FOUR INCIDENTS AND THEIR LESSONS.

Certain incidents occurred in the young life of our hero, which so forcibly illustrate leading elements of his character that we stop here to record them.

His father came home one day so sick that he took to his bed at once. It was a severe attack of an old complaint, which he had vainly tried to remove.

“You must have the doctor,” said Mrs. Washington, somewhat alarmed by the severity of the attack.

“Wait a little, and see,” replied her husband; “perhaps the usual remedies will relieve me.” He kept remedies in the house for such attacks, and Mrs. Washington soon administered them. But the relief was only partial, and a servant was sent for the doctor.

“Go in haste,” said Mrs. Washington, as Jake mounted the horse and galloped away. “Tell the doctor to come as soon as possible,” were the last words that Jake heard as he dashed forward. Mrs. Washington was thoroughly alarmed. Returning to her husband’s bedside, she said:

“I want to send for George.”

“Not now,” her husband answered. “I think the doctor will relieve me. Besides, George has only just got there, and it is not well to disturb him unnecessarily.”

George had gone to visit friends at Chotana, about twenty miles distant, where he proposed to spend his vacation.

Mrs. Washington yielded to her husband’s desire, although intense anxiety filled her heart. She seemed to have a presentiment that it was her husband’s last sickness. Back and forth she went from door to bedroom, and from bedroom to door, awaiting with tremulous emotion the coming of the physician, at the same time employing such remedies as she thought might afford relief.

“A very sick man,” was the doctor’s verdict, “but I think we can relieve him soon.” His encouraging words lifted a burden from Mrs. Washington’s heart, although she still apprehended the worst, and yet she could scarcely tell why.

“You think that he will recover?” she said to the doctor, as he was leaving the house.

“I think so; he is relieved for the present, and I hope that he will continue to improve,” the doctor answered; and he answered just as he felt.

Still Mrs. Washington could not disguise her fears. She was a devout Christian woman, and she carried her burden to the Lord. She found some relief in laying her anxieties upon the great Burden-bearer. She came forth from communion with the Father of mercies more composed if not more hopeful. She possessed a degree of willingness to leave her companion in God’s hand.

Mr. Washington was relieved of acute pain, but further than that he did not improve. After continuing several days in this condition, he said to his wife one morning:

“You may send for George to-day.”

“I will,” Mrs. Washington replied, bursting into tears. “I wish I had sent before.”

“It might have been as well had we known,” Mr. Washington responded, in a suggestive way.

“Do you think that your sickness will prove fatal?”

“I fear so. I think I am losing ground fast. I have failed very much in strength the last twenty-four hours. God’s will be done.”

“I hope I shall have grace to say so honestly.”

“And I trust that God will give me grace to say so with true submission,” continued Mr. Washington. “I should like to live if it is God’s will; but if He orders otherwise, we must accept His ordering as best.”

Mrs. Washington could say no more. Her cup of sorrow was full and running over. But she sorrowed not as one without hope. Both she and her husband had been active Christians. They were prominent working members of the Episcopal Church. They knew, from happy experience, that solace and support were found in divine grace, so that this sudden and terrible affliction did not overtake them unawares, really. They were prepared for it in an important sense.

The doctor called just as this interview closed, and he seconded Mr. Washington’s request to send for George.

“A great change has come over him since yesterday,” he said to Mrs. Washington.

“He just told me that he was sinking,” replied Mrs. Washington.

“I fear it is so; and George better be sent for at soon as possible. A 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 midshipmans 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 midshipmans 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 mothers 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.