THE PEACE OF HOME AT LAST
I. SORROW FOR THE DEPARTED SCENES AROUND MOUNT VERNON
At the close of his term of office, March 4, 1797, Washington retired
to his home at Mount Vernon loved by all the understanding world.
In a letter to Mrs. S. Fairfax, then in England, he wrote, “It is a
matter of sore regret when I cast my eyes toward Belvoir, which I
often do, to reflect that the former inhabitants of it, with whom we
lived in such harmony and friendship, no longer reside there, and the
ruins only can be viewed as the mementoes of former pleasures.”
The home interest of Washington can be seen in a letter he wrote to
Miss Nelly Custis, a granddaughter of his wife. Her father had died
when she was a child, and Washington, having no children, had adopted
Nelly and brought her up in his family. She was of a beautiful nature
and was much beloved by Washington.
She appears to have had some very decided social notions, and one of
these was, as she expressed it, “a perfect apathy toward the youth of
the present day,” and a determination never to give herself “a
moment’s uneasiness on account of any of them.”
That was perhaps the rather high-sounding notion that romantic young
folks sometimes acquire of independence from usual life and of
superiority to their associates. Evidently Washington did not regard
her resolution with any grave alarm. He perhaps knew the ancient
privilege allowing women to change their minds. Nevertheless, it was
worthy of his experienced consideration, at least against letting too
many know her “irrevocable determination” because, when she did
change, as was doubtless inevitable, it should not bear any likelihood
of being embarrassing.
“Men and women,” he wrote her, “feel the same inclination toward each
other now that they always have done, and which they will continue to
do until there is a new order of things; and you, as others have done,
may find that the passions of your sex are easier raised than allayed.
Do not, therefore, boast too soon nor too strong of your
insensibility.
“Love is said to be an involuntary passion, and it is therefore
contended that it cannot be resisted. This is true in part only, for,
like all things else, when nourished and supplied plentifully with
aliment, it is rapid in its progress; but let these be withdrawn, and
it may be stifled in its birth or much stinted in its growth.
“Although we cannot avoid first impressions, we may assuredly place
them under guard.
“When the fire is beginning to kindle, and your heart growing warm,
propound these questions to it: Who is this invader? Have I a
competent knowledge of him? Is he a man of good character? A man of
sense? For, be assured, a sensible woman can never be happy with a
fool. What has been his walk in life? Is he one to whom my friends can
have no reasonable objection?
“If all these interrogations can be satisfactorily answered, there
will remain but one more to be asked. That, however, is an important
one. Have I sufficient ground to conclude that his affections are
engaged by me? Without this the heart of sensibility will struggle
against a passion that is not reciprocated.”
Sure enough, it was but a short time until romance came to Mount
Vernon, and Miss Nelly changed her mind very promptly. Lawrence Lewis
arrived, the clouds of doubt vanished, and the love-bells were set to
ringing until the wedding-bells took up the melody that passed on into
the music of the spheres.
II. CROWNED IN THE FULLNESS OF TIME 1799
The beginning of the year 1799 was full of the romantic happiness of
immortal youth for the household of Washington, but the close of the
year brought to an end the career of the first great American. On the
twelfth of December he rode as usual around the estate at Mount
Vernon, and was caught in a sleety rain. From this he developed acute
laryngitis and died on the night of the fourteenth. He said, “I die
hard but I am not afraid to go,” and his last words were, “’Tis well.”
His loved ones were around him and his last look was lovingly upon
them. The doctor saw his countenance change in death. He put his hands
over the eyes out of which the light had forever gone, and one of the
noblest souls of the earth passed away. There was not a struggle or a
sigh.
Mrs. Washington was sitting at the foot of the bed, and she asked
bravely, “Is he gone?”
The doctor could not speak, but he held up his hand as a sign that the
spirit of their beloved was no longer there.
“’Tis well,” she said, repeating his last words. “All is now over; I
shall soon follow him; I have no more trials to pass through.”
The tributes of America and the world to his honor and his name may be
noted in the words of Lord Brougham, an eminent British statesman, who
reflected the feeling of the nation against which he had waged a
successful war: “It will be the duty of the historian, and the sage of
all nations,” he said, “to let no occasion pass of commemorating this
illustrious man, and, until time shall be no more, will a test of the
progress which our race has made in wisdom and virtue be derived from
the veneration paid to the immortal name of Washington.”
The great nations having any sort of democratic ideal fully recognized
the fact that in his death had passed away one of the great men of the
earth. The English Channel fleet lowered their ships’ flags at
half-mast in token of respect, and in the land of Napoleon, who was
then master of France, there was crepe draped about all their
standards. Talleyrand, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and one of the
greatest orators and statesmen, prepared a report to the French
government in which he said: “A nation which some day will be a great
nation, and which today is the wisest and happiest on the face of the
earth, weeps at the bier of a man whose courage and genius contributed
most to free it from bondage and elevated it to the rank of an
independent and sovereign power. The regrets caused by the death of
this great man, the memories aroused by these regrets, and a proper
veneration for all that is held dear and sacred by mankind, impel us
to give expression to our sentiments by taking part in an event which
deprives the world of one of its brightest ornaments, and removes to
the realm of history one of the noblest lives that ever honored the
human race.
“His own country now honors his memory with funeral ceremonies, having
lost a citizen whose public actions and unassuming grandeur in private
life were a living example of courage, wisdom and unselfishness; and
France, which from the dawn of American Revolution hailed with hope a
nation, hitherto unknown, that was discarding the vices of Europe,
which foresaw all the glory that this nation would bestow on humanity,
and the enlightenment of governments that would ensue from the novel
character of the social institutions, and the new type of heroism, of
which Washington and America were models for the world at
large,--France, I repeat, should depart from established usages, and
do honor to one whose fame is beyond comparison with that of others.
The man who, among the decadence of modern ages, first dared believe
that he could inspire degenerate nations with courage to rise to the
level of republican virtues, lived for all nations and for all
centuries.”
These tributes from the two greatest nations were sincere despite the
fact that one of them had just been humiliated, beaten and dismembered
by his leadership, and the other was only recently in the midst of
open hostilities toward the United States, against which Washington
was again made the national commander-in-chief, thus on the very verge
of war with France. Only in his own country had Washington been the
object of the bitterest personal slander and political calumny. But,
at his death, all ignorant prejudice and foul-mouthed envy became
silent and sought to be hidden from the public presence. In him there
was greatness that could not be questioned and character that could be
known only to be praised. The vision of him never fails from the sky
of American ideals, and the young people of this nation have only to
know his life to know for what kind of political interest each one
should labor in the name of American liberty and the progress of an
American humanity.
Washington regarded parties as one of the most inexcusable and
disturbing elements in the political life of a nation. He believed in
men and principles, not in parties and platforms. It was more than a
hundred years after his death before the people of the United States
began to discard allegiance to parties and platforms in favor of men
and the principles of humanity.
When misrepresentation began its assault upon him in the presidency as
it had done in the army, Washington wrote, “The man who means to
commit no wrong will never be guilty of enormities; consequently he
can never be unwilling to learn what are ascribed to him as foibles.
If they are really such, the knowledge of them in a well disposed mind
will go halfway towards a reform. If they are errors, he can explain
and justify the motive of his actions.”
It is thus that a well-balanced disposition willingly receives
criticism, whatever its motive, for any value he can get out of it,
with little concern for the intentions of the criticism, if his own
purpose is fair and just.
He greatly deplored the misrepresentation of the partisan newspapers,
believing that the people of a nation would never go wrong if they had
the truth before them upon which to make up their minds. It is very
generally true that parties have governed for the spoils of power and
office. Political parties have very often fostered false argument and
worse distortion of their opponents’ meaning, so that large numbers of
honorable and honest-minded persons have been misled into truly
fearful fanaticism, and more fearful support of purposes, which, if
they had known, they would have abhorred.
III. A LIFE-LIKE SCENE FROM WASHINGTON’S HOME LIFE
John Bernard, a noted English actor, who came to play an engagement in
America soon after Washington had retired from the presidency, tells
an experience which gives us quite a picture of our own, in which we
can see Washington free from all the glamor of fame that usually half
hides the real man from our view.
Bernard says that he was playing at Annapolis in 1798 when, one day,
he went out riding down below Alexandria. Just as he was coming in
sight of a man and young woman riding toward him in a chaise, the
carriage was overturned and the two were thrown violently out. The man
was not hurt but the woman was struck unconscious. The actor rode
hurriedly up, and, dismounting, began at once to see what could be
done for the woman. Soon she returned to consciousness with a volley
of fierce scolding at her husband that was extremely ludicrous, if not
ridiculous.
Bernard now noticed that another man had ridden up and was helping the
unfortunate husband to extricate the horse and get the animal upon its
feet. The three men then set to work to get the heavy carriage, still
heavier loaded with baggage, back into service. It was a hot July day
and the half hour’s work was a rather exhausting task for two who
seemed to be out riding for mere recreation.
When the man and his wife were once more in the carriage, ready to
drive on, they invited the two strangers to go on with them to
Alexandria and have something to drink in appreciation of their timely
service, but both declined, and the chaise started afresh upon its
journey.
Bernard says, “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 a 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.
“‘Mr. Bernard, I believe’ he said after a moment’s pause, and then
spoke of having seen me play in Philadelphia, following at once with
an invitation to spend a couple of hours in rest and refreshment at
his house, which he pointed out in the distance.”
It then came clear to the actor who was his distinguished-looking
companion.
Mr. Bernard thus continues his description of this experience, “‘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
equalled, 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 without a prompter.’”
In the conversation that ensued over the refreshments at Mount Vernon,
Mr. Bernard studied his distinguished host with deep earnestness, and
has left us a vivid picture in description as the actor saw him.
He says that in the conversation Washington’s face did not present
much variety of expression. It wore always a look of profound
thoughtfulness. Neither was there much change in the tones of his
voice, but its intonations were rich with the depths of expression.
The keynote of his talk seemed to be summed up, as the actor believed,
in one of the sentences of this conversation: “I am a man, and
interested in all that concerns humanity.” This is in truth the
keynote of any mind that ever achieves anything worth while. One does
for self or party or nation only as it is for humanity. Any other deed
or thought is not patriotism but partisanship. America is that manhood
interested with all its available means in the humanity of the world.
Mr. Bernard, with what seems to be the deep insight that a great actor
must have into character and human nature, says, “He spoke like a man
who had felt as much as he had reflected, and reflected more than he
had spoken; like one who had looked upon society rather in the mass
than in detail, and who regarded the happiness of America but as the
first link in a series of universal victories.” This vision, opened up
to America in the devastations of the Great European War for “a place
in the sun,” was enlarged by American patriots, not for any closed-in
nation, but for the rights of humanity.
It chanced, during the conversation, that, while Washington was
comparing English liberty as surrounded by walls, with American
liberty as in the open, a black man came in with a jug of spring
water.
Washington saw the actor look at the slave and smile with an inward
thought. He quickly guessed at the thought and responded, “When we
profess, as our fundamental principle, that liberty is the inalienable
right of every man, we do not include madmen or idiots; liberty in
their hands would become a scourge. Till the mind of the slave has
been educated to perceive what are the obligations of a state of
freedom, and not confound a man’s freedom with a brute’s, the gift
would insure its abuse.”
He expressed his belief that slavery must some time be banished for
the unity of American principles, and, in this connection, it should
be remembered that, by will, he freed all his own slaves, to take
place at the death of his wife.