
to those who believed the new gospel, but was shared equally by those
who resisted and loathed it. Burke, in his way, was as much crazed as
Camille Desmoulins, and it seemed impossible for people living in the
midst of that terrific convulsion of society to retain their judgment.
Nowhere ought men to have been better able to withstand the contagion
of the revolution than in America, and yet even here it produced the
same results as in countries nearly affected by it. The party
of opposition to the government became first ludicrous and then
dangerous, in their wild admiration and senseless imitation of ideas
and practices as utterly alien to the people of the United States as
cannibalism or fire-worship. Then the Federalists, on their side, fell
beneath the spell. The overthrow of religion, society, property, and
morals, which they beheld in Paris, seemed to them to be threatening
their own country, and they became as extreme as their opponents in
the exactly opposite direction. Federalist divines came to look
upon Jefferson, the most timid and prudent of men, as a Marat or
Robespierre, ready to reproduce the excesses of his prototypes; while
Pickering, Wolcott, and all their friends in public life regarded
themselves as engaged in a struggle for the preservation of order and
society and of all that they held most dear. They were in the habit of
comparing French principles to a pestilence, and the French republic
to a raging tiger. Even Hamilton was so moved as to believe that the
United States were on the verge of anarchy, and he laid down his life
at last in a senseless duel because he thought that his refusal to
fight would disable him for leading the forces of order when the final
crash came.
Washington, with his strong, calm judgment and his penetrating vision,
was less affected than any of those who had followed and sustained
him; but he was by no means untouched, and if we try to put ourselves
in his place, his views seem far from unreasonable. He had at the
outset wished well to the great movement in France, although even then
he doubted its final success. Very soon, however, doubts changed
to suspicions, and suspicions to conviction. As he saw the French
revolution move on in its inevitable path, he came to hate and dread
its deeds, its policies, and its doctrines. To a man of his temper it
could not have been otherwise, for license and disorder were above all
things detestable to him. They were the immediate fruits of the French
revolution, and when he saw a party devoted to France preaching the
same ideas in the United States, he could not but feel that there was
a real and practical danger confronting the country. This was why he
felt that we needed an energetic policy, and it was on this account
that he distrusted the President's renewed effort for peace. The
course of the opposition, as he saw it, threatened not merely the
existence of the Union, but wittingly or unwittingly struck at the
very foundations of society. His anxiety did not make him violent, as
was the case with lesser men, but it convinced him of the necessity of
strong measures, and he was not a man to shrink from vigorous action.
He was quite prepared to do all that could be done to maintain the
authority of the government, which he considered equivalent to the
protection of society, and for this reason he approved of the Alien
and Sedition acts.
In the process of time these two famous laws have come to be
universally condemned, and those who have not questioned their
constitutionality have declared them wrong, inexpedient and impolitic,
and the immediate cause of the overthrow of the party responsible for
them. Everybody has made haste to disown them, and there has been a
general effort on the part of Federalist sympathizers to throw the
blame for them on persons unknown. Biographers, especially, have tried
zealously to clear the skirts of their heroes from any connection with
these obnoxious acts; but the truth is, that, whether right or wrong,
wise or unwise, these laws had the entire support of the ruling party
from the President down. Hamilton, who objected to the first draft
because it was needlessly violent, approved the purpose and principle
of the legislation; and Washington was no exception to the general
rule. He was calm about it, but his approbation was none the less
distinct, and he took pains to circulate a sound argument, when he
met with one, in justification of the Alien and Sedition acts.[1] In
November, 1798, Alexander Spotswood wrote to him, asking his judgment
on those laws. As the writer announced himself to be thoroughly
convinced of their unconstitutionally, Washington, with a little
sarcasm, declined to enter into argument with him. "But," he
continued, "I will take the liberty of advising such as are not
'thoroughly convinced,' and whose minds are yet open to conviction,
to read the pieces and hear the arguments which have been adduced
in favor of, as well as those against, the constitutionality and
expediency of those laws, before they decide and consider to what
lengths a certain description of men in our country have already
driven, and seem resolved further to drive matters, and then ask
themselves if it is not time and expedient to resort to protecting
laws against aliens (for citizens, you certainly know, are not
affected by that law), who acknowledge no allegiance to this country,
and in many instances are sent among us, as there is the best
circumstantial evidence to prove, for the express purpose of poisoning
the minds of our people and sowing dissensions among them, in order to
alienate their affections from the government of their choice, thereby
endeavoring to dissolve the Union, and of course the fair and happy
prospects which are unfolding to our view from the Revolution."
[Footnote 1: See letter to Bushrod Washington, Sparks, vi. p. 387.]
With these strong and decided feelings as to the proper policy to
be adopted, and with such grave apprehensions as to the outcome
of existing difficulties, Washington was deeply distressed by the
divisions which he saw springing up among the Federalists. From his
point of view it was bad enough to have the people of the country
divided into two great parties; but that one of those parties, that
which was devoted to the maintenance of order and the preservation
of the Union, should be torn by internal dissensions, seemed to him
almost inconceivable. He regarded the conduct of the party and of its
leaders with quite as much indignation as sorrow, for it seemed to him
that they were unpatriotic and false to their trust in permitting for
a moment these personal factions which could have but one result. He
wrote to Trumbull on August 30, 1799:--
"It is too interesting not to be again repeated, that if principles
instead of men are not the steady pursuit of the Federalists, their
cause will soon be at an end; if these are pursued they will not
_divide_ at the next election of President; if they do divide on
so _important_ a point, it would be dangerous to trust them on any
other,--and none except those who might be solicitous to fill the
chair of government would do it."[1]
[Footnote 1: _Life of Silliman_, vol. ii. p. 385.]
He was a true prophet, but he did not live to see the verification
of his predictions, which would have been to him a source of so much
grief. In the midst of his anxieties about public affairs, and of
the quiet, homely interests which made the days at Mount Vernon so
pleasant, the end suddenly came. There was no more forewarning than if
he had been struck down by accident or violence. He had always been a
man of great physical vigor, and although he had had one or two acute
and dangerous illnesses arising from mental strain and much overwork,
there is no indication that he had any organic disease, and since his
retirement from the presidency he had been better than for many years.
There was not only no sign of breaking up, but he appeared full of
health and activity, and led his usual wholesome outdoor life with
keen enjoyment.
The morning of December 12 was overcast. He wrote to Hamilton warmly
approving the scheme for a military academy; and having finished this,
which was probably the last letter he ever wrote, he mounted his horse
and rode off for his usual round of duties. He noted in his diary,
where he always described the weather with methodical exactness, that
it began to snow about one o'clock, soon after to hail, and then
turned to a settled cold rain. He stayed out notwithstanding for about
two hours, and then came back to the house and franked his letters.
Mr. Lear noticed that his hair was damp with snow, and expressed a
fear that he had got wet; but the General said no, that his coat had
kept him dry, and sat down to dinner without changing his clothes. The
next morning snow was still falling so that he did not ride, and he
complained of a slight sore throat, but nevertheless went out in the
afternoon to mark some trees that were to be cut down. His hoarseness
increased toward night, yet still he made light of it, and read the
newspapers and chatted with Mrs. Washington during the evening.
When he went to bed Mr. Lear urged him to take something for his cold.
"No," he replied, "you know I never take anything for a cold. Let
it go as it came." In the night he had a severe chill, followed by
difficulty in breathing; and between two and three in the morning he
awoke Mrs. Washington, but would not allow her to get up and call a
servant lest she should take cold. At daybreak Mr. Lear was summoned,
and found Washington breathing with difficulty and hardly able to
speak. Dr. Craik, the friend and companion of many years, was sent
for at once, and meantime the General was bled slightly by one of the
overseers. A futile effort was also made to gargle his throat, and
external applications were tried without affording relief. Dr. Craik
arrived between eight and nine o'clock with two other physicians, when
other remedies were tried and the patient was bled again, all without
avail. About half-past four he called Mrs. Washington to his bedside
and asked her to get two wills from his desk. She did so, and after
looking them over he ordered one to be destroyed and gave her the
other to keep. He then said to Lear, speaking with the utmost
difficulty, but saying what he had to say with characteristic
determination and clearness: "I find I am going; my breath cannot last
long. I believed from the first that the disorder would prove fatal.
Do you arrange and record all my late military letters and papers.
Arrange my accounts and settle my books, as you know more about them
than any one else; and let Mr. Rawlins finish recording my other
letters, which he has begun." He then asked if Lear recollected
anything which it was essential for him to do, as he had but a very
short time to continue with them. Lear replied that he could recollect
nothing, but that he hoped the end was not so near. Washington smiled,
and said that he certainly was dying, and that as it was the
debt which we must all pay, he looked to the event with perfect
resignation.
The disease which was killing him was acute oedematous laryngitis,[1]
which is as simple as it is rare and fatal,[2] and he was being
slowly strangled to death by the closing of the throat. He bore
the suffering, which must have been intense, with his usual calm
self-control, but as the afternoon wore on the keen distress and the
difficulty of breathing made him restless. From time to time Mr. Lear
tried to raise him and make his position easier. The General said,
"I fear I fatigue you too much;" and again, on being assured to the
contrary, "Well, it is a debt we must pay to each other, and I hope
when you want aid of this kind you will find it." He was courteous and
thoughtful of others to the last, and told his servant, who had been
standing all day in attendance upon him, to sit down. To Dr. Craik he
said: "I die hard, but I am not afraid to go. I believed from my first
attack that I should not survive it. My breath cannot last long." When
a little later the other physicians came in and assisted him to sit
up, he said: "I feel I am going. I thank you for your attentions, but
I pray you will take no more trouble about me. Let me go off quietly.
I cannot last long." He lay there for some hours longer, restless and
suffering, but utterly uncomplaining, taking such remedies as the
physicians ordered in silence. About ten o'clock he spoke again to
Lear, although it required a most desperate effort to do so. "I am
just going," he said. "Have me decently buried, and do not let my body
be put into the vault in less than three days after I am dead." Lear
bowed, and Washington said, "Do you understand me?" Lear answered,
"Yes." "'Tis well," he said, and with these last words again fell
silent. A little later he felt his own pulse, and, as he was counting
the strokes, Lear saw his countenance change. His hand dropped back
from the wrist he had been holding, and all was over. The end had
come. Washington was dead. He died as he had lived, simply and
bravely, without parade and without affectation. The last duties
were done, the last words said, the last trials borne with the quiet
fitness, the gracious dignity, that even the gathering mists of the
supreme hour could neither dim nor tarnish. He had faced life with a
calm, high, victorious spirit. So did he face death and the unknown
when Fate knocked at the door.
[Footnote 1: It was called at the time a quinsy.]
[Footnote 2: See Memoir on _The Last Sickness of Washington_, by James
Jackson, M.D. In response to an inquiry as to the modern treatment of
this disease, the late Dr. F.H. Hooper of Boston, well known as
an authority on diseases of the throat, wrote me: "Washington's
physicians are not to be criticised for their treatment, for they
acted according to their best light and knowledge. To treat such
a case in such a manner in the year 1889 would be little short
of criminal. At the present time the physicians would use the
laryngoscope and _look_ and _see_ what the trouble was. (The
laryngoscope has only been used since 1857.) In this disease the
function most interfered with is breathing. The one thing which saves
a patient in this disease is a _timely tracheotomy_. (I doubt if
tracheotomy had ever been performed in Virginia in Washington's time.)
Washington ought to have been tracheotomized, or rather that is the
way cases are saved to-day. No one would think of antimony, calomel,
or bleeding now. The point is to let in the air, and not to let out
the blood. After tracheotomy has been performed, the oedema and
swelling of the larynx subside in three to six days. The tracheotomy
tube is then removed, and respiration goes on again through the
natural channels."]