Washington talked of for the Presidency.—His Letters on the Subject
expressing his Reluctance.—His Election.—His Progress to the Seat of
Government.—His Reception at New York.—The Inauguration.
The adoption of the Federal Constitution was another epoch in the life
of Washington. Before the official forms of an election could be carried
into operation, a unanimous sentiment throughout the Union pronounced
him the nation’s choice to fill the presidential chair. He looked
forward to the possibility of his election with characteristic modesty
and unfeigned reluctance; as his letters to his confidential friends
bear witness. “It has no fascinating allurements for me,” writes he to
Lafayette. “At my time of life and under my circumstances, the
increasing infirmities of nature and the growing love of retirement do
not permit me to entertain a wish beyond that of living and dying an
honest man on my own farm. Let those follow the pursuits of ambition and
fame who have a keener relish for them, or who may have more years in
store for the enjoyment.”
Colonel Henry Lee had written to him warmly and eloquently on the
subject. “My anxiety is extreme that the new government may have an
auspicious beginning. To effect this and to perpetuate a nation formed
under your auspices, it is certain that again you will be called forth.
The same principles of devotion to the good of mankind which have
invariably governed your conduct, will no doubt continue to rule your
mind, however opposite their consequences may be to your repose and
happiness. If the same success should attend your efforts on this
important occasion which has distinguished you hitherto, then to be sure
you will have spent a life which Providence rarely, if ever, gave to the
lot of one man. It is my belief, it is my anxious hope, that this will
be the case.”
“The event to which you allude may never happen,” replies Washington.
“This consideration alone would supersede the expediency of announcing
any definitive and irrevocable resolution. You are among the small
number of those who know my invincible attachment to domestic life, and
that my sincerest wish is to continue in the enjoyment of it solely
until my final hour. But the world would be neither so well instructed,
nor so candidly disposed as to believe me uninfluenced by sinister
motives, in case any circumstance should render a deviation from the
line of conduct I had prescribed to myself indispensable.
“Should my unfeigned reluctance to accept the office be overcome by a
deference for the reasons And opinions of my friends; might I not, after
the declarations I have made (and Heaven knows they were made in the
sincerity of my heart), in the judgment of the impartial world and of
posterity, be chargeable with levity and inconsistency, if not with
rashness and ambition? Nay, farther, would there not be some apparent
foundation for the two former charges? Now justice to myself, and
tranquillity of conscience require, that I should act a part, if not
above imputation, at least capable of vindication. Nor will you conceive
me to be too solicitous for reputation. Though I prize as I ought the
good opinion of my fellow-citizens, yet, if I know myself, I would not
seek popularity at the expense of one social duty or moral virtue.
“While doing what my conscience informed me was right, as it respected
my God, my country and myself, I should despise all the party clamor and
unjust censure, which must be expected from some, whose personal enmity
might be occasioned by their hostility to the government. I am
conscious, that I fear alone to give any real occasion for obloquy, and
that I do not dread to meet with unmerited reproach. And certain I am,
whensoever I shall be convinced the good of my country requires my
reputation to be put in risk, regard for my own fame will not come in
competition with an object of so much magnitude.
“If I declined the task, it would lie upon quite another principle.
Notwithstanding my advanced season of life, my increasing fondness for
agricultural amusements, and my growing love of retirement, augment and
confirm my decided predilection for the character of a private citizen,
yet it would be no one of these motives, nor the hazard to which my
former reputation might be exposed, nor the terror of encountering new
fatigues and troubles, that would deter me from an acceptance; but a
belief, that some other person, who had less pretense and less
inclination to be excused, could execute all the duties full as
satisfactorily as myself.”
In a letter to Colonel Alexander Hamilton he writes: “In taking a survey
of the subject, in whatever point of light I have been able to place it,
I have always felt a kind of gloom upon my mind, as often as I have been
taught to expect I might, and perhaps must, ere long, be called upon to
make a decision. You will, I am well assured believe the assertion,
though I have little expectation it would gain credit from those who are
less acquainted with me, that, if I should receive the appointment, and
if I should be prevailed upon to accept it, the acceptance would be
attended with more diffidence and reluctance than ever I experienced
before in my life. It would be, however, with a fixed and sole
determination of lending whatever assistance might be in my power to
promote the public weal, in hopes that, at a convenient and early
period, my services might be dispensed with, and that I might be
permitted once more to retire, to pass an unclouded evening, after the
stormy day of life, in the bosom of domestic tranquillity.”
To Lafayette he declares that his difficulties increase and multiply as
he draws toward the period when, according to common belief, it will be
necessary for him to give a definitive answer as to the office in
question.
“Should circumstances render it in a manner inevitably necessary to be
in the affirmative,” writes he, “I shall assume the task with the most
unfeigned reluctance, and with a real diffidence, for which I shall
probably receive no credit from the world. If I know my own heart,
nothing short of a conviction of duty will induce me again to take an
active part in public affairs; and in that case, if I can form a plan
for my own conduct, my endeavors shall be unremittingly exerted, even at
the hazard of former fame or present popularity, to extricate my country
from the embarrassments in which it is entangled through want of credit;
and to establish a general system of policy, which if pursued will
insure permanent felicity to the commonwealth. I think I see a path
clear and direct as a ray of light, which leads to the attainment of
that object. Nothing but harmony, honesty, industry, and frugality, are
necessary to make us a great and happy people. Happily the present
posture of affairs, and the prevailing disposition of my countrymen,
promise to coöperate in establishing those four great and essential
pillars of public felicity.”
The election took place at the appointed time, and it was soon
ascertained that Washington was chosen President for the term of four
years from the 4th of March. By this time the arguments and entreaties
of his friends, and his own convictions of public expediency, had
determined him to accept; and he made preparations to depart for the
seat of government, as soon as he should receive official notice of his
election. Among other duties, he paid a visit to his mother at
Fredericksburg; it was a painful, because likely to be a final one, for
she was afflicted with a malady which, it was evident, must soon
terminate her life. Their parting was affectionate, but solemn, she had
always been reserved and moderate in expressing herself in regard to the
successes of her son; but it must have been a serene satisfaction at the
close of her life to see him elevated by his virtues to the highest
honor of his country.
From a delay in forming a quorum of Congress, the votes of the electoral
college were not counted until early in April, when they were found to
be unanimous in favor of Washington. “The delay,” said he, in a letter
to General Knox, “may be compared to a reprieve; for in confidence I
tell you (with the _world_ it would obtain little credit), that my
movements to the chair of government will be accompanied by feelings not
unlike those of a culprit, who is going to the place of his execution;
so unwilling am I, in the evening of a life nearly consumed in public
cares, to quit a peaceful abode for an ocean of difficulties, without
that competency of political skill, abilities, and inclination, which
are necessary to manage the helm. I am sensible that I am embarking the
voice of the people, and a good name of my own, on this voyage; but what
returns will be made for them, heaven alone can foretell. Integrity and
firmness are all I can promise. These, be the voyage long or short,
shall never forsake me, although I may be deserted by all men; for of
the consolations, which are to be derived from these, under any
circumstances, the world cannot deprive me.”
At length, on the 14th of April, he received a letter from the President
of Congress, duly notifying him of his election; and he prepared to set
out immediately for New York, the seat of government. An entry in his
diary, dated the 16th, says, “About ten o’clock I bade adieu to Mount
Vernon, to private life, and to domestic felicity; and with a mind
oppressed with more anxious and painful sensations than I have words to
express, set out for New York with the best disposition to render
service to my country in obedience to its call, but with less hope of
answering its expectations.”
At the first stage of his journey a trial of his tenderest feelings
awaited him in a public dinner given him at Alexandria, by his neighbors
and personal friends, among whom he had lived in the constant
interchange of kind offices, and who were so aware of the practical
beneficence of his private character. A deep feeling of regret mingled
with their festivity. The mayor, who presided, and spoke the sentiments
of the people of Alexandria, deplored in his departure the loss of the
first and best of their citizens, the ornament of the aged, the model of
the young, the improver of their agriculture, the friend of their
commerce, the protector of their infant academy, the benefactor of their
poor,—but “go,” added he, “and make a grateful people happy, who will be
doubly grateful when they contemplate this new sacrifice for their
interests.”
Washington was too deeply affected for many words in reply. “Just after
having bade adieu to my domestic connections,” said he, “this tender
proof of your friendship is but too well calculated to awaken still
further my sensibility, and increase my regret at parting from the
enjoyments of private life. All that now remains for me is to commit
myself and you to the care of that beneficent Being, who, on a former
occasion, happily brought us together after a long and distressing
separation. Perhaps the same gracious Providence will again indulge me.
But words fail me. Unutterable sensations must, then, be left to more
expressive silence, while from an aching heart I bid all my affectionate
friends and kind neighbors farewell!”
His progress to the seat of government was a continual ovation. The
ringing of bells and roaring of cannonry proclaimed his course through
the country. The old and young, women and children, thronged the
highways to bless and welcome him. Deputations of the most respectable
inhabitants from the principal places came forth to meet and escort him.
At Baltimore, on his arrival and departure, his carriage was attended by
a numerous cavalcade of citizens, and he was saluted by the thunder of
artillery.
At the frontier of Pennsylvania he was met by his former companion in
arms, Mifflin, now governor of the State, who with Judge Peters and a
civil and military escort, was waiting to receive him. Washington had
hoped to be spared all military parade, but found it was not to be
evaded. At Chester, where he stopped to breakfast, there were
preparations for a public entrance into Philadelphia. Cavalry had
assembled from the surrounding country; a superb white horse was led out
for Washington to mount, and a grand procession set forward, with
General St. Clair of Revolutionary notoriety at its head. It gathered
numbers as it advanced; passed under triumphal arches entwined with
laurel, and entered Philadelphia amid the shouts of the multitude.
A day of public festivity succeeded, ended by a display of fire-works.
Washington’s reply to the congratulations of the mayor at a great civic
banquet, spoke the genuine feelings of his modest nature, amid these
testimonials of a world’s applause. “When I contemplate the
interposition of Providence, as it was visibly manifested in guiding us
through the Revolution, in preparing us for the reception of the general
government, and in conciliating the good-will of the people of America
toward one another after its adoption, I feel myself oppressed and
almost overwhelmed with a sense of divine munificence. I feel that
nothing is due to my personal agency in all those wonderful and
complicated events, except what can be attributed to an honest zeal for
the good of my country.”
We question whether any of these testimonials of a nation’s gratitude
affected Washington more sensibly than those he received at Trenton. It
was on a sunny afternoon when he arrived on the banks of the Delaware,
where, twelve years before he had crossed in darkness and storm, through
clouds of snow and drifts of floating ice, on his daring attempt to
strike a blow at a triumphant enemy.
Here at present all was peace and sunshine, the broad river flowed
placidly along, and crowds awaited him on the opposite bank, to hail him
with love and transport.
We will not dwell on the joyous ceremonials with which he was welcomed,
but there was one too peculiar to be omitted. The reader may remember
Washington’s gloomy night on the banks of the Assunpink, which flows
through Trenton; the camp fires of Cornwallis in front of him; the
Delaware full of floating ice in the rear; and his sudden resolve on
that midnight retreat which turned the fortunes of the campaign. On the
bridge crossing that eventful stream, the ladies of Trenton had caused a
triumphal arch to be erected. It was entwined with evergreens and
laurels, and bore the inscription, “The defender of the mothers will be
the protector of the daughters.” At this bridge the matrons of the city
were assembled to pay him reverence; and as he passed under the arch, a
number of young girls, dressed in white and crowned with garlands,
strewed flowers before him, singing an ode expressive of their love and
gratitude. Never was ovation more graceful, touching, and sincere: and
Washington, tenderly affected, declared that the impression of it on his
heart could never be effaced.
His whole progress through New Jersey must have afforded a similar
contrast to his weary marchings to and fro, harassed by doubts and
perplexities, with bale fires blazing on its hills, instead of festive
illuminations, and when the ringing of bells and booming of cannon, now
so joyous, were the signals of invasion and maraud.
In respect to his reception at New York, Washington had signified in a
letter to Governor Clinton, that none could be so congenial to his
feelings as a quiet entry devoid of ceremony; but his modest wishes were
not complied with. At Elizabethtown Point, a committee of both Houses of
Congress, with various civic functionaries, waited by appointment to
receive him. He embarked on board of a splendid barge, constructed for
the occasion. It was manned by thirteen branch pilots, masters of
vessels, in white uniforms, and commanded by Commodore Nicholson. Other
barges, fancifully decorated, followed, having on board the heads of
departments and other public officers, and several distinguished
citizens. As they passed through the strait between the Jerseys and
Staten Island, called the Kills, other boats decorated with flags fell
in their wake, until the whole, forming a nautical procession, swept up
the broad and beautiful bay of New York, to the sound of instrumental
music. On board of two vessels were parties of ladies and gentlemen who
sang congratulatory odes as Washington’s barge approached. The ships at
anchor in the harbor, dressed in colors, fired salutes as it passed. One
alone, the _Galveston_, a Spanish man-of-war, displayed no signs of
gratulation, until the barge of the general was nearly abreast; when
suddenly, as if by magic, the yards were manned, the ship burst forth,
as it were, into a full array of flags and signals, and thundered a
salute of thirteen guns.
He approached the landing-place of Murray’s Wharf, amid the ringing of
bells, the roaring of cannonry, and the shouting of multitudes collected
on every pier-head. On landing, he was received by Governor Clinton.
General Knox, too, who had taken such affectionate leave of him on his
retirement from military life, was there to welcome him in his civil
capacity. Other of his fellow-soldiers of the Revolution were likewise
there, mingled with the civic dignitaries. At this juncture, an officer
stepped up and requested Washington’s orders, announcing himself as
commanding his guard. Washington desired him to proceed according to the
directions he might have received in the present arrangements, but that
for the future the affection of his fellow-citizens was all the guard he
wanted.
Carpets had been spread to a carriage prepared to convey him to his
destined residence, but he preferred to walk. He was attended by a long
civil and military train. In the streets through which he passed the
houses were decorated with flags, silken banners, garlands of flowers
and evergreens, and bore his name in every form of ornament. The streets
were crowded with people, so that it was with difficulty a passage could
be made by the city officers. Washington frequently bowed to the
multitude as he passed, taking off his hat to the ladies, who thronged
every window, waving their handkerchiefs, throwing flowers before him,
and many of them shedding tears of enthusiasm.
That day he dined with his old friend Governor Clinton, who had invited
a numerous company of public functionaries and foreign diplomatists to
meet him, and in the evening the city was brilliantly illuminated.
Would the reader know the effect upon Washington’s mind of this
triumphant entry into New York? It was to depress rather than to excite
him. Modestly diffident of his abilities to cope with the new duties on
which he was entering, he was overwhelmed by what he regarded as proofs
of public expectation. Noting in his diary the events of the day, he
writes: “The display of boats which attended and joined us on this
occasion, some with vocal and some with instrumental music on board; the
decorations of the ships, the roar of cannon, and the loud acclamations
of the people which rent the skies, as I passed along the wharves,
filled my mind with sensations as painful (considering the reverse of
this scene, which may be the case after all my labors to do good) as
they are pleasing.”
The inauguration was delayed for several days, in which a question arose
as to the form or title by which the President elect was to be
addressed; and a committee in both Houses was appointed to report upon
the subject. The question was stated without Washington’s privity, and
contrary to his desire; as he feared that any title might awaken the
sensitive jealousy of republicans, at a moment when it was all-important
to conciliate public good-will to the new form of government. It was a
relief to him, therefore, when it was finally resolved that the address
should be simply “the President of the United States,” without any
addition of title; a judicious form, which has remained to the present
day.
The inauguration took place on the 30th of April. At nine o’clock in the
morning, there were religious services in all the churches, and prayers
put up for the blessing of Heaven on the new government. At twelve
o’clock the city troops paraded before Washington’s door, and soon after
the committees of Congress and heads of departments came in their
carriages. At half-past twelve the procession moved forward, preceded by
the troops; next came the committees and heads of departments in their
carriages; then Washington in a coach of state, his aide-de-camp,
Colonel Humphreys, and his secretary, Mr. Lear, in his own carriage. The
foreign ministers and a long train of citizens brought up the rear.
About two hundred yards before reaching the hall, Washington and his
suite alighted from their carriages, and passed through the troops, who
were drawn up on each side, into the hall and senate chamber, where the
Vice President, the Senate and House of Representatives were assembled.
The Vice President, John Adams, recently inaugurated, advanced and
conducted Washington to a chair of state at the upper end of the room. A
solemn silence prevailed; when the Vice President rose, and informed him
that all things were prepared for him to take the oath of office
required by the Constitution.
The oath was to be administered by the Chancellor of the State of New
York, in a balcony in front of the senate chamber, and in full view of
an immense multitude occupying the street, the windows, and even roofs
of the adjacent houses. The balcony formed a kind of open recess, with
lofty columns supporting the roof. In the centre was a table with a
covering of crimson velvet, upon which lay a superbly bound Bible on a
crimson velvet cushion. This was all the paraphernalia for the august
scene.
All eyes were fixed upon the balcony, when, at the appointed hour,
Washington made his appearance, accompanied by various public
functionaries, and members of the Senate and House of Representatives.
He was clad in a full suit of dark-brown cloth, of American manufacture,
with a steel-hilted dress sword, white silk stockings, and silver
shoe-buckles. His hair was dressed and powdered in the fashion of the
day, and worn in a bag and solitaire.
His entrance on the balcony was hailed by universal shouts. He was
evidently moved by this demonstration of public affection. Advancing to
the front of the balcony, he laid his hand upon his heart, bowed several
times, and then retreated to an arm-chair near the table.
The populace appeared to understand that the scene had overcome him; and
were hushed at once into profound silence.
After a few moments Washington rose and again came forward. John Adams,
the Vice President, stood on his right; on his left the chancellor of
the State, Robert R. Livingston; somewhat in the rear were Roger
Sherman, Alexander Hamilton, generals Knox, St. Clair, the Baron Steuben
and others.
The chancellor advanced to administer the oath prescribed by the
Constitution, and Mr. Otis, the secretary of the Senate, held up the
Bible on its crimson cushion. The oath was read slowly and distinctly;
Washington at the same time laying his hand on the open Bible. When it
was concluded, he replied solemnly, “I swear—so help me God!” Mr. Otis
would have raised the Bible to his lips, but he bowed down reverently
and kissed it.
The chancellor now stepped forward, waved his hand and exclaimed, “Long
live George Washington, President of the United States!” At this moment
a flag was displayed on the cupola of the hall, on which signal there
was a general discharge of artillery on the Battery. All the bells of
the city rang out a joyful peal, and the multitude rent the air with
acclamations.
Washington again bowed to the people and returned into the senate
chamber, where he delivered, to both houses of Congress, his inaugural
address, characterized by his usual modesty, moderation, and good sense,
but uttered with a voice deep, slightly tremulous, and so low as to
demand close attention in the listeners. After this he proceeded with
the whole assemblage on foot to St. Paul’s church, where prayers suited
to the occasion were read by Dr. Prevost, Bishop of the Protestant
Episcopal Church in New York, who had been appointed by the Senate one
of the chaplains of Congress. So closed the ceremonies of the
inauguration.
The whole day was one of sincere rejoicing, and in the evening there
were brilliant illuminations and fire-works.
We have been accustomed to look to Washington’s private letters for the
sentiments of his heart. Those written to several of his friends
immediately after his inauguration, show how little he was excited by
his official elevation. “I greatly fear,” writes he, “that my countrymen
will expect too much from me. I fear, if the issue of public measures
should not correspond with their sanguine expectations, they will turn
the extravagant, and I might almost say undue praises, which they are
heaping upon me at this moment, into equally extravagant, though I will
fondly hope, unmerited censures.”
Little was his modest spirit aware that the praises so dubiously
received were but the opening notes of a theme that was to increase from
age to age, to pervade all lands and endure throughout all generations.
* * * * *
In the volumes here concluded, we have endeavored to narrate faithfully
the career of Washington from childhood, through his early surveying
expeditions in the wilderness, his diplomatic mission to the French
posts on the frontier, his campaigns in the French war, his arduous
trials as commander-in-chief, throughout the Revolution, the noble
simplicity of his life in retirement, until we have shown him elevated
to the presidential chair, by no effort of his own, in a manner against
his wishes, by the unanimous vote of a grateful country.
The plan of our work has necessarily carried us widely into the
campaigns of the Revolution, even where Washington was not present in
person; for his spirit pervaded and directed the whole, and a general
knowledge of the whole is necessary to appreciate the sagacity,
forecast, enduring fortitude, and comprehensive wisdom with which he
conducted it. He himself has signified to one who aspired to write his
biography, that any memoirs of his life, distinct and unconnected with
the history of the war, would be unsatisfactory. In treating of the
Revolution, we have endeavored to do justice to what we consider its
most striking characteristic; the greatness of the object and the
scantiness of the means. We have endeavored to keep in view the
prevailing poverty of resources, the scandalous neglects, the squalid
miseries of all kinds, with which its champions had to contend in their
expeditions through trackless wildernesses, or thinly peopled regions;
beneath scorching suns or inclement skies; their wintry marches to be
traced by bloody footprints on snow and ice; their desolate wintry
encampments, rendered still more desolate by nakedness and famine. It
was in the patience and fortitude with which these ills were sustained
by a half-disciplined yeomanry, voluntary exiles from their homes,
destitute of all the “pomp and circumstance” of war to excite them, and,
animated solely by their patriotism, that we read the noblest and most
affecting characteristics of that great struggle for human rights. They
do wrong to its moral grandeur, who seek by commonplace exaggeration, to
give a melodramatic effect and false glare to its military operations,
and to place its greatest triumphs in the conflicts of the field.
Lafayette showed a true sense of the nature of the struggle, when
Napoleon, accustomed to effect ambitious purposes by hundreds of
thousands of troops, and tens of thousands of slain, sneered at the
scanty armies of the American Revolution and its “boasted allies.”
“Sire,” was the admirable and comprehensive reply, “it was the grandest
of causes won by skirmishes of sentinels and outposts.”
In regard to the character and conduct of Washington, we have endeavored
to place his deeds in the clearest light, and left them to speak for
themselves, generally avoiding comment or eulogium. We have quoted his
own words and writings largely, to explain his feelings and motives, and
give the true key to his policy; for never did man leave a more truthful
mirror of his heart and mind, and a more thorough exponent of his
conduct, than he has left in his copious correspondence. There his
character is to be found in all its majestic simplicity, its massive
grandeur, and quiet colossal strength. He was no hero of romance; there
was nothing of romantic heroism in his nature. As a warrior, he was
incapable of fear, but made no merit of defying danger. He fought for a
cause, but not for personal renown. Gladly, when he had won the cause,
he hung up his sword, never again to take it down. Glory, that blatant
word, which haunts some military minds like the bray of the trumpet,
formed no part of his aspirations. To act justly was his instinct, to
promote the public weal his constant effort, to deserve the “affections
of good men” his ambition. With such qualifications for the pure
exercise of sound judgment and comprehensive wisdom, he ascended the
presidential chair.
There for the present we leave him. So far our work is complete,
comprehending the whole military life of Washington, and his agency in
public affairs, up to the formation of our Constitution. How well we
have executed it, we leave to the public to determine; hoping to find
it, as heretofore, far more easily satisfied with the result of our
labors than we are ourselves. Should the measure of health and good
spirits, with which a kind Providence has blessed us beyond the usual
term of literary labor, be still continued, we may go on, and in another
volume, give the presidential career and closing life of Washington. In
the mean time, having found a resting-place in our task, we stay our
hands, lay by our pen, and seek that relaxation and repose which
gathering years require.
_Sunnyside_, 1857. W. I.
END OF VOL. IV.
-----
Footnote 1:
_Life of Reed_, ii. 189.
Footnote 2:
From manuscript notes by the Rev. Joseph Tuttle. This worthy clergyman
gives many anecdotes illustrative of the active patriotism of the
Jersey women. Anna Kitchel wife of a farmer of Whippany, is repeatedly
his theme of well-merited eulogium. Her potato bin, meal bag, and
granary, writes he, had always some comfort for the patriot soldiers.
When unable to billet them in her house, a huge kettle filled with
meat and vegetables was hung over the fire, that they might not go
away hungry.
Footnote 3:
_Ann. Register_ 1780, p. 217.
Footnote 4:
Letter to the President, April 2d.
Footnote 5:
_Washington’s Writings_, vii. 10.
Footnote 6:
_Washington’s Writings_, Sparks, vol. vii. p. ii.
Footnote 7:
_Washington’s Writings_, Sparks, vol. vii. p. 15.
Footnote 8:
Washington to James Duane, Sparks, vii. 34.
Footnote 9:
Gen. William Laine to Joseph Reed. Reed’s _Memoirs_ vol. d. p. 201.
Footnote 10:
Letter to the President of Cong., May 27. Sparks, vii. 54.
Footnote 11:
Sparks, _Corr. of the Rev._, vol. ii. p. 466.
Footnote 12:
Letter to Joseph Jones. Sparks, vii. 67.
Footnote 13:
_Correspondence of the Rev._ vol. ii. p. 419.
Footnote 14:
Gordon, vol. iii. p. 352; see also Tarleton, _Hist. Campaign_, p. 8.
Footnote 15:
Pronounced Hugee—of French Huguenot descent.
Footnote 16:
_Annual Register_, 1781, p. 52.
Footnote 17:
Stedman, ii. 183.
Footnote 18:
So called in early times from being ninety six miles from the
principal town of the Cherokee nation.
Footnote 19:
Tarleton’s _Hist. of Campaign_, p. 89.
Footnote 20:
Passages in the History of Elizabethtown, Capt. W. C. De Hart.
Footnote 21:
Letter to Governor Trumbull. Sparks, vii. 93.
Footnote 22:
Jean Baptiste Donatien de Vimeur, Comte de Rochambeau, was born at
Vendome, in France, 1725.
Footnote 23:
Sparks. _Writings of Washington_, vii. 504.
Footnote 24:
A branch of Cape Fear River. The aboriginal name, Supporah.
Footnote 25:
Narrative of Adjutant-general Williams.
Footnote 26:
Ibid.
Footnote 27:
Williams’ Narrative.
Footnote 28:
Father, by his first marriage, of the celebrated Maria Edgeworth.
Footnote 29:
Composed at the request of Miss Rebecca Redman.
Footnote 30:
Simcoe’s _Military Journal_, p. 153–54.
Footnote 31:
See Dwight’s _Travels_, vol. iii.
Footnote 32:
Stated on the authority of Commodore Hiram Paulding, a son of the
captor, who heard it repeatedly from the lips of his father.
Footnote 33:
Testimony of David Williams.
Footnote 34:
Sparks’ _Arnold_. We would note generally, that we are indebted to Mr.
Sparks’ work for many particulars given by us of this tale of treason.
Footnote 35:
_Memoirs of Lafayette_, vol. i. p. 264.
Footnote 36:
The fate of the heroic youth here alluded to, deserves a more ample
notice. Born in Coventry, Connecticut, June 6th, 1755, he entered Yale
College in 1770, and graduated with some distinction in September,
1773, having previously contracted an engagement of marriage; not
unlike André in this respect, who wooed his “Honora,” at eighteen. On
quitting college he engaged as a teacher, as is common with young men
in New England, while studying for a profession. His half-formed
purpose was to devote himself to the ministry. As a teacher of youth,
he was eminently skillful, and equally appreciated by parents and
pupils. He became universally popular. “Everybody loved him,” said a
lady of his acquaintance, “he was so sprightly, intelligent and kind,
and so handsome.”
He was teaching at New London, when an express arrived bringing
tidings of the outbreak at Lexington. A town meeting was called, and
Hale was among the most ardent of the speakers, proposing an instant
march to the scene of hostilities, and offering to volunteer. “A sense
of duty,” writes he to his father, “urges me to sacrifice everything
for my country.”
He served in the army before Boston as lieutenant; prevailed on his
company to extend their term of service by offering them his own pay,
and for his good conduct received from Congress the commission of
captain. He commanded L company in Colonel Knowlton’s regiment in the
following year. After the disastrous battle of Long Island, Washington
applied to that officer for a competent person to penetrate the
enemy’s camp, and procure intelligence of their designs; a service
deemed vital in that dispiriting crisis. Hale, in the ardor of
patriotism, volunteered for the unenviable enterprise, though fully
aware of its peril, and the consequences of capture.
Assuming his old character as schoolmaster, he crossed the Sound at
night from Norwalk to Huntington on Long Island. visited the British
encampments unsuspected, made drawings of the enemy’s works, and noted
down memoranda in Latin of the information he gathered, and then
retraced his steps to Huntington, where a boat was to meet him and
convey him back to the Connecticut shore. Unfortunately a British
guard ship was at that time anchored out of view in the Sound, and had
sent a boat on shore for water. Hale mistook it for the expected boat,
and did not discover his mistake until he found himself in the hands
of enemies. He was stripped and searched, the plans and memoranda were
found concealed in the soles of his shoes, and proved him to be a spy.
He was conveyed to the guard ship, and thence to New York, where he
was landed on the 21st of September, the day of the great fire. He was
taken to General Howe’s head-quarters, and, after brief parley with
his judge, ordered for execution the next morning at daybreak—a
sentence carried out by the provost marshal, the brutal and infamous
Cunningham, who refused his request for a Bible, and destroyed a
letter he had addressed to his mother, for the reason after wards
given by himself, “that the rebels should never know they had a man
who could die with such firmness.” His patriot spirit shone forth in
his dying words,—“I only regret that I have but one life to lose for
my country.”
Footnote 37:
From a copy among the papers of General Hand.
Footnote 38:
The commission was sold by Sir Henry Clinton, for the benefit of
André’s mother and sisters. The king, also, settled a pension on the
mother, and offered to confer the honor of knighthood on André’s
brother, in order to wipe away all stain from the family, that the
circumstance of his fate might be thought to occasion.
Footnote 39:
Speech of the Hon. Henry J. Raymond, at the dedication of the André
monument.
Footnote 40:
See letter of Gustavus to John Anderson. “My partner of whom I hinted
in a former letter, has about ten thousand pounds cash in hand, ready
for a speculation, if any should offer; I have also one thousand
pounds in hand, and can collect fifteen hundred more in two or three
days. Add to this I have some credit. From these hints you can judge
of the purchase that can be made.”
Footnote 41:
We subjoin a British officer’s view of André’s case. “He was tried by
a board of general officers as a spy, and condemned to be hanged. The
American general has been censured for directing this ignominious
sentence to be carried into execution; but doubtless Major André was
well aware when he undertook the negotiation, of the fate that awaited
him should he fall into the hands of the enemy. The laws of war award
to spies the punishment of death. It would, therefore, be difficult to
assign a reason why Major André should have been exempted from that
fate to which all others are doomed under similar circumstances,
although the amiable qualities of the man rendered the individual case
a subject of peculiar commiseration.”—_Origin and Services of the
Coldstream Guards_; by Col. MacKinnon, vol. ii. p. 9.
Footnote 42:
MSS. of Col. B. Tallmadge in possession of his daughter Mrs. J. P.
Cushman of Troy, N. Y.
Footnote 43:
Thatcher’s _Military Journal_, p. 275.
Footnote 44:
The following passages of a letter written by Sir Thomas Romilly in
London, Dec. 12, 1780, to the Rev. John Roget, are worthy of
citation:—
“What do you think of Arnold’s conduct? You may well suppose he does
not want advocates here. I cannot join with them. If he thought the
Americans not justified in continuing the war, after the offer of such
favorable terms as the commissioners held out to them, why did he keep
his command for two years afterwards?...
“The arguments used by Clinton and Arnold in their letters to
Washington, to prove that André could not be considered as a spy, are,
first, that he had with him, when he was taken, a protection of
Arnold, who was at that time acting under a commission of the
Congress, and, therefore, competent to give protections. Certainly he
was, to all strangers to his negotiations with Clinton, but not to
André, who knew him to be at that time a traitor to the Congress—nay,
more, whose protection was granted for no other purpose but to promote
and give effect to his treachery. In the second place, they say that
at the time he was taken he was upon neutral ground; but they do not
deny that he had been within the American lines in disguise. The
letters written by André himself, show a firm, cool intrepidity worthy
a more glorious end....
“The fate of this unfortunate young man, and the manly style of his
letters, have raised more compassion here than the loss of thousands
in battle, and have excited a warmer indignation against the
Americans, than any former act of the Congress. When the passions of
men are so deeply affected, you will not expect to find them keep
within the bounds of reason. Panegyrics of the gallant André are
unbounded; they call him the English Mutius, and talk of erecting
monuments to his memory. Certainly, no man in his situation could have
behaved with more determined courage; but his situation was by no
means such as to admit of these exaggerated praises.”
Footnote 45:
_Letters and Papers relating to the Provincial Hist. of Pennsylvania_,
p. lxiv.
Footnote 46:
_Letters and Papers of Prov. Hist. Pennsylvania_, p. lxvi.
Footnote 47:
_Writings of Washington_, vii. 228.
Footnote 48:
_Memoires de Lafayette_, tom. i. p. 337.
Footnote 49:
_Annual Register_, 1781, p. 52.
Footnote 50:
Related by Dr. Wm. Reed, at that time superintendent of the hospital
department at Hillsborough, to Alex. Garden aide-de-camp to
Greene.—Garden’s _Anecdotes_, p. 350.
Footnote 51:
Williams’ Narrative.
Footnote 52:
_Correspondence of the Revolution_, iii. 188.
Footnote 53:
Quincy’s _Memoir of Major Shaw_, p. 85.
Footnote 54:
Letter to the Executive Council.
Footnote 55:
_Memoir of Major Shaw_, by Hon. Josiah Quincy, p. 89.
Footnote 56:
His last letter to Hamilton, in which he assures him of “his very
great esteem and regard,” was written by Washington but two days
before his death. Sparks, xi. 409.
Footnote 57:
Cornwallis to Lord George Germain, March 17.
Footnote 58:
_Annual Register_, 1781, p. 56.
Footnote 59:
Stedman, ii. p. 324.
Footnote 60:
Stedman, ii. 326. Cornwallis to Sir H. Clinton, see also
_Remembrancer_ 1781, part 1, 303.
Footnote 61:
This sudden swelling of the river has been stated by some writers, as
having taken place on the 29th, on the approach of Cornwallis’s main
force, whereas it took place on the 23d, on the approach of the
_detachment_ sent by his lordship in advance in pursuit of Morgan. The
inaccuracy as to date has given rise to disputes among historians.
Footnote 62:
_Annual Register_, 1781, p. 53.
Footnote 63:
_Annual Register_, 1781.
Footnote 64:
Lee’s _Memories of the War_, i. 319.
Footnote 65:
Letter to Governor Jefferson, March 10.
Footnote 66:
Stedman, vol. ii. p. 346.
Footnote 67:
Sparks. _Correspondence of the Revolution_, iii. 267.
Footnote 68:
Greene to Washington. _Cor. Rev._ iii. 278.
Footnote 69:
See Letter of Cornwallis to Lord G. Germain, April 18 Also _Annual
Register_, 1781, p. 72.
Footnote 70:
_Answer to Clinton Narrative_, Introduction, p. vi.
Footnote 71:
Letter to Major-general Phillips.
Footnote 72:
_Annual Register_, 1781, p. 90.
Footnote 73:
Tarleton. _History of the Campaign_, p. 291.
Footnote 74:
Letter of Paymaster Hughes. See Bolton’s _Westchester Co._, vol. ii.
p. 94.
Footnote 75:
Lee’s _Memoirs of the War_, vol. I. p. 457.
Footnote 76:
Bolton’s _Hist. of Westchester Co._, vol. i. p. 243.
Footnote 77:
_Correspondence relative to Operations in Virginia_, p. 153.
Footnote 78:
Letter to Hamilton, May 23d.
Footnote 79:
Letter to Col. Alex. Hamilton, May 23, 1780.
Footnote 80:
_Memoires de Lafayette_, t. i. p. 445.
Footnote 81:
See Thacher’s _Military Journal_, p. 322.
Footnote 82:
Thacher’s _Military Journal_, p. 323.
Footnote 83:
Washington several years afterwards, speaking of this important march
in a letter to Noah Webster, writes: “That much trouble was taken, and
finesse used, to misguide and bewilder Sir Henry Clinton in regard to
the real object, by fictitious communications, as well as by making a
deceptive provision of ovens, forage, and boats in his neighborhood,
is certain. Nor were less pains taken to deceive our own army, for I
had always conceived where the imposition does not completely take
place at home, it would never sufficiently succeed abroad.”—Sparks,
ix. 404.
Footnote 84:
_Memoirs of Lafayette_, tom. i. p. 467.
Footnote 85:
_Correspondence relative to Defense of York_, p. 199.
Footnote 86:
Thacher’s _Military Journal_, p. 336.
Footnote 87:
Thacher’s _Military Journal_.
Footnote 88:
Given on the authority of Lafayette. Sparks, viii. 201.
Footnote 89:
Chastellux, vol. ii. pp. 19–83.
Footnote 90:
Thacher.
Footnote 91:
Lee’s _Memoirs of the War_, ii. 342.
Footnote 92:
Lafayette to Washington. _Correspondence of the Rev._, iii. 426.
Footnote 93:
Leake’s _Life of John Lamb_, p. 259.
Footnote 94:
Thacher, p. 341.
N. B.—Gordon, in his history of the war, asserts that Lafayette, with
the consent of Washington, ordered that, in capturing the redoubt, no
quarter should be shown; in retaliation of a massacre perpetrated at
Fort Griswold. It is needless to contradict a statement so opposed to
the characters of both. It has been denied by both Lafayette and
Hamilton. Not one of the enemy was killed unless in action.
Footnote 95:
Lafayette to Washington. _Cor. of the Rev._ iii. 426.
Footnote 96:
Thacher, p. 346.
Footnote 97:
Wraxall’s _Historical Memoirs_, vol. ii. p. 99.
Footnote 98:
Afterwards William IV.
Footnote 99:
Quincy’s _Memoir of Major Shaw_, p. 104.
Footnote 100:
Thacher, p. 421.
Footnote 101:
Marshall’s _Life of Washington_.
Footnote 102:
Editor of the _Maryland Gazette_.
Footnote 103:
So, at least, records in homely prose and verse a reverend
historiographer of Mount Vernon. “When old Lord Fairfax heard that
Washington had captured Lord Cornwallis and all his army, he called to
his black waiter, ‘Come, Joe! carry me to bed, for it is high time for
me to die!’”
“Then up rose Joe, all at the word,
And took his master’s arm,
And thus to bed he softly led
The lord of Greenway farm.
“There oft he called on Britain’s name,
And oft he wept full sore,
Then sighed—thy will, O Lord, be done—
And word spake never more.”
See Weems’ _Life of Washington_.
Footnote 104:
Letter of Washington to the Marchioness de Lafayette.
Footnote 105:
Letter to Richard Henry Lee.
Footnote 106:
MS. notes of the Rev. Joseph F. Tuttle.
Footnote 107:
Greene to Col. Wadsworth. MS.
Footnote 108:
This sportive occurrence gave rise to a piece of camp scandal. It was
reported at a distance that Mrs. Olney had been in a violent rage, and
had told Washington that, “if he did not let go her hand she would
tear his eyes out, and that though he was a general, he was but a
man.”
Mr. Olney wrote to Colonel Tilghman, begging him to refute the
scandal. The latter gave a true statement of the affair, declaring
that the whole was done in jest, and that in the mock contest Mrs.
Olney had made use of no expressions unbecoming a lady of her good
breeding, or such as were taken the least amiss by the general.
Footnote 109:
Notes of the Rev. Mr. Tuttle. MS.
Footnote 110:
Communicated to us in a letter from a son of Colonel Lee.
Footnote 111:
George William Fairfax resided in Bath, where he died on the 3d of
April, 1787, in the sixty-third year of his age. Though his income was
greatly reduced by the confiscation of his property in Virginia, he
contributed generously during the Revolutionary War to the relief of
American prisoners.—Sparks’ _Washington’s Writings_, vol. ii. p. 53.
Footnote 112:
We are happy to learn that a complete collection of the correspondence
of General Greene is about to be published by his worthy and highly
cultivated grandson, George Washington Greene. It is a work that, like
Sparks’ _Writings of Washington_, should form a part of every American
library.
Footnote 113:
Sparks, ix. 139.
Footnote 114:
See Letter to James McHenry. Sparks, ix. 121.
Footnote 115:
Letter to Edmund Randolph, governor of Virginia.
Footnote 116:
Mr. Sparks. For this interesting document see _Writings of
Washington_, vol. ix. Appendix, No. iv.
Footnote 117:
_The Madison Papers_, iii. 1624.
Footnote 118:
Letter to Jonathan Trumbull, 20th July, 1788.
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