V.—WASHINGTON AS DUKE, KING AND REBEL.
We have seen Washington and Howe stand face to face on the cliff of
Wissahikon; we have seen the British General offer the American leader a
ducal title, a vice-regal sway as the reward of treason.
Now let us behold four scenes which arise to our minds from the contemplation
of this Legend. These scenes are fraught with a deep mystery,
a sublime and holy moral.
The first scene!
We stand in the streets of a magnificent city. A dense crowd darkens
the avenues leading to yonder palace. That palace, which rises over the
heads of the living mass, like a solitary mountain amid ocean waves.
There are bands of armed men around that palace—look! How the
sun glitters over the red uniforms, over the lines of bayonets, over the
thousand flags, that wave in the summer air.
And there, high over all, from the loftiest dome of that palace, one single
broad banner tosses slowly and lazily upon the breeze—look, its wide
shadow is cast upon the multitude below. That is the Red Cross Banner
of England.
And now every eye is fixed upon that palace door—a great potentate
will shortly come forth—the mob are anxious to look upon him, to shout
his name.
And now, as the drums roll out their thunder, as the voice of cannon bids
him welcome—he comes!
Yes, as women press forward, lifting their babes on high, eager to behold
him; as old men climb those trees, mad with anxiety, to catch but one
glimpse of his form, he comes, the Viceroy of America!
Yes, from that palace door, environed by guards and courtiers, fine gentlemen
and gay ladies, he comes, that man of kingly presence; he stands
there, for the moment, with the sun playing over his noble brow, glittering
along his vice-regal robes. How the thunder of the cannon, the clang of
drum and bugle, the hurrahs of the mob, go mingling up to Heaven in one
mad chorus. And that great prince standing there under the shadow of the
British banner; that is George, Duke Washington, Viceroy of America.
Yes, that is what Washington might have been, had he betrayed his
country.
Now we will change the scene:
We stand in the ante-chamber of the British King.
Here, in this lofty hall, adorned with trophies from all the world—trophies
from plundered Ireland—from ravaged Hindoostan—from down-trodden
America—here, under that Red Cross Banner, which like a canopy,
reddens over that ceiling; here are gathered a glittering party of noble lords
and ladies, anxious to behold a strange scene; the meeting between King
George and Duke Washington, that man who yesterday was a rebel, but
now having returned to his duty as a loyal subject, is about to be presented
to his master.
While all is suspense, two doors at opposite ends of that wide hall, are
flung open by gentlemen ushers; one announces “His Majesty!”
And a decrepit man with a vacant eye—a hanging lip—a gouty form,
mocked with purple robes, hobbles slowly forth.
That other gentleman in livery announces:—“His Grace, Washington,
Duke of Mount Vernon, Viceroy of America!”
And from that door comes a man of magnificent form, high bearing,
kingly look. He is clad—oh, shame!—in the scarlet uniform—his breast
waving with ribbons and glittering with stars.
And that noble man kneels in the centre of that crowd, kisses the gouty
hand of that King. The good-humored idiot murmurs something about forgiving
the rebel Washington, because that rebel has become a loyal subject,
and brought back a nation to the feet of the British King.
And there kneels Duke Washington, and there stands the Protestant
Pope of Britain.
—Had Washington accepted the parchment from General Howe, something
like this scene would have been the presentation at Court.
Or change the scene again:
What see you now? Independence Hall transformed into a monarch's
reception room, and there, surrounded by his courtiers, the crown on his
brow, stands George the First, King of America.
The glitter of arms flashes o'er Independence Square; the huzzas of the
mob burst into the sky; there is joy to-day in Philadelphia—the aristocracy
are glad—for George Washington, forsaking the fact of republican truth, has
yielded to the wishes of servile friends, yielded to the huzzas of the mob,
and while Independence Bell tolls the death of freedom, has taken to himself
a crown and a throne.
So, my friends, would one dark page in history have read, had not George
Washington been George Washington all his life.
And now let us look for a moment at the other side of the picture.
Suppose instead of the cry uttered by the watchman one night as the
State House struck one—“One o'clock and Cornwallis is taken!”—he had
shrieked forth—
“One o'clock, and George Washington is taken!”
Then would history have chronicled a scene like this:
One summer day an immense crowd gathered on Tyburn Hill. Yes,
that immense crowd spread far along the street, over the house tops, clung
to the trees, or darkened over the church steeples. That day London had
given forth its livery and its rags—its nobility and its rabble. St. Giles,
that foul haunt of pollution, sent its thieves and its beggars—St. James, the
home of royalty, sent its princes and its lords, to swell the numbers of this
vast crowd which now darkened far and wide over Tyburn Hill.
And in the centre of this wide theatre—whose canopy is yonder blue
heaven—whose walls are human faces—there glooms a scaffold covered
with drooping folds of black.
There, on that scaffold, stand three persons:—That grim figure, with
face muffled in crape, and the axe in his hand, that is the executioner.
There is a block by his side, and around that block is scattered a heap
of saw dust.
That saw dust has drunk the blood of men like Algernon Sidney—but
to-day will drink the blood of a greater rebel than he!
By the side of that executioner stands another figure in black, not a hangman,
but a priest, come to pray for the traitor.
And the third figure?
See, how he towers above priest and hangman, his blue uniform still enrobing
his proud figure—a calm resolution still sitting like a glory upon his
brow!
Can you tell me the name of this traitor?
Why you must be a stranger in London not to know his story. Why
the rabble in the street have it at their tongues' end—and those noble ladies,
looking from yonder windows—they shed some tears when they speak it.
That man standing on the scaffold is the great rebel, who was captured at
Yorktown—brought home in chains—tried in Parliament—sentenced to
death—and to-day he dies.
And now look, the priest approaches; he begs that calm-faced traitor to
repent of his treason before he dies,—to be reconciled to his King, the good
King George; to repent of his wicked deeds at Trenton, Monmouth, Germantown,
Brandy wine, and Valley Forge.
And as the priest doles out his store of set-phrases, look how that noble-looking
rebel pushes him aside with a quiet scorn.
Then, with one prayer to God, with one thought of his country, now
bleeding in her chains, he kneels—his head on the block.
How awfully still that crowd has become. The executioner draws near.
Look! he strips that blue coat from the rebel's shoulders—epaulettes, sword-belt
and sword—he tears them all from his manly form. With his vile
hands he breaks that sword in twain—for it is a rebel's sword.
Look! he feels the edge of the axe—still that noble rebel, but half dressed,
is kneeling there, in the light of the summer sun.
That axe glimmers into light.
Now hold your breath—oh, horror!—it falls.—There is a stream of
blood pouring down into the saw dust—there is a human head rolling on the
scaffold!
And now look again!
As that vast crowd breathe in gasps, the executioner, with crape over his
face, raises the head into light—and while the features yet quiver, while the
blood falls pattering down upon the mangled corse—
Hark—do you hear his brutal shout?
“Behold the head of George Washington, the rebel and traitor!”
Thank God! that page was never written in history! And who will
dare to say that this picture is too strongly drawn? Ah, my friends, had
my Lord Cornwallis been the victor at Yorktown, had the Continental
armies been crushed, then these streets would have been too narrow to contain
the gibbets erected by the British King.
Ah! those English lords and ladies—these English bards are now too
glad to lisp the praises of Washington.
But had the American armies been crushed, then would the head of
Washington have been nailed to the door-post of Independence Hall.
And now that you have seen what Washington might have been as the
Duke, the Viceroy, the King—or how dark would have been his fate as the
rebel, the crushed and convicted traitor—let us look at HIM AS HE IS.
Is. For he is not dead! For he will never die! For he lives—lives
at this hour, in a fuller and bolder life than ever.
Where'er there is a hearthstone in our land, there Washington shines its
patron saint.
Wherever a mother can teach her child some name, to write in its heart
and wear there forever next to the name of the Redeemer, that name is
Washington.
Yes, we are like those men who dig in the deep mines of Norway—
there in the centre of the earth forever burns one bright undying flame—no
one asks who first built the fire—but all know that it has burned for ages—
all, from father to son, make it a holy duty to heap fuel on that fire, and
watch it as though it were a god.
The name of Washington is that eternal fire built in every American
heart, and burning on when the night is darkest, and blazing brightest when
the gloom is most terrible.
So let that altar of flame burn and burn on forever, a living testimonial
of that man who too proud to be a Duke, or Viceroy, or King,—struck
higher and bolder in his ambition, struck at that place in the American heart
second in glory, and only second, be it spoken with awful reverence—to the
eternal Majesty of God.
