few hours may bring the end." The physician spoke as if there were no
more ground for hope.
"May God have mercy on us," responded Mrs. Washington, as she hastened
from the room, with deep emotion, to despatch a servant for George.
Mr. Washington continued to sink rapidly during the day, his reason at
times wavering, though his distress was not acute. Conscious that he
could not survive many hours, he expressed an anxiety to see George once
more, and seemed impatient for his arrival.
It was almost night when George arrived, and his father was dying. His
mother met him at the door, with emotion too deep for utterance. Her
tears and despairing look told the story more plainly than words to
George. He knew that there was no hope.
Hastening into his father's presence he was appalled by the change. That
cheerful, loving face was struck with death. Fastening his eyes upon his
son, as if he recognized him, the dying man _looked_ his last farewell.
He could not speak nor lift a finger. He was almost "beyond the river."
George was completely overcome. Throwing himself upon his father's neck,
he broke into convulsive sobs, kissing him again and again, and giving
way to the most passionate grief. The scene was affecting beyond
description. All hearts were melted by the child's artless exhibition of
filial love and sorrow. He loved his father with a devotion that knew no
bounds, as he had reason to love him. Without this paternal friend, life
would lose its charm to him, and he "would never be glad any more." So
it seemed to him when he first was made conscious that his father was
dying. The great sorrow seemed too great for him to bear. His young
heart well nigh burst.
Here we have evidence of what George was as a son. He had not only loved
and reverenced his father, but he had obeyed him with true filial
respect. Obedience was one of his leading virtues. This endeared him to
his father. Their tender love was mutual. "George thought the world of
his father and his father thought the world of him." That dying scene in
the family was proof of it.
In a few days all that was mortal of Augustine Washington was committed
to the dust, and George was a fatherless boy. As we have already
intimated, this sudden affliction changed the current of George's life.
Different plans and different experiences followed.
Mr. Washington, with characteristic foresight, had made his will. Irving
says of it, "To Lawrence he gave the estate on the banks of the Potomac,
with other real property, and several shares in iron-works. To
Augustine, the second son by the first marriage, the old homestead and
estate in Westmoreland. The children by the second marriage were
severally well provided for; and George, when he became of age, was to
have the house and lands on the Rappahannock."
Mrs. Washington assumed the care of the estate after the death of her
husband, and continued her love of fine horses. She possessed several of
rare beauty and fleetness. Among them was an Arabian colt, full grown,
broken to the harness, but not to the saddle. He would not allow a man
to ride him. He was so high strung, and so fractiously opposed to any
one getting upon his back, that Mrs. Washington had forbidden any one on
the farm attempting the feat.
George had two or three young friends visiting him, and they were
admiring the antics of the colt in the meadow in front of the house.
"I should like to ride him," remarked George.
"Ride him!" exclaimed one of the number. "I thought nobody could ride
him. That is what I have heard."
"Well, I should like to try," continued George. "If I could once get
upon his back, I would run the risk anyway. He would prance some, I
guess."
"I should like to see you try, George," remarked another of his friends
present. "You can ride him if any one can. But how do you know that you
can't ride him? Have you ever tried?"
"No."
"Did any one ever try?"
"I believe Jake has; or, at least, he has tried to get on his back."
"If I were in your place I would see whether I could ride him or not,"
suggested his friend. "What's the harm?"
"Mother would not allow it," answered George; "She would expect to see
my brains beat out if I should attempt it."
"But your mother would like it if you succeeded in riding him," rejoined
his friend, by way of inducing him to make the attempt.
"I have no doubt she would; but if I should break my neck, instead of
the colt, she would not be glad at all."
"Of course not; but I don't see any particular need of breaking your
neck or limbs by making the attempt; and it would be a feather in your
cap to manage the colt. Suppose we try;" and this proposition was made
by George's companion in good faith.
"I have no fears for myself," answered George; "there is no danger in
trying to get upon his back that I see, and once there, I will risk
being thrown."
"That is so," continued his friend, "and suppose we try it some day."
After some more discussion upon the subject, George agreed to make the
attempt to mount the colt early the following morning, and his young
friend seconded his decision heartily.
The next morning, a full hour before breakfast-time, the boys were out,
eager to participate in the sport of conquering a wild colt. The colt
appeared to snuff trouble, for he was unusually gay and crank that
morning. His head and tail were up, as he went prancing around the
field, when the boys put in their appearance.
"Drive him into a corner!" exclaimed George.
"Drive the wind into a corner as easily," replied one of the boys, just
beginning to appreciate the difficulties of the situation.
"Well, he must be caught before he can be mounted," said George,
philosophically. "I did not promise to mount him until he was bridled."
"That is so," responded another boy, more hopeful of results. "That
corner yonder is a good place for the business," pointing to the
eastward.
So they all rallied to drive the colt into the proposed corner; and, in
the language of another who has described the scene, "after a deal of
chasing and racing, heading and doubling, falling down and picking
themselves up again, and more shouting and laughing than they had breath
to spare for, they at last succeeded in driving the panting and
affrighted young animal into the corner. Here, by some means or other
(it was difficult to tell precisely how) they managed to bridle him,
although at no small risk of a broken head or two from his heels, that
he seemed to fling about him in a dozen different directions at once."
"Lead him away from this corner," said one of the boys.
"Yes," answered George, "we must go well toward the centre of the field;
he will want room to throw me."
So, throwing the bridle-reins over the colt's neck, and taking hold of
the bridle close by the bits, the animal was led toward the centre of
the field.
Before the boys or the colt were aware of George's purpose, with one
bound he leaped upon the colt's back, and, seizing the reins, was
prepared for the worst. His playmates were as much astonished as the
animal was at this unexpected feat, and they rushed away to escape
disaster.
"Look out, George!" shouted one, as the colt reared and stood upon his
hind legs.
"He'll throw you, George, if you don't look out!" screamed another, as
the animal reversed his position and sent his hind legs high into the
air.
"Stick, George, stick!" they cried, as the colt dashed forward like the
wind a few rods, then stopped, reared, and kicked again, as if
determined to throw the rider. All the while George's companions were
alarmed at the fearful plunges of the animal, fearing that he would dash
him to the ground.
At length the furious beast took the bits between his teeth and plunged
forward upon the "dead run." George had no control over him as he dashed
forward like mad. He hung to the reins like a veteran horseman as the
wild creature leaped and plunged and kicked. His companions looked on in
breathless interest, expecting every moment to see the young rider
hurled to the ground. But, to their surprise, the colt stumbled,
staggered a few steps, and fell, George still upon his back. They ran to
the rescue, when George exclaimed, "The colt is dead!"
"Dead?" responded one of the boys in astonishment, "more likely his leg
is broken."
"No, he is dead, sure. See the blood running from his mouth."
Sure enough, the animal was dying. In his fearful plunging he had
ruptured a blood-vessel, and was bleeding to death. In a few moments the
young Arabian colt was dead.
"Too bad!" mournfully spoke George, with big tears starting to his eyes.
"I wish I had never made the attempt to ride him."
"_I_ wish so now," answered one of his companions; "but who ever thought
that the colt could kill himself?"
"Mother will feel bad enough now," continued George. "I am sorry that I
have caused her so much trouble."
"What shall you tell her?" inquired a companion.
"I shall tell her the truth," manfully answered George; "that is all
there is to tell about it."
The boys were soon at the breakfast-table, as cheerful as the
circumstances would permit.
"Well, boys, have you seen the Arabian colt in your walks this morning?"
Mrs. Washington inquired.
There was no reply for a moment. The boys looked at each other as if the
crisis had come, and they were not quite prepared for it. At length
George answered frankly:
"Mother, the colt is dead."
"Dead!" his mother exclaimed, "what can you mean, George?"
"He is certainly dead, mother."
"Have you seen him?"
"Yes; and I know that he is dead."
"How could such a thing happen?" said his mother, sadly and musingly.
"I will tell you all about it, mother," replied George, resolved upon
making a clean breast of the affair. He went on to narrate how he
arrived at the conclusion to ride the colt, not forgetting to say that
he thought his mother would be pleased with the act if he succeeded in
riding the fractious animal successfully. He described the manner of
catching, bridling, and mounting the colt, as well as his furious
plunging, rearing, and running; and he closed by the honest confession,
"I did wrong, mother, and I am very sorry that I attempted to ride the
colt. I hope that you will forgive me, and I will never be so
disobedient again."
"Forgive you, my son," his mother answered, evidently too well satisfied
with the truthfulness of her boy to think much of her loss, "your
frankness in telling me the truth is worth a thousand colts to me. Most
gladly do I forgive you, and trust that the lesson you are taught by
this unfortunate affair will go with you through life."
In this incident we discover the daring, adventurous spirit of George.
His courage was equal to his honesty. No act of his life approached so
nearly to disobedience as this. Yet the spirit of disobedience was not
in his heart. His mother had forbidden any one to ride the colt, but it
was because she feared the colt would injure them. "If I can ride him
successfully, and prove that he can be broken to the saddle, mother will
be delighted," he reasoned. His thoughts were of pleasing instead of
disobeying his mother. Were there any doubt on this point, his rehearsal
of the whole story, with no attempt to shield himself from censure,
together with his sincere desire to be forgiven, settles the question
beyond controversy.
After George left Mr. Williams' school, and had gone to reside with his
brother Lawrence at Mount Vernon, a companion discovered in his journal
several verses that breathed love for an unknown "lowland beauty."
"What is this, George?" he asked. "Are you the poet who writes such
lines as these?" And he read aloud the verses.
"To be honest I must acknowledge the authorship," George answered, with
his usual frankness. "But there is more truth than poetry in the
production, I imagine."
"I was suspicious of that," responded his friend. "That means that you
fell in love with some bewitching girl, I conclude."
"All of that," answered George, with no disposition to conceal anything.
"That accounts for your poetical turn of mind," continued his friend.
"I have heard it said that lovers take to poetry."
"I don't know about that; but I confess to being smitten by the
'lowland beauty,'" was George's honest answer.
"Who is she, and where does she live?"
"That is of no consequence now; she is nothing to me, although she is
much in my thoughts."
"Did she respond to your professions of love?"
"I never made any profession of love to her."
"How is that?"
"I am too young and bashful to take such a step; it would be foolish
indeed."
"Well, to love and keep it to one's self must be misery indeed,"
continued his companion.
"There is something in that," answered George, "and I shall not conceal
that it has made me unhappy at times."
"And it was a kind of relief to let your tender regard express itself in
poetry?" suggested his friend.
"Exactly so; and you are the only person in the world to whom I have
spoken of the affair."
We have introduced this incident to show the tender side of George's
heart. His gravity, decorum, and thoughtful habit were such as almost to
preclude the possibility of his being captivated by a "lowland beauty."
But this incident shows that he was much like the average boy of
Christendom in this regard.
Irving says: "Whatever may have been the reason, this early attachment
seems to have been a source of poignant discomfort to him. It clung to
him after he look a final leave of school in the autumn of 1747, and
went to reside with his brother Lawrence at Mount Vernon. Here he
continued his mathematical studies and his practice in surveying,
disturbed at times by recurrences of his unlucky passion. Though by no
means of a poetical temperament, the waste pages of his journal betray
several attempts to pour forth his amorous sorrows in verse. They are
mere common-place rhymes, such as lovers at his age are apt to write, in
which he bewails his
"'Poor, restless heart,
Wounded by Cupid's dart;'
and 'bleeding for one who remains pitiless of his griefs and woes.'
"The tenor of some of the verses induce us to believe that he never told
his love; but, as we have already surmised, was prevented by his
bashfulness.
"'Ah, woe is me, that I should love and conceal!
Long have I wished and never dare reveal.'
"It is difficult to reconcile one's self to the idea of the cool and
sedate Washington, the great champion of American liberty, a woe-worn
lover in his youthful days, 'sighing like a furnace,' and inditing
plaintive verses about the groves of Mount Vernon. We are glad of an
opportunity, however, of penetrating to his native feelings, and finding
that under his studied decorum and reserve _he had a heart of flesh
throbbing with the warm impulses of human nature_."
In another place, Irving refers to the affair again, and furnishes the
following bit of information:
"The object of this early passion is not positively known. Tradition
states that the 'lowland beauty' was a Miss Grimes of Westmoreland,
afterwards Mrs. Lee, and mother of General Henry Lee, who figured in
Revolutionary times as Light Horse Harry, and was always a favorite with
Washington, probably from the recollections of his early tenderness for
the mother."
George, as we have already intimated, spent his time out of school at
Mount Vernon, with his brother Lawrence, who had become a man of
considerable repute and influence for one of his years. Here he was
brought into contact with military men, and occasionally naval officers
were entertained by Lawrence. Often vessels anchored in the river, and
the officers enjoyed the abundant hospitality of the Mount Vernon
mansion. George was a close observer of what passed in his new home, and
a careful listener to the tales of war and a seafaring life frequently
told in his hearing. The martial spirit within him was aroused by these
tales of adventure and glory, and he was prepared for almost any
hardship or peril in the way of the object of his ambition. Besides, his
brother was disposed to encourage his aspirations in the direction of a
military life. He discovered the elements of a good soldier in the boy,
and really felt that distinction awaited him in a military career.
"How would you like a midshipman's berth on a British man-of-war?"
inquired Lawrence.
"I should like nothing better," George answered.
"You would then be in the service of the king, and have a chance to
prove your loyalty by your deeds," added Lawrence. "Your promotion would
be certain."
"If I deserved it," added George, with thoughtful interest.
"Yes, if you deserved it," repeated Lawrence; "and I have no doubt that
you would deserve it."
"But I fear that mother will not consent to such an arrangement,"
suggested George.
"I will confer with her upon the subject," replied Lawrence. "I think
she will take the same view of it that I do."
Lawrence did confer with his mother concerning this venture, and found
her wholly averse to the project.
"I can never consent that he should follow such a life," she said.
"But I am sure that he would distinguish himself there, and bring honor
to the family," urged Lawrence.
"Character is worth more than distinction," responded Mrs. Washington.
"I fear the effect of such a life upon his character."
"George can be trusted in any position, no matter what the temptations
may be," Lawrence pleaded.
"That may be true, and it may not be true," remarked Mrs. Washington.
"We ought not to incur the risk unless absolutely obliged to do it."
"If there be a risk," remarked Lawrence, doubtfully.
"Besides," continued Mrs. Washington, "I could not consent to his going
so far from home unless it were impossible for him to gain a livelihood
near by."
She was unyielding in this interview, and could see no reason why she
should consent to such a separation. But Lawrence persevered in his
efforts to obtain her consent, and finally it was given with manifest
reluctance. A writer describes what followed thus:
"Within a short time a British man-of-war moved up the Potomac, and
cast anchor in full view of Mount Vernon. On board of this vessel his
brother Lawrence procured him a midshipman's warrant, after having by
much persuasion gained the consent of his mother; which, however, she
yielded with much reluctance and many misgivings with respect to the
profession her son was about to choose. Not knowing how much pain all
this was giving his mother, George was as near wild with delight as
could well be with a boy of a nature so even and steady. Now, what had
all along been but a waking dream was about to become a solemn reality.
His preparations were soon made: already was his trunk packed, and
carried on board the ship that was to bear him so far away from his
native land; and nothing now remained but to bid farewell to the loved
ones at home. But when he came and stood before his mother, dressed in
his gay midshipman's uniform, so tall and robust in figure, so handsome
in face, and so noble in look and gesture, the thought took possession
of her mind, that, if she suffered him to leave her then, she might
never see him more; and losing her usual firmness and self-control, she
burst into tears.
"'I cannot consent to let you go,' she said, at length. 'It will break
my heart, George.'
"'How can I refuse to go now that I have enlisted, and my trunk is on
board?' pleaded George.
"'Order your trunk ashore, and return your uniform, my son, if you do
not wish to crush your mother's heart,' responded Mrs. Washington. 'I
cannot bear the thought.'"
George was overcome by the spectacle of his mother's grief, and with the
tears running down his cheeks he replied, like the young hero that he
was:
"'Mother, I can never go and cause you so much grief. I will stay at
home.'"
His trunk was brought ashore, his uniform was returned, his tears were
wiped away, and he was happier in thus yielding to his mother's
reasonable request than he could or would have been in gratifying his
own wishes.
The higher and nobler qualities of manly character here triumphed over
the lower passions and desires. It was an excellent discipline for
George, while, at the same time, the incident exhibits the sterling
qualities of his heart.
The four incidents narrated present different aspects of George's
character, and show, without additional proof, that he was an uncommon
boy. The several qualities displayed in these experiences lie at the
foundation of human excellence. Without them the future career of a
youth may prove a failure. With them, a manly, virtuous character is
well nigh assured.
VI.
HIS MOTHER.
"Obedience and truthfulness are cardinal virtues to be cultivated,"
remarked Mrs. Washington to her husband, with whom she frequently
discussed the subject of family government. "No son or daughter can form
a reliable character without them."
"There can be no question about that," answered Mr. Washington; "and for
that reason these virtues are just as necessary for the state as they
are for the family; reliable citizens cannot be made without them any
more than reliable sons and daughters."
"I suppose that God means to make reliable citizens out of obedient and
truthful children," continued Mrs. Washington. "Good family government
assures good civil government. We must learn to obey before we know how
to govern."
"And I think that obedience to parents is likely to be followed by
obedience to God," responded Mr. Washington. "Disobedience is attended
by a state of mind that is inimical to sincere obedience to God."
"The Bible teaches that plainly," replied Mrs. Washington. "There is
something very tender and impressive in the lesson, 'Children, obey your
parents in the Lord: for this is right. Honor thy father and mother;
which is the first commandment with promise; that it may be well with
thee, and thou mayst live long on the earth.' A longer and better life
is promised to those who obey their parents, and it must be because they
are led to God thereby."
"Obedience is the _first_ commandment, according to that," remarked Mr.
Washington, "the most important of all, and I have no doubt of it. We
are to begin _there_ in order to make children what they ought to be."
"The consequences of disobedience as threatened in the Scriptures are
fearful," added Mrs. Washington. "There could scarcely be more startling
words than these: 'The eye that mocketh at his father, and despiseth to
obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the
young eagles shall eat it.' Disobedience to and irreverence for parents
must be wicked, indeed, to warrant such a threatening."
Here was the secret of Mrs. Washington's successful family government.
That George owed more to faithful maternal example and training than he
did to any other influence, he always believed and acknowledged. And
OBEDIENCE was the first commandment in the Washington family. George
Washington Parke Custis, a grandson, said:
"The mother of Washington, in forming him for those distinguished parts
he was destined to perform, _first taught him the duties of_ OBEDIENCE,
the better to prepare him for those of command. In the well-ordered
domicile where his early years were passed, the levity and indulgence
common to youth was tempered by a deference and well-regulated restraint
which, while it curtailed or suppressed no rational enjoyment usual in
the spring-time of life, prescribed those enjoyments within the bounds
of moderation and propriety.
"The matron held in reserve an authority which never departed from her;
not even when her son had become the most illustrious of men. It seemed
to say, 'I am your mother, the being who gave you life, the guide who
directed your steps when they needed the guidance of age and wisdom, the
parental affection which claimed your love, the parental authority
which commanded your obedience; whatever may be your success, whatever
your renown, next to your God you owe them most to me.' Nor did the
chief dissent from these truths; but to the last moments of the life of
his venerable parent, he yielded to her will the most dutiful and
implicit obedience, and felt for her person and character the most holy
reverence and attachment."
Lawrence Washington, Esq., of Chotauk, a relative and playmate of George
in boyhood, described the home of the mother as follows: