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WASHINGTON.
[From Mr. Wtrpple’i* Oration at Boston].
This illustrious man, at once the
world’s admiration and enigma, we
are taught by a fine instinct to ven
erate, and bv a wrong opinion to
misjudge. The might of his char
acter has taken strong hold upon
the feelings of great masses ot men,
but in translating this universal .sen
timent into an intelligent form, the
intellectual element of his wonder
ful nature is as much depressed as
the moral element is exalted, and
consequently we are apt to misun
derstand both. Mediocrity has a
bad trick of idealizing itself in eulo
gizing him, and drags him down to
its own low level, while assuming
to lift him to the skies. llow many
times have we been told that he was
•not a man of genius, but a person
of excellent “common sense,” of
‘'admirable judgment,” of “rare
virtues;” and by a constant repe
tition ot this odious cant we have
nearly succeeded in divorcing com
prehension from his sense, insight
from his judgement, force from his
virtues, aml lire from the man. Ac
cordingly, in the panegvric of cold
spirits, Washington disappears in a
•cloud of common-places : in the
rhodomontade of boiling patriots he
•expires in the agonies of rant. Now
the sooner this bundle of medrioere
talents and moral qualities, which
its contrivers have ihe audacity to
call George Washington, is hissed
out of existence, the better it w ill
be for the cause of talent and the
cause of morals: contempt of that
is the beginning of wisdom. He
had no genius, it seems, () no ! gen
ius, we must suppose, is the pecu
liar and shining attribute of some
orator whose tongue can spout
patriotic speeches, or some versifi
er whose muse can “Hail Colum
bia,” but not of the man who sup
ported states on his arm, and carri
ed America in his brain ! The
madcap Charles Townsend the
motion ot whose pyrotechnic mind
was like the whizz of a hundred
rockets, is a man of genius ; but
George W ashington, raised up
above the common herd of even
eminent statesmen, and with a
nature mov ng with the still and
orderly celerity of a planet round
its sun—he dwindles in comparis
on, into a kind of angelic dunce!
What is genius ? Is it worth any
thing? Is splendid folly die meas
ure of its inspiration? Is wisdom
its base or summit—that which it
recedes from, or tends towards?
And by what definition do you
award the name to the creator of an
epic, and deny it to the creator ofa
country? On what principle is it
to be lavished on him who sculp
tures in perishing marble the image
of possible excellence, and with
held from bun who built up in him
self a transcendent character, in
destructible as the obligations of
Dutv. and beautiful as her rewards.?
Indeed, if by ihe genius of action
you mean will enlightened by in
telligence and intelligence energize
ed by will, —it fbice .and insight
be its characteristics and influence
its test, —and, especially, it great
effects suppose a cause proportion
ably great,-that is, a vital, causative
mind, —then is Washington most
assuredly a man of genius, and one
whom no other American has
equalled in the power of working
morally and mentally on other
minds. His genius, it is true, was
ofa peculiar kind, the genius of’
character, of thought, and the ob
jects of thought solidified and con
centrated into active faculty. He
belongs to that rare class of men,
—rare as Homers and Miltons, rare
as IMatos and Newtons, —who have
impressed their characters upon na
tions without pampering national
vices. Such men have natures
broad enough to include all the
facts of a people’s practical life,
and deej) enough to discern the
spiritual laws \\hich underlie, ani
mate and govern those facts.—
Washington, in short had that great
ness of character which is the high
est expression and last result of
greatness of mind for there is no
method of budding up character
except through mind. Indeed, char
acter like his is not built up,
stone upon stone, precept upon pre
cept, but grows up through an actual
contact of thought with tilings,—the
• . ‘J O 1
assimilative mind transmuting the
impalpable but potent spirit of pub
lic sentiment, and the life of visible
facts, and the power of spiritual
laws, into individual hte and power,
so that their mighty energies put on
personality, as it were, and act
through one centralizing human
will. This process may not, if you
please, make the great philosopher
or the great poet, but it does make
the great man,,—\ti e man in whom
thought anil ji,il gmen| idemi
cal with volition,-a*. wnn v . ho , e
vital expression is not in words but
deeds, —the man whose sublime
ideas issue necessarily in sublime
acts, not in sublime art. It was be
cause Washington’s character was
thus composed of the inmost sub
stance and power of facts and prin
ciples, that men instinctively felt
the perfect reality of hiscomprehen
sive manhood. This reality enforc
ed universal respect, married
strength to repose, and threw’ into
his face that commanding majesty
w hich marie men of the speculative
audacity of Jefferson, and the lucid
genius ol Hamilton recognise, with
unwonted meekness, his aw’ful su
periority. * * * * *
The virtuesof Washington, there
fore appear moral or mental accord
ing as we view them with the eve of
conscience or reason. In him lofti
ness did not exclude breadth, but
resulted from it ;justice did not ex
clude wisdom, but grew out of it ;
and as the wisest as w ell as lie jus
test man in America, he was premi
nently distinguished among his con
temporaries for moderation, —a
word under which weak politicians
conceal their want of courage, and
knavish politicians conceal their
want of principle, but w hich in him
was vital and comprehensive ener
gy, tempering audacity with pru
dence. self-reliance with modesty,
austere principles with merciful
charities, inflexible purpose with
serene courtesy, and issuing in that
persistent an unconquerable forti
tude, in which he excelled all man
kind. In scrutinizing the events of
his life to discover the processes by
which his character grew gradually
up to its amazing height, we are ar
rested at the beginning by the char
acter of his mother, a woman tem
perate like him in the use of words
from her clear preception and vig
orous grasp ot things. There is a fa
miliar anecdote recorded of her,
w hich enables us to understand the
simple sincerity and genuine hero
ism she early instilled into his strong
and aspiring mind. At a time when
his glorv rang through Europe;
when excitable enthusiasts were
crossing the Atlantic for the single
purpose of seeing him; when bad
poets all over the world were sack
ing the dictionaries for hyperboles
of panegyric ; when the pedants ol
republicanism were calling him, the
American Ciricinatus and the
American Fubius—as if our Wash
ington were honored in playing ad
jective to any [toman however illus
trious !—she, in her quiet dignity,
simply said to the voluble friends
who were striving to flatter her
mother’s pride into an expression of
exulting praise, ‘ that he had been a
good son, and she believed he had
done his dutv as a man.” Under
mJ
the care of a mother, who flooded
common words with such a wealth
of meaning, the boy was not iikely to
mistake mediocrity for excellence,
but would naturally domesticate in
his heart the lofty principles of con
duct, and act from them as a mat
ter of course, without expecting or
obtaining praise. The consequence
was, that in early life, and in his
first occupation as surveyor, and
through the stirring events of the
French war, he built up character
day by day in a systematic endur
ance of hardship ; in a constant sac
rifice of inclinations to dutv ; in tarn
mg hot passions into the service of
reason ; in assiduously learning from
other minds; in wringing know
ledge, which could not be taught
him front the reluctant grasp of a
flinty experience; in completely
mastering every subject on which
he fastened his intellect, so that
whatever lie knew he knew per
fectly and for ever transmitting it
into mind, and sending it forth in
acts. Intellectual and moral prin
ciples which other men mav lazily
contemplate and talk about, he had
learned through a process which
gives them the toughness of muscle
and bone.
A man thus sound at the core and
on the surface of his nature, so full
at once of integrity and sngacitv,
speaking ever from the level of his
character, and always ready to sub
stantiate opinions with deeds—a
man without any morbid egotism, or
pretension, or extravagance —sim-
ple. modest, dignified, incorruptible
never giving ad vice which events
did not endorse as wise—never
lacking fortitude to bear calamities
which resulted from his advice being
over-ruled such a man could not
but exact that recognition of com
manding genius which inspires uni
versal confidence. Accordingly,
when the contest between ihe colo
nies and the mother country was
assuming its inevitable form of civil
war, he was proved to be our natur
al leader in virtue of beii g tha
ablest man among the crowd 01 able
men. When he appeared among
the eloquent orators, the ingenious
thinkers, the vehement patriots of
the revolution, his modesty and
temperate professions could not con
ceal his superiority ; he at once, by
the very nature of his great charac
ter, was felt to be their leader; it
towered up, indeed, over aI > their
heads as naturally as the fountain,
sparkling yonder in this July sun,
which, in its long, dark, downward
journey, forgets not the altitude of
its parent lake and no sooner finds
an outlet in our lower lands than it
mounts, bv an impatient instinct,
snrolvup to tne level of the far-off
inland source. * * * *
The problem was how to com
bine the strength, allay the sus
picions and sustain tlie patriotism of
the people during a contest pecu
liarly calculated to distract and
weaken their energies. Washing
ton solved this problem by the true
geometry of indomitable persona!
character. He was the soul of the
revolution, fell tit its centre and felt
through all its parts as uniting,
organizing, animating pow'er. Com
prehensive as America itself through
him ami through him alone could
the strength of America act. He
w r as secutity in defeat, cheer in des
pondency, light in darkness, hope
in despair—the one man in whom
all could have confidence —the one
man whose sun-like integrity and
capacity shot rays of light and heat
thiough everything they shone up
on. He would not stoop to thwart
the machinations of envy; he would
not stoop to contradict the fictions
and forgeries of calumny; and he
did not need to do it. Before the
effortless might of his character they
stole away and withered and died ;
and through no instrumentality of
his did their abject authors become
immortal as the maligners of Wash
ington.
MOUNT VERNON.
From the recollect! ns and Private Memoirs of the Life
and Character of Washington, published hy U. W r . P
C-ustis, in rlie National Intelligencer, July 4.
How many, and what glorious
recollections crowd upon the mind
at the mention of Mount V ernon!
It is a name that will be hallowed
to all lime, and tin” foot of the pil
grim journeying from all nations,
will continue to press the turf around
the sepulchre where rest the ashes
of the Father ot his Country. The
associations in the history of this
venerated spot with those in the his
tory of the life and actions of its
departed master will ever cause
Mount Vernon to be “ freshly re
membered.” These associations
began with the early life of Wash
ington, and ended only with his
last days on earth. Mount Vernon
wms the home of his youth, the re
treat of his advanced years, the spot
that he most loved, and to which lie
so often retired to find repose from
the care and anxieties of public af
fairs. He never left it but with re
gret. lie always returned to it
with joy. Could the old halls of
the ancient mansion exhibit a tableau
vivaut of the characters that have
been their inmates in bygone days,
what a long and imposing list of
patriots, statesmen anti warriors
would adorn the scene and memo
ries of the past!
Our tableau opens in 1753, when
Washington crosses the threshold of
Mount Vernon to enter upon that
great theatre of life on which he
was destined to play so illustrious
a part. His achievement in pene
trating the wilderness, and success
ful aceomplisbmeut of the important
objects of his mission, amid dangers
and difficulties the trust appalling,
introduced him to the favorable no
tice of the Colonial authorities, who
in 1751, intrusted the young Virgin
ian with the defence of the frontier
of his native colony, where, alter a
gallant conflict with the enemy, he
resigned his commission and re
tired to Mount Vernon. But he ,vas
not permuted long to enjoy the
pleasures ot its peaceful shades,
for his martial reputation having at
tracted die notice of General Brad
dock, the provincial soldier in 175-5,
was requested by the British vete
ran to accompany the latter to die
ill-fated expediuou to Fort Du
Quesne.
Our tableau now gives a perspec
tive view of the memorable 9ih of
July, and the field of the Mononga
hela, where a youthful hero gathers
his tir&i laurels amid the fury of the
fight, and where his high and cliiv
alric daring caused “ ihe wild untu
tored savage” to hail the last mo
unted officer on the field of Munou
gahela as “ tin.* chosen of the Great
Spirit, the warrior who could not
die in battle.”
A.t the close ot the Seven Years*
Wur, the provincial colonel again
becomes a private citizen, and re
turns to Mount Vernon to await the
call of destiny.
It is 1759, and our tableau exhib
its a gay and joyous scene, while
ihe old balls ring again with the re
ception of a bridal party, and Wash
ington enters Mount Vernon a pros
perous and happy bridegroom. The
gallant and distinguished soldier
now lavs aside “ the pomp and cir
cumstance of glorious war,” and
many years glide happily along,
amid tire delights of domestic felici
ty, the society of family and friends
and the employments of agriculture
and rural affairs, when our tableau
changes to 1774. The Colonial
troubles have commenced, and we
behold the arrival of two distin
guished personages at Mount Ver
non, Patrick Henry, and Edmund
Pendleton. The object of their vis
it is to accompany Washington to
the first Congress, where the soldier
had been called by the voice of his
country, to change the duties of the
field for those of the Senate-house.
In 1775, while serving as a mem
ber of the first Congress, Washing
ton is appointed to command in chief
the armies of the Colonies, then as
sembling to do battle for the rights
and liberties of unborn generations.
He obeys the call of destiny and his
country, and for six eventful years
big with the fate of liberty and an
empire his home is in the tented field.
17SL,aud our tableau shows the
long-deserted halls of Mount Ver
non to be animated by the pies *nce
of the Commander in Chief ot the
combined armies of America and
France, accompanied by the Count
de Rochamheau and a brilliant suite,
who halt but fora single day, being
O * O
en route for Yorktown.
Again our tableau changes, and
introduce us in 1753 to happiet
scenes. The war has ended ; its
storms have passed away, and the
sunshine of peace sheds its benign
influences upon an infant nation, a
free and independent people. An
napolis has witnessed a sublime
spectacle, and Washington, having
resigned his commission and‘’taken
leave of the employments of public
life,” hastens to his beloved retire
ment ; and never in this great man’s
long and glorious career did he ex
perience so pure so enviable a de
light. as when merging the victori
ous General in the illustrious Farm
er of Mount Vernon.
On tableau now teems with char
acters. In the old halls of Mount
Vernon are assembled chosen spir
its, from the wise, the good, and
brave of both hemispheres, who
have journeyed from distant homes,
if) pay ihe homage ot their hearts to
the hero ofthe age in the retirement
of a private citizen. Conspicuous
amid this honored group is the good
and gallant Lafayette, who, sup
posing in 1754 that he was about
to bid adieu to America for the last
time, had hastened to Mount Vernon
to pay his parting respects to the
man who, ofall men, he most loved
and admired.
The retired Chief receives his
guests with that kindliness and
hospitality for which Mount Vernon
was always distinguished, while his
early rising, his industrious and
methodical habits of life, his horse
manship in the chase, his minute at
tention to all matters, and to the
improvement of his domain, elici
ted the warmest encomiun and ad
miration of those who in the old
time of day. had the good fortune to
visit Washington on his farm.
From the unalloyed happiness in
which tour years were now passed
in the employments of agriculture,
in social and domestic intercourse,
occasionally varied by the pleasures
ofthe chase, this period in the life
ofthe Pater Patriot may truly he
said to have been the one in which
all his ways were “ways of pleas
antness, and all his paths were
peace.”
Our tableau changes to 1757,
when his country calls upon her
chosen son to leave the tranquil
shades of Mount Vernon to take a
prominent part in the momentous
events of the limes. The old Con
federation is ended ;a new Govern
ment is to be formed; confusion is
to be succeeded by order. The
Convention assembles, and that im
mortal Constitutional Charter, that
millions of freemen have since so
happi 1 v enjoyed received its first
signature from the hand of George
Washington.
From this date a young and glo
rious empire dawned upon the
world. Conceived in the purity of
republican freedom, founded on the
bases of equal rights and equal
laws, the great and renowned of
the land formed this master work
of virtue; and Patriotism might
well expect that it would endure for
centurirs, till grown h oh. ry bv Time
and from the decline of public vir
tue, it should experience the fate of
nations, when, from the extent and
magnificence of its ruins, futurity
might read the story of its rise, its
grandeur, and its tall.
Our ‘tableau exhibits, in 1789,
important and touching events in
the history of Mt.unt Vernon. A spe
cial envoy arrives in the person ot
Mr. Secretary Thomson a signer of
the declaration of Independence,
and a genuine type of the brave old
days of'lb. Scarcely is he receiv
ed with the warmest welcome,
when he declares the object of his
mission : That he is charged, by
the Congress then assembled in
New York, with the grateful duty of
announcing to George Washington,
a private citizen, his election to the
Presidency of the United States of
America.
The recipient of this highest, this
proudest dignity that can ever be
conferred on man, was by no means
unprepared for its announcement bv
the venerable ambassador. From
the period of the ratification of the
Constitution by the States, every
mail from every part of the Union
brought letters to Mount Vernon,
all praying the retired Chief toyield
to the united wishes of the people
to accept the highest dignity in their
power to bestow. In vain did the
happy farmer of Mount Vernon
plead that advanced age and long
services t.eeded repose. Many of
his old and much-loved companions
in arms gathered around him affec
tionately, saving. We feel assured
that you cannot, that you will not
refuse the wishes of a whole people:
your honored name is heard from
every lip, while in every heart there
dwells hut one sentiment : Wash
ington, Chief Magistrate of the Re
p üblic.
The newly-chosen President was
deeply affected by this generous,
this universal testimonial of the love
arid attachment of his countrymen.
The People triumphed ! The man
of tiie people yielded to the will ol
ihe people. A day or two su fihed
for the preparation for depar
ture. A sigh to the fond memories
of home and happv days of retire
ment, and the First President of
die United States hade adieu to
Mount Vernon. For eight years
silence reighed in the an< ient halls,
wlitm in 1797, they again teetn with
animation. The long absent mast
er returns. Time has blanched his
locks, and traced its furrows on his
noble brow, but his manly form is
still erect ; aye, with lightsome step
arid joyous heart he once more en
ters the portals of his ‘beloved
Mount Vernon.
Our tableau, having exhibited
ihe changing events in the history of
Mount Vernon for forty-six years,
in its closing scene portrays the
aged Chief in his hist retirement.
His davs are numbered, his glorious
race is nearly run ; yet, when in
vasion threatens, he obeys the last
call otitis country, and is again in
arms, her general and protector.
He stipulates with the Govern
ment that he shall be permitted to
remain in his retirement till circum
stances demand his presence in
the field. While giving the neces
sary orders for the organization of
the forces to meet the invaders, the
Lieutenant-General and Command
er-in-Chiefcontinues his agricultur
al employments at Mount Vernon,
his only military staff being a mili
tary secretary.
After a long and unexampled ca
reer of glory in the service of his
country and mankind, well stricken
in years and laden with honors, in
his own beloved Mount Vernon,
with the forth ude and resignation
befitting the Roman fame of his life
and actions, the Pater Patriae yield
ed up his soul to Him who gave it,
calmly declaring, “1 am not afraid
to die.”
< htr tableau vivant closes with the
grandeur and solemnity of the spec
tacle that bore him to bis grave.
THE SORCERER ACQUITTED.
A fortune-teller was arrested at
his theatre of divination, til fresco ,
at the corner of the Rue de Btissv,
in Paris, arid carried before the tri
bunal of the correctional police.
“ Vou know how to read the fu
ture V” said the president, a man
of great wit, but too fond of a joke
for a magistrate.
“ 1 do, M. le President,” replied
the sorcerer.
“ In this case,” said the judge,
“ you know the judgment we in
tend to pronounce ? ”
“ Certainly.”
“Well, what will happen to you?”
“ Nothing.”
“ You arp sure of it ? ”
“ You will acquit me.”
“ Acquit you V ”
“ There is no doubt of it.”
“ Why ? ”
Because sir, if it had been
your intention to condemn me, you
would not have added irony to mis
fortune.”
The president disconcerted. turned
to his brother judges, and the sorce
rer was acquitted.
KINDNESS.
An Indian Story. —ln the
settlement of this country, fl
Indian arrived at an inn in
field, Connecticut, and asked"'?’’
something to eat ; at the same .• r
saying that, as lie lmd been u „
cesslul in hunting he had nothiJLT
pay. The woman who kept ||J• to
not only refused his reasonable""*
qust, but called him harsh na/!’
But a man who sat bv r seeing t 8 *
the Indian was suffering f ( > r lat ,
food, told her to give him- what'/
wanted at his expense. , le
Indian had finished his supper
thanked the man, and'assured h’
that he should be faithfuH v reC() ,rn
pensed whenever it was in Us p^.‘
er. w
Some years after this, the
had occasion to go from Liicbfj e u
to Albany, where he was m.
prisoner by the Indians, and carried
to Canada. Bome of them prop (Ke( ]
that he should be put to death ; | )ut
an old woman demanded th at
should be given to her, that she
might adopt him in place of a son
who had been killed in the war —1
This was done, and he passed the
winter in her family. The next
summer, while he was at work i n
the woods, a strange Indian came
and asked him to go to a certain
place on a given dav, which he
agreed to do; though he had some
fears that mischief was intended.
His fears increased, and his prom
ise was broken. But the Indian
came again and renewed the request.
The man made another engage
ment and kept his word. On reach
ing the spot, he found the Indian
provided with a munition, two mus
kets, and two knapsacks. He was
orderad to take one of each, which,
lie did and followed his conductor.
In the day time they sho L the
that came in their way, and at night
they kindled a fire and slept by it,
But the Indian preserved a myste
rious silence as to the object of their
expedition.
After traveling in this manner
many days, they came to the top of
a mountain, from which they saw
a number of houses in the midst of
a cultivated country. The Indian
asked him if he knew the ground,
and he eagerly answered, “It is
Litchfield !”
The Indian then recalled to his
mind the scene of the inn, and bid
ding him farewell, exclaimed, “l
am that Indian! —Now 1 pray you
go home.”— lndian Advocate.
“T declare 1 don’t know what to
think on it, ’ said Mrs. Partington as
she looked again intently into the
water pail. The attitude was pe
culiar, and the iron bowed specs
were on duty like a sentry on a
b/idge keeping a bright look out
over the water. “1 can’t see into*
it,” continued she; which was
wrong if we take it literally, be
cause the water was as pure and
transparenlas her own benevolence.
“1 can’t see into it, and the more I
preponderate on it, the more I’m in
a be wilderness ; how any man can
make fire and light out of water is
more than I can see—l can’t throw
no light on it. 1 know it’s made
out of some sort of gin but how is it
done. It can’t, be gin and water,
because my poor Paul's head was
made fight often by that, but it
did’nt burn as they say t his does.
Now I do hope it won’t he like a
Jacky lantern, gone afore you see U,
and I hope this Mr. Paine may not
be one of the sbampaiues I’ve
heern on.” The philosophical
commentary was concluded, and
listeners stood hatless,almost breath
less, as her voice came up through 1
her cap border like the steam that
at time oozes from round the cover
of a wash boiler, it v*as sublinne.
—Boston Path-Finder .
“A gentle youth was walking
the moonlight, walking not aloitf*
It was Augustus, and upon his
was Emeline, the beautiful, an
they had wandered forth tocontfl®’
plate Nature and adore? each om er *
The moon looked down serene)
from the blue canopy, and the 1
tie stars twinkled in rnerry scintil 3
tions upon the fair scene of
that was enacting beneath them-
Here, said Augustus, as be £ ;IZt j
upon the fair being beside him,
in her eyes’ read correspond
rapture wiih bis own, here 5
for a while recline, and the
and stars shall keep us compnn.'.,,
I the harmony of our love. Adn
rang out frantically upon the eV j
ing air, as Augustus disapP e ?L
behind the clipped ha wthorne h et *r
he had misiaken for a seat, ajj
rolled into the ditch beneath the hi ll *
which received him in its era bra<#*
herehunk. The beautiful
wrung her hands in agony
Augustus wrung his vest rf*ek ,ri p
w hb the mud and water that in veS
ed it.”