And where is Washington when the storm of war begins, and clouds of
darkness and danger gather over his beloved land. Where is he when
the fierce thunder of war’s tempest is heard among the hills of his
nativity. He is among the very first that offers for the service of
their country. The mild, the gentle, the obedient boy is a patriot, and
he becomes a soldier to fight in the defence of the country of his
love. He takes his place in the army, and still a student, still active
and industrious, his path to fame is onward and upward. He was the idol
of his mother in his boyhood, and now he becomes the idol of another
mother, his country. He fights his way as commander in chief of the
American army, through a fierce and bloody revolution, and he conquers
a fierce and blood-thirsty foe. And when the British flag is in his
hand, and the British lion cowering before the eagle that spreads her
wings upon his own proud ensign, he lays the trophies of his victory
upon the altar of his country, and becomes a private citizen. Like
the Roman Cincinnatus, he resigns his honors when the period of duty
has passed, and retires to the peace and quiet of his farm. He is the
patriot that does all for his country, and seems to show but little
concern for himself. And there is a scene at the close of his military
life which shows him to his countrymen and to the world, the most
glorious patriot that ever lifted his arm in his country’s defence. It
holds up his character higher than that of the most renowned Greek.
It shows him to be the more than Roman in all that was great in the
Roman’s estimate of fame. When the army that he has led to victory is
about to be disbanded, a source of dissatisfaction arises, and the
soldiers that are wearing the badges of triumph over a foreign enemy
murmur at the treatment they receive by the government at home. The
congress of the country they have served, so long and so faithfully,
refuses to pay them for their services, and would have them dismissed
and sent home poor, penniless, and in rags. With tears in his eyes,
Washington communicates the sad intelligence to his brave comrades in
arms. They hear the tale in silence and in sorrow. And scarcely is
it told, when the fire of indignation flashes in every eye. The men
that have fought and conquered under Washington, and have fought and
conquered for their country, now propose to have their own private
wrongs redressed by fighting for their matchless leader. They would
hurl the members of congress from their seats, and upon the throne
of a newly erected kingdom they would place their Washington. And
what is the import of this proposition from the triumphant American
army? It is no less than to make Washington a king; no less than to
crown him king of conquerless America. They would have crowned him,
as many a warrior of past ages had been crowned, after they had been
victorious over their enemies. They would have laid a nation’s honors
and a nation’s homage at his feet. And does Washington accede to their
proposal? Does he receive the gift of the crown, and mount his throne a
king? No! He scorns the deed. He becomes indignant at the proposition,
and he pities from his heart the brave sufferers whose wrongs induced
them to make it. He turns from the disheartened troops that stood by
him in the trials of many a stormy hour, and lays the laurels that he
won, as their chief, at his country’s feet. He resigns his commission
as an American general, and he walks from his place at the head of his
army, not an American king, but a private American citizen. And may I
not ask, where is the deed in history that stands out in such strong
relief, and in such glowing colors, as does that deed of the most
glorious of heroes. Where is the victorious general of Greece, or Rome,
or of any other nation, that refused such brilliant honors, and at a
time of such trying interest? Where is the hero who, with the crown
in view, held out by his weeping, suffering troops, and under such
touching circumstances, that went out from before them, of helm and
plume bereft, “a man of private mien?” The deed, like the man, stands
out in history in solitary isolation.
And glow on fame’s immortal height,
Inscribed in lines of living light,
The name, the deed, they are but one,
Unrivalled in our WASHINGTON.