IV.—THE TEMPTATION OF WASHINGTON.
There are days in winter when the air is very soft and balmy as the
early days of summer, when, in fact, that glad maiden May seems to blow
her warm breath in the grim face of February, until the rough old warrior
laughs again.
It was a day like this that the morning sunshine was streaming over a
high rock, that frowns there, far above the Wissahikon.
A high rock—attainable only by a long, winding path—fenced in by the
trunks of giant pines, whose boughs, on the coldest day of winter, form a
canopy overhead.
This rock is covered with a carpet of evergreen moss.
And near this nook—this chamber in the forest, for it was nothing less—
sate an old man, separated from it by the trunks of the pines, whose boughs
concealed his form.
That old man had come here, alone, to think over his two sons, now
freezing at Valley Forge—for, though the father was a Tory, yet his
children were Continentals. He was a well-meaning man, but some half-crazy
idea about the Divine Right of the British Pope, George the Third,
to rule this Continent, and murder and burn as he pleased—lurked in his
brain, and kept him back from the camp of Washington.
And now, in this bright morning in February, he had come here, alone, to
think the matter over.
And while he was pondering this deep matter over, whether George the
Pope or George the Rebel was in the right—he heard the tramp of a war-steed
not far off, and, looking between the trunks of the pines, he saw a
man, of noble presence, dismount from his grey horse, and then advance
into the quiet nook of moss-carpeted rocks, encircled by giant pines.
—And now, leaving that aged Tory, to look upon this man for himself,
let us also look on him, with our own eyes.
As he comes through those thick boughs, you behold a man, more than
six feet high, with his kingly form enveloped in a coarse grey overcoat; a
chapean on his bold forehead—and beneath the skirts of that grey coat, you
may see the military boots and the end of a scabbard.
And who is this man of kingly presence, who comes here alone, to pace
this moss-covered rock, with drooped head and folded arms?
Come, my friends, and look upon him—let me show you—not this figure
of mist and frost-work, which some historians have called Washington—
but Washington, the living, throbbing, flesh and blood, Washington!—Yes,
Washington the man.
Look upon him, as he paces that moss-covered rock—see that eye burn,
that muscular chest heave under the folded arms.
Ah, he is thinking of Valley Forge! Of the bloody foot-prints in the
snow—of those three hideous figures that sit down in the huts of Valley
Forge together—Disease, Starvation, and Nakedness!
Look, as those dark thoughts crowd on his soul, he falls on his knees, he
prays the God of Heaven to take his life, as an offering for the freedom of
his native land!
And as that prayer startles the still woods, that grey coat falls open, and
discloses the blue and gold uniform—the epaulette and the sword-hilt.
Then the agony of that man, praying there in the silent woods—praying
for his country, now bleeding in her chains—speaks out, in the flashing of
the eye, in the beaded sweat, dripping from the brow!
—Ah, kings of the world, planning so cooly your schemes of murder,
come here, and look at George Washington, as he offers his life, a sacrifice
for his country!
Ah, George of England, British Pope, and good-natured Idiot, that you
are, now counting, in your royal halls how many more men it will take to
murder a few thousand peaceful farmers, and make a nation drink your tea,
come here to this rock of the Wissahikon, and see, King and Pope as you
are, George Washington in council with his God!—
My friends, I can never think of that man in the wilds of Wissahikon—
praying there, alone: praying for his country, with the deep agony in his
heart and on his brow, without also thinking of that dark night in Gethsemane,
when the blood-drops startled from the brow of Jesus, the Blessed
Redeemer, as he plead for the salvation of the world!
Now look! As Washington kneels there, on that moss-covered rock,
from those green boughs steps forth another form—tall as his own—clad in
a coarse grey coat, with the boots and scabbard seen below its skirts, with
the chapeau upon his brow.
That stranger emerges from the boughs—stands there unperceived, gazing
in silence upon the kneeling warrior.
A moment passes!
Look! Washington has risen to his feet—he confronts the stranger.
Now, as that stranger, with a slight bow, uncovers his forehead, tell me,
did you ever see a stronger or stranger resemblance between two men than
between these two, who now confront each other in silence, under the shade
of those dark pines?
The same heighth, breadth of chest, sinewy limbs, nay, almost the same
faces,—save that the face of the stranger, sharper in outline, lacks that calm
consciousness of a great soul, which stamps the countenance of Washington.
That resemblance is most strange—their muscular forms are clad in the
same coarse grey coat—their costume is alike—yet hold—
The stranger throws open his overcoat—you behold that hangman's
dress, that British uniform, flashing with gold and stars! Washington starts
back, and lays his hand upon his sword.
And as these two men, so strangely alike, meet there by accident, under
that canopy of boughs,—one wandering from Valley Forge, one from Philadelphia—let
me tell you at once, that the stranger is none other than the
Master Butcher of the Idiot-king—Sir William Howe.
Yes, there they meet, the one the impersonation of Freedom—the other
the tinselled lacquey of a Tyrant's Will!
We will listen to their conversation: it is brief, but important.
For a moment, the British General stood spell-bound before the man
whom he had crossed the ocean to entrap, and bring home; the Rebel, who
had lifted his hand against the Right Divine of the British Pope! To that
British General there was something awful about the soldier who could talk
with his God, as Washington had talked a moment ago.
“I cannot be mistaken,” at last said Sir William Howe; “I behold before
me the chieftain of the Rebel army, Mister Washington?”
Washington coldly bowed his head.
“Then this is a happy hour! For we together can give peace and freedom
to this land!”
At this word Washington started with surprise—advanced a step—and
then exclaimed—
“And who, sir, are you that thus boldly promise peace and freedom to
my country?”
“The commander of his Majesty's forces in America!” said Howe, advancing
along that wood-hidden rock towards Washington. “And oh, sir,
let me tell you that the king, my master, has heard of your virtues, which
alone dignifies the revolt with the name of a war, and it is to you he looks
for the termination of this most disastrous contest.”
Then Washington, whose pulse had never quickened before all the panoply
of British arms, felt his heart flutter in his bosom, as that great boon was
before his eyes—peace and freedom to his native land!
“Yes,” continued Howe, advancing another step, “my king looks to you
for the termination of this unnatural war. Let rebellion once be crushed—
let the royal name be finally established by your influences, and then, sir,
behold the gratitude of King George to Mister Washington.”
As he spoke, he placed in the hands of Washington a massive parchment—sealed
with the broad seal of England, signed with the manuel of
King George.
Washington took the parchment—opened it—read—his face did not
change a muscle.
And yet that parchment named Mister George Washington “George
Duke Washington, of Mount Vernon, our well-beloved servant, Viceroy
of America!”
Here was a boon for the Virginia planter—here was a title and here a
power for the young man, who was one day struggling for his life away
there amid floating ice on the dark Allegheny river.
For a moment, the face of Washington was buried in that parchment,
and then, in a low, deep voice, he spoke—
“I have been thinking,” he said, “of the ten thousand brave men who
have been massacred in this quarrel. I have been thinking of the dead of
Bunker Hill—Lexington—Quebec—Trenton—Yes, the dead of Saratoga—
Brandy wine—Germantown—”
“And,” cried Howe, startling forward, “you will put an end to this
unhappy quarrel?”
“And yor king,” continued Washington, with a look and tone that would
have cut into a heart of marble, “would have me barter the bones of the
dead for a ribbon and a title!”
And then—while Howe shrunk cowering back—that Virginia planter,
Washington, crushed that parchment into the sod, with the heel of his warrior
boot—Yes, trampled that title, that royal name, into one mass of
rags and dust.
“That is my answer to your king!”
And then he stood with scorn on his brow, and in his eye, his outstretched
arm pointing at that minion of King George.
Wasn't that a picture for the pencil of an angel? And now, that British
General, recovering from his first surprise, grew red as his uniform with
rage.
“Your head!” he gasped, clenching his hand, “your head will yet redden
the Traitor's block!”
Then Washington's hand sought his sword—then his fierce spirit awoke
within him—it was his first impulse to strike that braggart quivering into
the dust.
But in a moment he grew calm.
“Yours is a good and great king,” he said, with his usual stern tone.
“At first he is determined to sweep a whole Continent with but five thousand
men, but he soon finds that his five thousand men must swell to twenty-five
thousand before he can ever begin his work of murder. Then he
sacrifices his own subjects by thousands—and butchers peaceful farmers by
tens of thousands—and yet his march of victory is not even begun. Then,
if he conquers the capital city of the Continent, victory is sure! Behold!
the city is in his grasp, yet still the hosts of freedom defy him, even from
the huts of Valley Forge!
“And now, as a last resource, your king comes to the man whose head
yesterday was sought, with a high reward, to grace the gates of London—
he offers that Rebel a Dukedom—a vice regal sceptre! And yet that Rebel
tramples the Dukedom into the dust—that Rebel crushes into atoms the
name of such a king.”
Ah, never spaniel skulked from the kick of his master as that General
Howe cringed away from the presence of Washington—mounted his horse
—was gone!
One word with regard to the aged Tory, who beheld this scene from
yonder bushes, with alternate wonder, admiration, and fear.
That Tory went home—“I have seen George Washington at prayer,”
he said to his wife: “the man who can trample upon the name of a king,
as he did—pray to God as he prayed, that man cannot be a Rebel or a bad
man. To-morrow, I will join my sons at Valley Forge!”[2]
