But what a
struggle
always!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v26 - Tur to Wat
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The others laughed out, Marcella at their head; and Mrs. Jel-
lison subsided, the corners of her mouth still twitching, and her
eyes shining as though a host of entertaining notions were troop-
ing through her, which however she preferred to amuse herself
with rather than the public. Marcella looked at Patton thought-
fully.
“You've been all your life in this village, haven't you, Mr.
Patton ? ” she asked him.
« Born top o' Witchett's Hill, miss. An' my wife here, she
wor born just a house or two further along, an' we two been
married sixty-one year come next March. ”
He had resumed his usual almshouse tone, civil and a little
plaintive. His wife behind him smiled gently at being spoken
of. She had a long fair face, and white hair surmounted by a
battered black bonnet; a mouth set rather on one side, and a
more observant and refined air than most of her neighbors. She
sighed while she talked, and spoke in a delicate quaver.
“D'ye know, miss,” said Mrs. Jellison, pointing to Mrs. Pat-
ton, as she kep' school when she was young ? ”
“Did you, Mrs. Patton ? " asked Marcella in her tone of sym-
pathetic interest. « The school wasn't very big then, I suppose ? ”
“About forty, miss,” said Mrs. Patton with a sigh. «There
was eighteen the rector paid for, and eighteen Mr. Boyce paid
for, and the rest paid for themselves. ”
Her voice dropped gently, and she sighed again like one
weighted with an eternal fatigue.
"And what did you teach them ?
“Well, I taught them the plaitin', miss, and as much readin'
and writin' as I knew myself. It wasn't as high as it is now,
you see, miss,” and a delicate flush dawned on the old cheek,
as Mrs. Patton threw a glance round her companions as though
appealing to them not to tell stories of her.
But Mrs. Jellison was implacable. "It wor she taught me,”
she said, nodding at Marcella and pointing sideways to Mrs.
Patton. “She had a queer way wi' the hard words, I can tell
When she couldn't tell 'em herself she'd never own
up to it. "Say Jerusalem, my dear, and pass on. That's what
she'd say, she would, sure's you're alive! I've heard her do it
times. An' when Isabella an’ me used to read the Bible, nights,
I'd allus rayther do 't than be beholden to me own darter. It
gets yer through, anyway. ”
»
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yer, miss.
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"Well, it wor a good word,” said Mrs. Patton, blushing and
mildly defending herself. “It didn't do none of yer any harm. ”
“Oh, an' before her, miss, I went to a school to another woman,
as lived up Shepherd's Row. You remember her, Betsy Brunt ? »
Mrs. Brunt's worn eyes began already to gleam and sparkle.
«Yis, I recolleck very well, Mrs. Jellison. She wor Mercy
Moss; an' a goodish deal of trouble you'd use to get me into wi'
Mercy Moss, all along o' your tricks. ”
Mrs. Jellison, still with folded arms, began to rock herself
gently up and down as though to stimulate memory.
«My word, but Muster Maurice — he wor the clergyman here
then, miss — wor set on Mercy Moss. He and his wife they flat-
tered and cockered her up. Ther wor nobody like her for keepin'
school, not in their eyes — till one midsummer - she — well, she
- I don't want to say nothink onpleasant — but she transgressed,”
said Mrs. Jellison, nodding mysteriously,- triumphant however in
the unimpeachable delicacy of her language, and looking round
the circle for approval.
What do you say? " asked Marcella innocently. “What did
Mercy Moss do ? »
Mrs. Jellison's eyes danced with malice and mischief, but
her mouth shut like a vise. Patton leaned forward on his stick,
shaken with a sort of inward explosion; his plaintive wife laughed
under her breath till she must needs sigh, because laughter tired
her old bones. Mrs. Brunt gurgled gently. And finally Mrs. Jel-
lison was carried away.
"Oh, my goodness me, don't you make me tell tales o' Mercy
Moss! ” she said at last, dashing the water out of her eyes with
an excited tremulous hand. She's been dead and gone these
forty year, - married and buried mos' respeckable,- it 'ud be a
burning shame to bring up tales agen her now. Them as tittle-
tattles about dead folks needn't look to lie quiet theirselves in
their graves.
I've said it times, and I'll say it again. What are
you lookin' at me for, Betsy Brunt ? »
And Mrs. Jellison drew up suddenly with a fierce glance at
Mrs. Brunt.
«Why, Mrs. Jellison, I niver meant no offense,” said Mrs.
Brunt hastily.
“I won't stand no insinooating,” said Mrs. Jellison with
”
energy. “If you've got soomthink agen me, you may out wi' 't
anniver mind the young lady. ”
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But Mrs. Brunt, much furried, retreated amid a shower of
excuses, pursued by her enemy, who was soon worrying the
whole little company as a dog worries a flock of sheep; snap-
ping here and teasing there, chattering at the top of her voice
in broad dialect as she got more and more excited, and quite as
ready to break her wit on Marcella as on anybody else. As for
the others, most of them had known little else for weeks than
alternations of toil and sickness; they were as much amused and
excited to-night by Mrs. Jellison's audacities as a Londoner is by
his favorite low comedian at his favorite music-hall. They ved
chorus to her, laughed, baited her; even old Patton was drawn
against his will into a caustic sociability.
Marcella meanwhile sat on her stool, her chin upon her hand,
and her full glowing eyes turned upon the little spectacle, absorb-
ing it all with a covetous curiosity.
The light-heartedness, the power of enjoyment, left in these
old folk, struck her dumb. Mrs. Brunt had an income of two-
and-sixpence a week, plus two loaves from the parish, and one
of the parish or charity houses,-a hovel, that is to say, of
»
one room, scarcely fit for human habitation at all. She had lost
five children, was allowed two shillings a week by two laborer
sons, and earned sixpence a week — about — by continuous work
at "the plait. ” Her husband had been run over by a farm cart
and killed; up to the time of his death his earnings averaged
about twenty-eight pounds a year. Much the same with the
Pattons. They had lost eight children out of ten, and were
now mainly supported by the wages of a daughter in service.
Mrs. Patton had of late years suffered agonies and humiliations
indescribable, from a terrible illness which the parish doctor was
quite incompetent to treat; being all through a singularly sensi-
tive woman, with a natural instinct for the decorous and the beau-
tiful.
Amazing! Starvation wages; hardships of sickness and pain;
horrors of birth and horrors of death; wholesale losses of kindred
and friends; the meanest surroundings; the most sordid cares,-
of this mingled cup of village fate every person in the room had
drunk, and drunk deep. Yet here in this autumn twilight they
laughed and chattered and joked, — weird, wrinkled children, en-
joying an hour's rough play in a clearing of the storm! Depend-
ent from birth to death on squire, parson, parish, crushed often
and ill-treated according to their own ideas, but bearing so little
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MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
ill-will; amusing themselves with their own tragedies even, if
they could but sit by a fire and drink a neighbor's cup of tea.
Her heart swelled and burned within her. Yes, the old
people were past hoping for; mere wreck and driftwood on the
shore, the springtide of death would soon have swept them all
into unremembered graves. But the young men and women, the
children, were they too to grow up, and grow old like these, –
the same smiling, stunted, ignobly submissive creatures ? One
woman at least would do her best with her one poor life to rouse
some of them to discontent and revolt!
DAVID AND ELISE
From "The History of David Grieve. ) Copyright 1891, by Macmillan & Co.
D
Avid stared at Elise. He had grown very pale. She too was
white to the lips. The violence and passion of her speech
had exhausted her; her hands trembled in her lap. A
wave of emotion swept through him. Her words were inso-
lently bitter: why then this impression of something wounded
and young and struggling, - at war with itself and the world, -
proclaiming loneliness and sehnsucht, while it fung anger and
reproach?
He dropped on one knee, hardly knowing what he did. Most
of the students about had left their work for a while; no one was
in sight but a gardien whose back was turned to them, and a
young man in the remote distance. He picked up a brush she
had let fall, pressed it into her reluctant hand, and laid his fore-
head against the hand for an instant.
“You misunderstand me,” he said, with a broken, breathless
utterance. "You are quite wrong — quite mistaken.
There are
not such thoughts in me as you think. The world matters noth-
ing to me either. I am alone too; I have always been alone.
You meant everything that was heavenly and kind - you must
have meant it. I am a stupid idiot! But I could be your friend
- if you would permit it. ”
He spoke with an extraordinary timidity and slowness. He
forgot all his scruples, all pride — everything. As he knelt there,
so close to her delicate slimness, to the curls on her white neck,
to the quivering lips and great defiant eyes, she seemed to him
once more a being of another clay from himself - beyond any
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criticism his audacity could form. He dared hardly touch her;
and in his heart there swelled the first irrevocable wave of young
passion.
She raised her hand impetuously and began to paint again.
But suddenly a tear dropped on to her knee. She brushed it
away, and her wild smile broke.
« Bah! ” she said: “what a scene, what a pair of children!
What was it all about? I vow I haven't an idea. You are an
excellent farceur, Monsieur David! One can see well that you
have read George Sand. ”
He sat down on a little three-legged stool she had brought
with her, and held her box open on his knee. In a minute or
two they were talking as though nothing had happened.
She was
giving him a fresh lecture on Velasquez, and he had resumed his
rôle of pupil and listener. But their eyes avoided each other;
and once, when in taking a tube from the box he held, her
fingers brushed against his hand, she flushed involuntarily, and
moved her chair a foot further away.
“Who is that ? ” she asked, suddenly looking round the corner
of her canvas. "Mon Dieu ! M. Regnault! How does he come
here? They told me he was at Granada. ”
She sat transfixed, a joyous excitement illuminating every
feature. And there, a few yards from them, examining the
Rembrandt (Supper at Emmaus' with a minute and absorbed at-
tention, was the young man he had noticed in the distance a few
minutes before. As Elise spoke, the new-comer apparently heard
his name, and turned. He put up his eyeglass, smiled, and took
off his hat.
“Mademoiselle Delaunay! I find you where I left you, at
the feet of the master! Always at work! You are indefatigable.
Taranne tells me great things of you. Ah,' he says, if the
men would work like the women! ' I assure you, he makes us
smart for it. May I look? Good - very good! a great improve-
ment on last year; stronger, more knowledge in it. That hand
wants study — but you will soon put it right. Ah, Velasquez!
That a man should be great, one can bear that,- but so great!
It is an offense to the rest of us mortals. But one cannot realize
him out of Madrid. I often. sigh for the months I spent copying
in the Museo. There is a repose of soul in copying a great mas-
ter don't you find it? One rests from one's own efforts awhile;
the spirit of the master descends into yours, gently, profoundly. ”
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MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
» *
He stood beside her, smiling kindly, his hat and gloves in
his hands, perfectly dressed, an air of the great world about his
look and bearing which differentiated him wholly from all other
persons whom David had yet seen in Paris. In physique too he
was totally unlike the ordinary Parisian type. He was a young
athlete, - vigorous, robust, broad-shouldered, tanned by sun and
wind. Only his blue eye---so subtle, melancholy, passionate -
revealed the artist and the thinker.
Elise was evidently transported by his notice of her. She
talked to him eagerly of his pictures in the Salon; especially of
a certain 'Salome,' which, as David presently gathered, was the
sensation of the year. She raved about the qualities of it,- the
words “color," "poignancy,” force,” recurring in the quick
phrases.
“No one talks of your success now,
monsieur. It is another
word. C'est la gloire elle-même qui vous parle à l'oreille !
As she let fall the most characteristic of all French nouns, a
slight tremor passed across the young man's face. But the look
which succeeded it was one of melancholy; the blue eyes took a
steely hardness.
Perhaps a lying spirit, mademoiselle. And what matter, so
long as everything one does disappoints oneself? What a tyrant
is art! insatiable, adorable! You know it. We serve our king
on our knees, and he deals us the most miserly gifts. ”
“It is the service itself repays,” she said eagerly, her chest
heaving
« True! most true!
But what a struggle always! No rest
no content. And there is no other way.
One must seek, grope,
toil — then produce rapidly -- in a flash — throw what you have
done behind you — and so on to the next problem, and the next.
There is no end to it; there never can be. But you hardly came
here this morning, I imagine, mademoiselle, to hear me prate!
I wish you good-day and good-by. I came over for a look at the
Salon; but to-morrow I go back to Spain. I can't breathe now
for long away from my sun and my South! Adieu, mademoi-
selle. I am told your prospects, when the voting comes on, are
excellent. May the gods inspire the jury. ”
He bowed, smiled, and passed on, carrying his lion-head and
kingly presence down the gallery, which had now filled up again;
»
*«It is Glory herself who whispers to you now!
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ing for.
(
and where, so David noticed, person after person turned as he
came near, with the same flash of recognition and pleasure he
had seen upon Elise's face.
A wild jealousy of the young conqueror invaded the English lad.
" Who is he? ” he asked.
Elise, woman-like, divined him in a moment. She gave him
a sidelong glance, and went back to her painting.
« That,” she said quietly, “is Henri Regnault. Ah, you know
nothing of our painters. I can't make you understand. For
me he is a young god; there is a halo round his head. He has
grasped his fame — the fame we poor creatures are all thirst-
It began last year with the Prim — General Prim on
horseback-oh, magnificent! a passion! an energy! This year
!
it is the Salome. ) About — Gautier- all the world — have lost
their heads over it. If you go to see it at the Salon, you will
have to wait your turn. Crowds go every day for nothing else.
Of course there are murmurs. They say the study of Fortuny
has done him harm. Nonsense! People discuss him because he
is becoming a master; no one discusses the nonentities. They
have no enemies. Then he is a sculptor, musician, athlete, — well
born besides, — all the world is his friend. But with it all so
simple — bon camarade even for poor scrawlers like me. Je
l'adore ! »
“So it seems,” said David.
The girl smiled over her painting. But after a bit she looked
up with a seriousness — nay, a bitterness — in her siren's face,
which astonished him.
“It is not amusing to take you in,- you are too ignorant.
What do you suppose Henri Regnault matters to me? His world
is as far above mine as Velasquez's art is above my art. But
how can a foreigner understand our shades and grades ? Noth-
ing but success, but la gloire, could ever lift me into his world.
Then indeed I should be everybody's equal, and it would mat-
ter to nobody that I had been a Bohemian and a déclassée. ”
She gave a little sigh of excitement, and threw her head back
to look at her picture. David watched her.
“I thought,” he said ironically, “that a few minutes ago you
were all for Bohemia. I did not suspect these social ambitions. ”
"All women have them — all artists deny them,” she said reck-
lessly. “There, explain me as you like, Monsieur David. But
(
»
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MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
“ Be
»
don't read my riddle too soon, or I shall bore you. — Allow me to
ask you a question. ”
She laid down her brushes and looked at him with the utmost
gravity. His heart beat; he bent forward.
"Are you ever hungry, Monsieur David ? »
He sprang up, half enraged, half ashamed.
«Where can we get some food ? »
« That is my affair,” she said, putting up her brushes.
humble, monsieur, and take a lesson in Paris. ”
And out they went together, he beside himself with delight
of accompanying her, and proudly carrying her box and satchel.
How her little feet slipped in and out of her pretty dress!
how, as they stood on the top of the great flight of stairs lead-
ing down into the court of the Louvre, the wind from outside
blew back the curls from her brow, and ruffled the violets in her
hat, the black lace about her tiny throat! It was an enchant-
ment to follow and to serve her. She led him through the Tuile-
ries Gardens and the Place de la Concorde to the Champs Elysées.
The fountains leapt in the sun; the river blazed between the
great white buildings of its banks; to the left was the gilded
dome of the Invalides and the mass of the Corps Législatif; while
in front of them rose the long ascent to the Arc de l'Étoile, set
in vivid green on either hand. Everywhere was space, glitter,
magnificence. The gayety of Paris entered into the Englishman
and took possession.
Presently, as they wandered up the Champs Elysées, they
passed a great building to the left. Elise stopped and clasped
her hands in front of her with a little nervous spasmodic gest-
ure.
« That,” she said, “is the Salon. My fate lies there. When
we have had some food, I will take you in to see. ”
She led him a little further up the avenue; then took him
aside through cunningly devised labyrinths of green till they came
upon a little café restaurant among the trees, where people sat
under an awning, and the wind drove the spray of a little fount-
ain hither and thither among the bushes. It was gay, foreign,
romantic, unlike anything David had ever seen in his northern
world. He sat down, with Barbier's stories running in his head.
Mademoiselle Delaunay was George Sand — independent, gifted,
on the road to fame like that great déclassée of old; and he was
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her friend and comrade,- a humble soldier, a camp follower, in
the great army of letters.
Their meal was of the lightest. This descent on the Champs
Elysées had been a freak on Elise's part, who wished to do
nothing so banal as to take her companion to the Palais Royal.
But the restaurant she had chosen, though of a much humbler
kind than those which the rich tourist commonly associates with
this part of Paris, was still a good deal more expensive than
she had rashly supposed. She opened her eyes gravely at the
charges; abused herself extravagantly for a lack of savoir vivre :
and both with one accord declared that it was too hot to eat.
But upon such eggs and such green peas as they did allow them-
selves — a portion of each, scrupulously shared - David at any
rate was prepared to live to the end of the chapter.
Afterwards, over the coffee and the cigarettes,— Elise taking
her part in both, — they lingered for one of those hours which
make the glamour of youth. Confidences flowed fast between
them. His French grew suppler and more docile, answered more
truly to the individuality behind it. He told her of his bringing-
up, of his wandering with the sheep on the mountains, of his
reading among the heather, of 'Lias and his visions, of Hannah's
cruelties and Louie's tempers,- that same idyl of peasant life to
which Dora had listened some months before. But how differ-
ently told! Each different listener changes the tale, readjusts the
tone. But here also the tale pleased. Elise, for all her leanings
towards new schools in art, had the Romantic's imagination, and
the Romantic's relish for things foreign and unaccustomed. The
English boy and his story seemed to her both charming and
original. Her artist's eye followed the lines of the ruffled black
head, and noted the red-brown of the skin. She felt a wish to
draw him,- a wish which had entirely vanished in the case of
Louie.
Your sister has taken a dislike to me,” she said to him once,
coolly. "And for me, I am afraid of her. Ah! and she broke
my glass! »
She shivered, and a look of anxiety and depression invaded
her small face. He guessed that she was thinking of her pict-
ures, and began timidly to speak to her about them. When
they returned to the world of art, his fluency left him; he felt
crushed beneath the weight of his own ignorance and her ac-
complishment.
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MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
"Come and see them! ” she said, springing up. “I am tired
of my Infanta. Let her be awhile. Come to the Salon, and I
will show you (Salome. Or are you sick of pictures? What do
'
you want to see ? Ça m'est égal. * I can always go back to my
work. ”
She spoke with a cavalier lightness which teased and piqued
him.
"I wish to go where you go,” he said Aushing; "to see what
»
>
you see. ”
She shook her little head.
"No compliments, Monsieur David. We are serious persons,
you and I. Well, then, for a couple of hours, soyons camarades !
* “It's all the same to me. ”
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WASHINGTON.
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15665
GEORGE WASHINGTON
(1732-1799)
he Farewell Address of Washington is infused with that qual-
ity of his character which appealed most forcibly to his
contemporaries, and which has governed posterity's estimate
of him: entire and consistent devotion to a fixed ideal, the fruit of
a genius for patriotism. In the light of this genius alone can the
greatness of Washington be understood and appreciated; seen out
of its circle he is merely a colonial country gentleman of indifferent
education. As a boy he composed a set of rules of conduct, such as
any well-mannered boy might lay down for his guidance. It ends
however with these significant words: “Labor to keep alive in your
breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience. ” Wash-
ington's country was his conscience. Not many men are intelli-
gent patriots, since the heat of the heart confuses the judgment; nor
are many consistent patriots, since the successful servant is peril-
ously near the office of master. The pre-eminence of Washington is
founded upon his intelligence and consistency in conducting one of
the greatest revolutions of this or of any time,” in serving his coun-
try as President, in retiring froin office so soon as he perceived that
his services were no longer essential. The Farewell Address will
remain one of the most significant and important of historical docu-
ments, because it embodies the very essence of a sober and faithful
patriotism.
The life of Washington proves how much can be effected by single-
mindedness in the pursuit of an ideal. His contemporaries who met
him during the Revolution, or during his terms of office, seemed at a
loss to account for his greatness; as if the man were constantly hiding
behind his services. “Something of stillness envelops the actions of
Washington,” Châteaubriand wrote. Many accounts of his personal
appearance remain: few exact impressions of his personality. His
letters and his diaries throw little light upon him, neither do they
discover the secret of his extraordinary power. The Farewell Ad-
dress is perhaps the most truthful portrait of him which remains.
He was born in Virginia on February 22d, 1732, of a family which
had come from England about the middle of the seventeenth cen-
tury. Of his early life little is known, save a few apocryphal stories.
His education was elementary: he was brought up on his father's
XXVI–980
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15666
GEORGE WASHINGTON
plantation, leading a free out-of-door life; he emerged into clear view
first as a surveyor of the lands of Lord Fairfax, father-in-law of his
half-brother Lawrence. Four years later, when he was about twenty
years of age, he became heir to the family property of Mount Ver-
non. In 1753 Lieutenant-Governor Dinwiddie appointed him com-
mander of the northern military district of Virginia. The French and
Indian War breaking out in the same year, Washington was sent by
the Governor to warn the French away from the new forts in west-
ern Pennsylvania. The intelligence and clear judgment which he
displayed in the execution of this commission led to his being
appointed, in 1755, commander-in-chief of all the Virginia forces, with
the task of defending a frontier of three hundred and fifty miles
with seven hundred and fifty men. In Braddock's campaign he came
rapidly to the front as an officer of extraordinary coolness, courage,
and military skill. At the close of this war he married Martha Dan-
dridge, the widow of Daniel Parke Custis, and settled down to twenty
years of retirement in Virginia. In 1774 the Virginia convention
appointed him one of seven delegates to the Continental Congress;
at which Congress, on the motion of John Adams, he was appointed
commander-in-chief of the armed forces of the colonies. On July 2d
of the same year he took command of the army at Cambridge, Mas-
sachusetts. From that time on he was engaged in a series of brill-
iant campaigns, which ended only when the object of the war had
been fully attained. James Thacher, a surgeon in the Revolution,
who kept a military diary, has left this description of Washington
the general:
« The personal appearance of our commander-in-chief is that of a perfect
gentleman and accomplished warrior. He is remarkably tall, – full six feet, -
erect and well-proportioned. The strength and proportion of his joints and
muscles appear to be commensurate with the pre-eminent powers of his mind.
The serenity of his countenance, and majestic gracefulness of his deportment,
impart a strong impression of that dignity and grandeur which are peculiar
characteristics; and no one can stand in his presence without feeling the
ascendency of his mind, and associating with his countenance the idea of wis-
dom, philanthropy, magnanimity, and patriotism. There is a fine symmetry
in the features of his face indicative of a benign and dignified spirit. His
nose is straight, and his eyes inclined to blue. He wears his hair in a becom-
ing cue, and from his forehead it is turned back, and powdered in a manner
which adds to the military air of his appearance. He displays a native grav-
ity, but devoid of all appearance of ostentation. His uniform dress is a blue
coat with two brilliant epaulets, buff-colored under clothes, and a three-cornered
hat with a black cockade. He is constantly equipped with an elegant small-
sword, boots and spurs, in readiness to mount his noble charger. ”
In 1783 Washington resigned his commission, and went again
into retirement, until his election to the Presidency in 1787. After
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GEORGE WASHINGTON
15667
serving two terms, he spent the remainder of his life upon his
Mount Vernon estate in Virginia. He died in 1799.
«I felt on his death, with my countrymen,” wrote Thomas Jeffer-
son, “Verily a great man hath fallen in Israel. »
Washington Irving said of him: «The character of Washington
may want some of those poetical elements which dazzle and delight
the multitude; but it possessed fewer inequalities, and a rarer union
of virtues, than perhaps ever fall to the lot of one man. ”
WASHINGTON'S FAREWELL ADDRESS
The
Friends and Fellow-Citizens :
he period for a new election of a citizen to administer the
executive government of the United States being not far
distant, and the time actually arrived when your thoughts
must be employed in designating the person who is to be clothed
with that important trust, it appears to me proper, especially as
it may conduce to a more distinct expression of the public voice,
that I should now apprise you of the resolution I have formed,
to decline being considered among the number of those out of
whom a choice is to be made.
I beg you, at the same time, to do me the justice to be
assured that this resolution has not been taken without a strict
regard to all the considerations appertaining to the relation which
binds a dutiful citizen to his country; and that in withdrawing
the tender of service which silence in my situation might imply,
I am influenced by no diminution of zeal for your future interest,
no deficiency of grateful respect for your past kindness; but am
supported by a full conviction that the step is compatible with
both.
The acceptance of, and continuance hitherto in, the office to
which your suffrages have twice called me, have been a uniform
sacrifice of inclination to the opinion of duty, and to a deference
to what appeared to be your desire. I constantly hoped that
it would have been much earlier in my power, consistently with
motives which I was not at liberty to disregard, to return to
that retirement from which I had been reluctantly drawn. The
strength of my inclination to do this, previous to the last elec-
tion, had even led to the preparation of an address to declare it
to you; but mature reflection on the then perplexed and critical
## p. 15668 (#626) ##########################################
15668
GEORGE WASHINGTON
posture of our affairs with foreign nations, and the unanimous
advice of persons entitled to my confidence, impelled me to
abandon the idea.
I rejoice that the state of your concerns, external as well as
internal, no longer renders the pursuit of inclination incompati-
ble with the sentiment of duty or propriety; and am persuaded,
whatever partiality may be retained for my services, that in the
present circumstances of our country you will not disapprove my
determination to retire.
The impressions with which I first undertook the arduous
trust were explained on the proper occasion. In the discharge
of this trust, I will only say that I have, with good intentions,
contributed towards the organization and administration of the
government the best exertions of which a very fallible judgment
was capable. Not unconscious, in the outset, of the inferiority of
my qualifications, experience in my own eyes, perhaps still more
in the eyes of others, has strengthened the motives to diffidence
of myself; and every day the increasing weight of years admon-
ishes me
more and more that the shade of retirement is as
necessary to me as it will be welcome. Satisfied that if any cir-
cumstances have given peculiar value to my services, they were
temporary, I have the consolation to believe that while choice
and prudence invite me to quit the political scene, patriotism
does not forbid it.
In looking forward to the moment which is intended to ter-
minate the career of my public life, my feelings do not permit
me to suspend the deep acknowledgment of that debt of grati-
tude which I owe to my beloved country for the many honors
which it has conferred upon me; still more for the steadfast
confidence with which it has supported me; and for the opportu-
nities I have thence enjoyed of manifesting my inviolable attach-
ment by services faithful and persevering, though in usefulness
unequal to my zeal. If benefits have resulted to our country
from these services, let it always be remembered to your praise;
and as an instructive example in our annals that, under circum-
stances in which the passions - agitated in every direction - were
liable to mislead, amidst appearances sometimes dubious, vicissi-
tudes of fortune often discouraging, in situations in which not
infrequently want of success has countenanced the spirit of crit.
icism, — the constancy of your support was the essential prop
of the efforts, and a guarantee of the plans by which they were
## p. 15669 (#627) ##########################################
GEORGE WASHINGTON
15669
effected. Profoundly penetrated by this idea, I shall carry it with
me to the grave, as a strong incitement to unceasing vows that
Heaven may continue to you the choicest tokens of its benefi-
cence; that your union and brotherly affection may be perpetual;
that the free constitution, which is the work of your hands, may
be sacredly maintained; that its administration in every depart-
ment may be stamped with wisdom and virtue; — that, in fine,
the happiness of the people of these States, under the auspices
of liberty, may be made complete, by so careful a preservation
and so prudent a use of this blessing, as will acquire to them
the glory of recommending it to the applause, the affection, and
adoption of every nation which is yet a stranger to it.
Here, perhaps, I ought to stop: but solicitude for your wel.
fare, which cannot end but with my life, and the apprehension
of danger natural to that solicitude, urge me, on an occasion like
the present, to offer to your solemn contemplation, and to recom-
mend to your frequent review, some sentiments which are the
result of much reflection, of no inconsiderable observation; and
which appear to me all-important to the permanency of your
felicity as a people. These will be offered to you with the more
freedom, as you can only see in them the disinterested warnings
of a parting friend, who can possibly have no personal motive to
bias his counsels. Nor can I forget an encouragement to it,-
your indulgent reception of my sentiments on a former and not
dissimilar occasion.
Interwoven as is the love of liberty with every ligament of
your hearts, no recommendation of mine is necessary to fortify
or confirm the attachment.
The unity of government which constitutes you one people is
also now dear to you. It is justly so, for it is a main pillar in
the edifice of your real independence: the support of your tran-
quillity at home, your peace abroad; of your safety; of your pros-
perity in every shape; of that very liberty which you so highly
prize.
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
15655
»
>
»
The others laughed out, Marcella at their head; and Mrs. Jel-
lison subsided, the corners of her mouth still twitching, and her
eyes shining as though a host of entertaining notions were troop-
ing through her, which however she preferred to amuse herself
with rather than the public. Marcella looked at Patton thought-
fully.
“You've been all your life in this village, haven't you, Mr.
Patton ? ” she asked him.
« Born top o' Witchett's Hill, miss. An' my wife here, she
wor born just a house or two further along, an' we two been
married sixty-one year come next March. ”
He had resumed his usual almshouse tone, civil and a little
plaintive. His wife behind him smiled gently at being spoken
of. She had a long fair face, and white hair surmounted by a
battered black bonnet; a mouth set rather on one side, and a
more observant and refined air than most of her neighbors. She
sighed while she talked, and spoke in a delicate quaver.
“D'ye know, miss,” said Mrs. Jellison, pointing to Mrs. Pat-
ton, as she kep' school when she was young ? ”
“Did you, Mrs. Patton ? " asked Marcella in her tone of sym-
pathetic interest. « The school wasn't very big then, I suppose ? ”
“About forty, miss,” said Mrs. Patton with a sigh. «There
was eighteen the rector paid for, and eighteen Mr. Boyce paid
for, and the rest paid for themselves. ”
Her voice dropped gently, and she sighed again like one
weighted with an eternal fatigue.
"And what did you teach them ?
“Well, I taught them the plaitin', miss, and as much readin'
and writin' as I knew myself. It wasn't as high as it is now,
you see, miss,” and a delicate flush dawned on the old cheek,
as Mrs. Patton threw a glance round her companions as though
appealing to them not to tell stories of her.
But Mrs. Jellison was implacable. "It wor she taught me,”
she said, nodding at Marcella and pointing sideways to Mrs.
Patton. “She had a queer way wi' the hard words, I can tell
When she couldn't tell 'em herself she'd never own
up to it. "Say Jerusalem, my dear, and pass on. That's what
she'd say, she would, sure's you're alive! I've heard her do it
times. An' when Isabella an’ me used to read the Bible, nights,
I'd allus rayther do 't than be beholden to me own darter. It
gets yer through, anyway. ”
»
(
yer, miss.
(
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MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
(c
>
-
(
»
"Well, it wor a good word,” said Mrs. Patton, blushing and
mildly defending herself. “It didn't do none of yer any harm. ”
“Oh, an' before her, miss, I went to a school to another woman,
as lived up Shepherd's Row. You remember her, Betsy Brunt ? »
Mrs. Brunt's worn eyes began already to gleam and sparkle.
«Yis, I recolleck very well, Mrs. Jellison. She wor Mercy
Moss; an' a goodish deal of trouble you'd use to get me into wi'
Mercy Moss, all along o' your tricks. ”
Mrs. Jellison, still with folded arms, began to rock herself
gently up and down as though to stimulate memory.
«My word, but Muster Maurice — he wor the clergyman here
then, miss — wor set on Mercy Moss. He and his wife they flat-
tered and cockered her up. Ther wor nobody like her for keepin'
school, not in their eyes — till one midsummer - she — well, she
- I don't want to say nothink onpleasant — but she transgressed,”
said Mrs. Jellison, nodding mysteriously,- triumphant however in
the unimpeachable delicacy of her language, and looking round
the circle for approval.
What do you say? " asked Marcella innocently. “What did
Mercy Moss do ? »
Mrs. Jellison's eyes danced with malice and mischief, but
her mouth shut like a vise. Patton leaned forward on his stick,
shaken with a sort of inward explosion; his plaintive wife laughed
under her breath till she must needs sigh, because laughter tired
her old bones. Mrs. Brunt gurgled gently. And finally Mrs. Jel-
lison was carried away.
"Oh, my goodness me, don't you make me tell tales o' Mercy
Moss! ” she said at last, dashing the water out of her eyes with
an excited tremulous hand. She's been dead and gone these
forty year, - married and buried mos' respeckable,- it 'ud be a
burning shame to bring up tales agen her now. Them as tittle-
tattles about dead folks needn't look to lie quiet theirselves in
their graves.
I've said it times, and I'll say it again. What are
you lookin' at me for, Betsy Brunt ? »
And Mrs. Jellison drew up suddenly with a fierce glance at
Mrs. Brunt.
«Why, Mrs. Jellison, I niver meant no offense,” said Mrs.
Brunt hastily.
“I won't stand no insinooating,” said Mrs. Jellison with
”
energy. “If you've got soomthink agen me, you may out wi' 't
anniver mind the young lady. ”
((
)
>
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MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
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(c
>
But Mrs. Brunt, much furried, retreated amid a shower of
excuses, pursued by her enemy, who was soon worrying the
whole little company as a dog worries a flock of sheep; snap-
ping here and teasing there, chattering at the top of her voice
in broad dialect as she got more and more excited, and quite as
ready to break her wit on Marcella as on anybody else. As for
the others, most of them had known little else for weeks than
alternations of toil and sickness; they were as much amused and
excited to-night by Mrs. Jellison's audacities as a Londoner is by
his favorite low comedian at his favorite music-hall. They ved
chorus to her, laughed, baited her; even old Patton was drawn
against his will into a caustic sociability.
Marcella meanwhile sat on her stool, her chin upon her hand,
and her full glowing eyes turned upon the little spectacle, absorb-
ing it all with a covetous curiosity.
The light-heartedness, the power of enjoyment, left in these
old folk, struck her dumb. Mrs. Brunt had an income of two-
and-sixpence a week, plus two loaves from the parish, and one
of the parish or charity houses,-a hovel, that is to say, of
»
one room, scarcely fit for human habitation at all. She had lost
five children, was allowed two shillings a week by two laborer
sons, and earned sixpence a week — about — by continuous work
at "the plait. ” Her husband had been run over by a farm cart
and killed; up to the time of his death his earnings averaged
about twenty-eight pounds a year. Much the same with the
Pattons. They had lost eight children out of ten, and were
now mainly supported by the wages of a daughter in service.
Mrs. Patton had of late years suffered agonies and humiliations
indescribable, from a terrible illness which the parish doctor was
quite incompetent to treat; being all through a singularly sensi-
tive woman, with a natural instinct for the decorous and the beau-
tiful.
Amazing! Starvation wages; hardships of sickness and pain;
horrors of birth and horrors of death; wholesale losses of kindred
and friends; the meanest surroundings; the most sordid cares,-
of this mingled cup of village fate every person in the room had
drunk, and drunk deep. Yet here in this autumn twilight they
laughed and chattered and joked, — weird, wrinkled children, en-
joying an hour's rough play in a clearing of the storm! Depend-
ent from birth to death on squire, parson, parish, crushed often
and ill-treated according to their own ideas, but bearing so little
## p. 15658 (#612) ##########################################
15658
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
ill-will; amusing themselves with their own tragedies even, if
they could but sit by a fire and drink a neighbor's cup of tea.
Her heart swelled and burned within her. Yes, the old
people were past hoping for; mere wreck and driftwood on the
shore, the springtide of death would soon have swept them all
into unremembered graves. But the young men and women, the
children, were they too to grow up, and grow old like these, –
the same smiling, stunted, ignobly submissive creatures ? One
woman at least would do her best with her one poor life to rouse
some of them to discontent and revolt!
DAVID AND ELISE
From "The History of David Grieve. ) Copyright 1891, by Macmillan & Co.
D
Avid stared at Elise. He had grown very pale. She too was
white to the lips. The violence and passion of her speech
had exhausted her; her hands trembled in her lap. A
wave of emotion swept through him. Her words were inso-
lently bitter: why then this impression of something wounded
and young and struggling, - at war with itself and the world, -
proclaiming loneliness and sehnsucht, while it fung anger and
reproach?
He dropped on one knee, hardly knowing what he did. Most
of the students about had left their work for a while; no one was
in sight but a gardien whose back was turned to them, and a
young man in the remote distance. He picked up a brush she
had let fall, pressed it into her reluctant hand, and laid his fore-
head against the hand for an instant.
“You misunderstand me,” he said, with a broken, breathless
utterance. "You are quite wrong — quite mistaken.
There are
not such thoughts in me as you think. The world matters noth-
ing to me either. I am alone too; I have always been alone.
You meant everything that was heavenly and kind - you must
have meant it. I am a stupid idiot! But I could be your friend
- if you would permit it. ”
He spoke with an extraordinary timidity and slowness. He
forgot all his scruples, all pride — everything. As he knelt there,
so close to her delicate slimness, to the curls on her white neck,
to the quivering lips and great defiant eyes, she seemed to him
once more a being of another clay from himself - beyond any
## p. 15659 (#613) ##########################################
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
15659
criticism his audacity could form. He dared hardly touch her;
and in his heart there swelled the first irrevocable wave of young
passion.
She raised her hand impetuously and began to paint again.
But suddenly a tear dropped on to her knee. She brushed it
away, and her wild smile broke.
« Bah! ” she said: “what a scene, what a pair of children!
What was it all about? I vow I haven't an idea. You are an
excellent farceur, Monsieur David! One can see well that you
have read George Sand. ”
He sat down on a little three-legged stool she had brought
with her, and held her box open on his knee. In a minute or
two they were talking as though nothing had happened.
She was
giving him a fresh lecture on Velasquez, and he had resumed his
rôle of pupil and listener. But their eyes avoided each other;
and once, when in taking a tube from the box he held, her
fingers brushed against his hand, she flushed involuntarily, and
moved her chair a foot further away.
“Who is that ? ” she asked, suddenly looking round the corner
of her canvas. "Mon Dieu ! M. Regnault! How does he come
here? They told me he was at Granada. ”
She sat transfixed, a joyous excitement illuminating every
feature. And there, a few yards from them, examining the
Rembrandt (Supper at Emmaus' with a minute and absorbed at-
tention, was the young man he had noticed in the distance a few
minutes before. As Elise spoke, the new-comer apparently heard
his name, and turned. He put up his eyeglass, smiled, and took
off his hat.
“Mademoiselle Delaunay! I find you where I left you, at
the feet of the master! Always at work! You are indefatigable.
Taranne tells me great things of you. Ah,' he says, if the
men would work like the women! ' I assure you, he makes us
smart for it. May I look? Good - very good! a great improve-
ment on last year; stronger, more knowledge in it. That hand
wants study — but you will soon put it right. Ah, Velasquez!
That a man should be great, one can bear that,- but so great!
It is an offense to the rest of us mortals. But one cannot realize
him out of Madrid. I often. sigh for the months I spent copying
in the Museo. There is a repose of soul in copying a great mas-
ter don't you find it? One rests from one's own efforts awhile;
the spirit of the master descends into yours, gently, profoundly. ”
## p. 15660 (#614) ##########################################
15660
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
» *
He stood beside her, smiling kindly, his hat and gloves in
his hands, perfectly dressed, an air of the great world about his
look and bearing which differentiated him wholly from all other
persons whom David had yet seen in Paris. In physique too he
was totally unlike the ordinary Parisian type. He was a young
athlete, - vigorous, robust, broad-shouldered, tanned by sun and
wind. Only his blue eye---so subtle, melancholy, passionate -
revealed the artist and the thinker.
Elise was evidently transported by his notice of her. She
talked to him eagerly of his pictures in the Salon; especially of
a certain 'Salome,' which, as David presently gathered, was the
sensation of the year. She raved about the qualities of it,- the
words “color," "poignancy,” force,” recurring in the quick
phrases.
“No one talks of your success now,
monsieur. It is another
word. C'est la gloire elle-même qui vous parle à l'oreille !
As she let fall the most characteristic of all French nouns, a
slight tremor passed across the young man's face. But the look
which succeeded it was one of melancholy; the blue eyes took a
steely hardness.
Perhaps a lying spirit, mademoiselle. And what matter, so
long as everything one does disappoints oneself? What a tyrant
is art! insatiable, adorable! You know it. We serve our king
on our knees, and he deals us the most miserly gifts. ”
“It is the service itself repays,” she said eagerly, her chest
heaving
« True! most true!
But what a struggle always! No rest
no content. And there is no other way.
One must seek, grope,
toil — then produce rapidly -- in a flash — throw what you have
done behind you — and so on to the next problem, and the next.
There is no end to it; there never can be. But you hardly came
here this morning, I imagine, mademoiselle, to hear me prate!
I wish you good-day and good-by. I came over for a look at the
Salon; but to-morrow I go back to Spain. I can't breathe now
for long away from my sun and my South! Adieu, mademoi-
selle. I am told your prospects, when the voting comes on, are
excellent. May the gods inspire the jury. ”
He bowed, smiled, and passed on, carrying his lion-head and
kingly presence down the gallery, which had now filled up again;
»
*«It is Glory herself who whispers to you now!
## p. 15661 (#615) ##########################################
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
15661
ing for.
(
and where, so David noticed, person after person turned as he
came near, with the same flash of recognition and pleasure he
had seen upon Elise's face.
A wild jealousy of the young conqueror invaded the English lad.
" Who is he? ” he asked.
Elise, woman-like, divined him in a moment. She gave him
a sidelong glance, and went back to her painting.
« That,” she said quietly, “is Henri Regnault. Ah, you know
nothing of our painters. I can't make you understand. For
me he is a young god; there is a halo round his head. He has
grasped his fame — the fame we poor creatures are all thirst-
It began last year with the Prim — General Prim on
horseback-oh, magnificent! a passion! an energy! This year
!
it is the Salome. ) About — Gautier- all the world — have lost
their heads over it. If you go to see it at the Salon, you will
have to wait your turn. Crowds go every day for nothing else.
Of course there are murmurs. They say the study of Fortuny
has done him harm. Nonsense! People discuss him because he
is becoming a master; no one discusses the nonentities. They
have no enemies. Then he is a sculptor, musician, athlete, — well
born besides, — all the world is his friend. But with it all so
simple — bon camarade even for poor scrawlers like me. Je
l'adore ! »
“So it seems,” said David.
The girl smiled over her painting. But after a bit she looked
up with a seriousness — nay, a bitterness — in her siren's face,
which astonished him.
“It is not amusing to take you in,- you are too ignorant.
What do you suppose Henri Regnault matters to me? His world
is as far above mine as Velasquez's art is above my art. But
how can a foreigner understand our shades and grades ? Noth-
ing but success, but la gloire, could ever lift me into his world.
Then indeed I should be everybody's equal, and it would mat-
ter to nobody that I had been a Bohemian and a déclassée. ”
She gave a little sigh of excitement, and threw her head back
to look at her picture. David watched her.
“I thought,” he said ironically, “that a few minutes ago you
were all for Bohemia. I did not suspect these social ambitions. ”
"All women have them — all artists deny them,” she said reck-
lessly. “There, explain me as you like, Monsieur David. But
(
»
## p. 15662 (#616) ##########################################
15662
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
“ Be
»
don't read my riddle too soon, or I shall bore you. — Allow me to
ask you a question. ”
She laid down her brushes and looked at him with the utmost
gravity. His heart beat; he bent forward.
"Are you ever hungry, Monsieur David ? »
He sprang up, half enraged, half ashamed.
«Where can we get some food ? »
« That is my affair,” she said, putting up her brushes.
humble, monsieur, and take a lesson in Paris. ”
And out they went together, he beside himself with delight
of accompanying her, and proudly carrying her box and satchel.
How her little feet slipped in and out of her pretty dress!
how, as they stood on the top of the great flight of stairs lead-
ing down into the court of the Louvre, the wind from outside
blew back the curls from her brow, and ruffled the violets in her
hat, the black lace about her tiny throat! It was an enchant-
ment to follow and to serve her. She led him through the Tuile-
ries Gardens and the Place de la Concorde to the Champs Elysées.
The fountains leapt in the sun; the river blazed between the
great white buildings of its banks; to the left was the gilded
dome of the Invalides and the mass of the Corps Législatif; while
in front of them rose the long ascent to the Arc de l'Étoile, set
in vivid green on either hand. Everywhere was space, glitter,
magnificence. The gayety of Paris entered into the Englishman
and took possession.
Presently, as they wandered up the Champs Elysées, they
passed a great building to the left. Elise stopped and clasped
her hands in front of her with a little nervous spasmodic gest-
ure.
« That,” she said, “is the Salon. My fate lies there. When
we have had some food, I will take you in to see. ”
She led him a little further up the avenue; then took him
aside through cunningly devised labyrinths of green till they came
upon a little café restaurant among the trees, where people sat
under an awning, and the wind drove the spray of a little fount-
ain hither and thither among the bushes. It was gay, foreign,
romantic, unlike anything David had ever seen in his northern
world. He sat down, with Barbier's stories running in his head.
Mademoiselle Delaunay was George Sand — independent, gifted,
on the road to fame like that great déclassée of old; and he was
## p. 15663 (#617) ##########################################
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
15663
-
-
her friend and comrade,- a humble soldier, a camp follower, in
the great army of letters.
Their meal was of the lightest. This descent on the Champs
Elysées had been a freak on Elise's part, who wished to do
nothing so banal as to take her companion to the Palais Royal.
But the restaurant she had chosen, though of a much humbler
kind than those which the rich tourist commonly associates with
this part of Paris, was still a good deal more expensive than
she had rashly supposed. She opened her eyes gravely at the
charges; abused herself extravagantly for a lack of savoir vivre :
and both with one accord declared that it was too hot to eat.
But upon such eggs and such green peas as they did allow them-
selves — a portion of each, scrupulously shared - David at any
rate was prepared to live to the end of the chapter.
Afterwards, over the coffee and the cigarettes,— Elise taking
her part in both, — they lingered for one of those hours which
make the glamour of youth. Confidences flowed fast between
them. His French grew suppler and more docile, answered more
truly to the individuality behind it. He told her of his bringing-
up, of his wandering with the sheep on the mountains, of his
reading among the heather, of 'Lias and his visions, of Hannah's
cruelties and Louie's tempers,- that same idyl of peasant life to
which Dora had listened some months before. But how differ-
ently told! Each different listener changes the tale, readjusts the
tone. But here also the tale pleased. Elise, for all her leanings
towards new schools in art, had the Romantic's imagination, and
the Romantic's relish for things foreign and unaccustomed. The
English boy and his story seemed to her both charming and
original. Her artist's eye followed the lines of the ruffled black
head, and noted the red-brown of the skin. She felt a wish to
draw him,- a wish which had entirely vanished in the case of
Louie.
Your sister has taken a dislike to me,” she said to him once,
coolly. "And for me, I am afraid of her. Ah! and she broke
my glass! »
She shivered, and a look of anxiety and depression invaded
her small face. He guessed that she was thinking of her pict-
ures, and began timidly to speak to her about them. When
they returned to the world of art, his fluency left him; he felt
crushed beneath the weight of his own ignorance and her ac-
complishment.
-
(
## p. 15664 (#618) ##########################################
15664
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
"Come and see them! ” she said, springing up. “I am tired
of my Infanta. Let her be awhile. Come to the Salon, and I
will show you (Salome. Or are you sick of pictures? What do
'
you want to see ? Ça m'est égal. * I can always go back to my
work. ”
She spoke with a cavalier lightness which teased and piqued
him.
"I wish to go where you go,” he said Aushing; "to see what
»
>
you see. ”
She shook her little head.
"No compliments, Monsieur David. We are serious persons,
you and I. Well, then, for a couple of hours, soyons camarades !
* “It's all the same to me. ”
## p. 15664 (#619) ##########################################
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WASHINGTON.
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15665
GEORGE WASHINGTON
(1732-1799)
he Farewell Address of Washington is infused with that qual-
ity of his character which appealed most forcibly to his
contemporaries, and which has governed posterity's estimate
of him: entire and consistent devotion to a fixed ideal, the fruit of
a genius for patriotism. In the light of this genius alone can the
greatness of Washington be understood and appreciated; seen out
of its circle he is merely a colonial country gentleman of indifferent
education. As a boy he composed a set of rules of conduct, such as
any well-mannered boy might lay down for his guidance. It ends
however with these significant words: “Labor to keep alive in your
breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience. ” Wash-
ington's country was his conscience. Not many men are intelli-
gent patriots, since the heat of the heart confuses the judgment; nor
are many consistent patriots, since the successful servant is peril-
ously near the office of master. The pre-eminence of Washington is
founded upon his intelligence and consistency in conducting one of
the greatest revolutions of this or of any time,” in serving his coun-
try as President, in retiring froin office so soon as he perceived that
his services were no longer essential. The Farewell Address will
remain one of the most significant and important of historical docu-
ments, because it embodies the very essence of a sober and faithful
patriotism.
The life of Washington proves how much can be effected by single-
mindedness in the pursuit of an ideal. His contemporaries who met
him during the Revolution, or during his terms of office, seemed at a
loss to account for his greatness; as if the man were constantly hiding
behind his services. “Something of stillness envelops the actions of
Washington,” Châteaubriand wrote. Many accounts of his personal
appearance remain: few exact impressions of his personality. His
letters and his diaries throw little light upon him, neither do they
discover the secret of his extraordinary power. The Farewell Ad-
dress is perhaps the most truthful portrait of him which remains.
He was born in Virginia on February 22d, 1732, of a family which
had come from England about the middle of the seventeenth cen-
tury. Of his early life little is known, save a few apocryphal stories.
His education was elementary: he was brought up on his father's
XXVI–980
## p. 15666 (#624) ##########################################
15666
GEORGE WASHINGTON
plantation, leading a free out-of-door life; he emerged into clear view
first as a surveyor of the lands of Lord Fairfax, father-in-law of his
half-brother Lawrence. Four years later, when he was about twenty
years of age, he became heir to the family property of Mount Ver-
non. In 1753 Lieutenant-Governor Dinwiddie appointed him com-
mander of the northern military district of Virginia. The French and
Indian War breaking out in the same year, Washington was sent by
the Governor to warn the French away from the new forts in west-
ern Pennsylvania. The intelligence and clear judgment which he
displayed in the execution of this commission led to his being
appointed, in 1755, commander-in-chief of all the Virginia forces, with
the task of defending a frontier of three hundred and fifty miles
with seven hundred and fifty men. In Braddock's campaign he came
rapidly to the front as an officer of extraordinary coolness, courage,
and military skill. At the close of this war he married Martha Dan-
dridge, the widow of Daniel Parke Custis, and settled down to twenty
years of retirement in Virginia. In 1774 the Virginia convention
appointed him one of seven delegates to the Continental Congress;
at which Congress, on the motion of John Adams, he was appointed
commander-in-chief of the armed forces of the colonies. On July 2d
of the same year he took command of the army at Cambridge, Mas-
sachusetts. From that time on he was engaged in a series of brill-
iant campaigns, which ended only when the object of the war had
been fully attained. James Thacher, a surgeon in the Revolution,
who kept a military diary, has left this description of Washington
the general:
« The personal appearance of our commander-in-chief is that of a perfect
gentleman and accomplished warrior. He is remarkably tall, – full six feet, -
erect and well-proportioned. The strength and proportion of his joints and
muscles appear to be commensurate with the pre-eminent powers of his mind.
The serenity of his countenance, and majestic gracefulness of his deportment,
impart a strong impression of that dignity and grandeur which are peculiar
characteristics; and no one can stand in his presence without feeling the
ascendency of his mind, and associating with his countenance the idea of wis-
dom, philanthropy, magnanimity, and patriotism. There is a fine symmetry
in the features of his face indicative of a benign and dignified spirit. His
nose is straight, and his eyes inclined to blue. He wears his hair in a becom-
ing cue, and from his forehead it is turned back, and powdered in a manner
which adds to the military air of his appearance. He displays a native grav-
ity, but devoid of all appearance of ostentation. His uniform dress is a blue
coat with two brilliant epaulets, buff-colored under clothes, and a three-cornered
hat with a black cockade. He is constantly equipped with an elegant small-
sword, boots and spurs, in readiness to mount his noble charger. ”
In 1783 Washington resigned his commission, and went again
into retirement, until his election to the Presidency in 1787. After
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GEORGE WASHINGTON
15667
serving two terms, he spent the remainder of his life upon his
Mount Vernon estate in Virginia. He died in 1799.
«I felt on his death, with my countrymen,” wrote Thomas Jeffer-
son, “Verily a great man hath fallen in Israel. »
Washington Irving said of him: «The character of Washington
may want some of those poetical elements which dazzle and delight
the multitude; but it possessed fewer inequalities, and a rarer union
of virtues, than perhaps ever fall to the lot of one man. ”
WASHINGTON'S FAREWELL ADDRESS
The
Friends and Fellow-Citizens :
he period for a new election of a citizen to administer the
executive government of the United States being not far
distant, and the time actually arrived when your thoughts
must be employed in designating the person who is to be clothed
with that important trust, it appears to me proper, especially as
it may conduce to a more distinct expression of the public voice,
that I should now apprise you of the resolution I have formed,
to decline being considered among the number of those out of
whom a choice is to be made.
I beg you, at the same time, to do me the justice to be
assured that this resolution has not been taken without a strict
regard to all the considerations appertaining to the relation which
binds a dutiful citizen to his country; and that in withdrawing
the tender of service which silence in my situation might imply,
I am influenced by no diminution of zeal for your future interest,
no deficiency of grateful respect for your past kindness; but am
supported by a full conviction that the step is compatible with
both.
The acceptance of, and continuance hitherto in, the office to
which your suffrages have twice called me, have been a uniform
sacrifice of inclination to the opinion of duty, and to a deference
to what appeared to be your desire. I constantly hoped that
it would have been much earlier in my power, consistently with
motives which I was not at liberty to disregard, to return to
that retirement from which I had been reluctantly drawn. The
strength of my inclination to do this, previous to the last elec-
tion, had even led to the preparation of an address to declare it
to you; but mature reflection on the then perplexed and critical
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GEORGE WASHINGTON
posture of our affairs with foreign nations, and the unanimous
advice of persons entitled to my confidence, impelled me to
abandon the idea.
I rejoice that the state of your concerns, external as well as
internal, no longer renders the pursuit of inclination incompati-
ble with the sentiment of duty or propriety; and am persuaded,
whatever partiality may be retained for my services, that in the
present circumstances of our country you will not disapprove my
determination to retire.
The impressions with which I first undertook the arduous
trust were explained on the proper occasion. In the discharge
of this trust, I will only say that I have, with good intentions,
contributed towards the organization and administration of the
government the best exertions of which a very fallible judgment
was capable. Not unconscious, in the outset, of the inferiority of
my qualifications, experience in my own eyes, perhaps still more
in the eyes of others, has strengthened the motives to diffidence
of myself; and every day the increasing weight of years admon-
ishes me
more and more that the shade of retirement is as
necessary to me as it will be welcome. Satisfied that if any cir-
cumstances have given peculiar value to my services, they were
temporary, I have the consolation to believe that while choice
and prudence invite me to quit the political scene, patriotism
does not forbid it.
In looking forward to the moment which is intended to ter-
minate the career of my public life, my feelings do not permit
me to suspend the deep acknowledgment of that debt of grati-
tude which I owe to my beloved country for the many honors
which it has conferred upon me; still more for the steadfast
confidence with which it has supported me; and for the opportu-
nities I have thence enjoyed of manifesting my inviolable attach-
ment by services faithful and persevering, though in usefulness
unequal to my zeal. If benefits have resulted to our country
from these services, let it always be remembered to your praise;
and as an instructive example in our annals that, under circum-
stances in which the passions - agitated in every direction - were
liable to mislead, amidst appearances sometimes dubious, vicissi-
tudes of fortune often discouraging, in situations in which not
infrequently want of success has countenanced the spirit of crit.
icism, — the constancy of your support was the essential prop
of the efforts, and a guarantee of the plans by which they were
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GEORGE WASHINGTON
15669
effected. Profoundly penetrated by this idea, I shall carry it with
me to the grave, as a strong incitement to unceasing vows that
Heaven may continue to you the choicest tokens of its benefi-
cence; that your union and brotherly affection may be perpetual;
that the free constitution, which is the work of your hands, may
be sacredly maintained; that its administration in every depart-
ment may be stamped with wisdom and virtue; — that, in fine,
the happiness of the people of these States, under the auspices
of liberty, may be made complete, by so careful a preservation
and so prudent a use of this blessing, as will acquire to them
the glory of recommending it to the applause, the affection, and
adoption of every nation which is yet a stranger to it.
Here, perhaps, I ought to stop: but solicitude for your wel.
fare, which cannot end but with my life, and the apprehension
of danger natural to that solicitude, urge me, on an occasion like
the present, to offer to your solemn contemplation, and to recom-
mend to your frequent review, some sentiments which are the
result of much reflection, of no inconsiderable observation; and
which appear to me all-important to the permanency of your
felicity as a people. These will be offered to you with the more
freedom, as you can only see in them the disinterested warnings
of a parting friend, who can possibly have no personal motive to
bias his counsels. Nor can I forget an encouragement to it,-
your indulgent reception of my sentiments on a former and not
dissimilar occasion.
Interwoven as is the love of liberty with every ligament of
your hearts, no recommendation of mine is necessary to fortify
or confirm the attachment.
The unity of government which constitutes you one people is
also now dear to you. It is justly so, for it is a main pillar in
the edifice of your real independence: the support of your tran-
quillity at home, your peace abroad; of your safety; of your pros-
perity in every shape; of that very liberty which you so highly
prize.
