Each night by quiet sleep made short, A will to be but what thou art: Possessed of these, all else defy, And neither wish nor fear to die; These are the things, which, once possessed, Will make a life that"s truly blest."
His strong love for simple, pure, domestic life appears in this selection--a love for which he was distinguished to the day of his death.
The school-days of George ended one month before he was sixteen years of age. Mr. Hobby and Mr. Williams were his only teachers, except his parents. "Not very rare opportunities," the reader will say. No larger opportunities for mental culture now would be considered meagre indeed.
But he made the most of what he had, so that his small advantages did more for him than the best opportunities do for less industrious and n.o.ble boys.
A strong bond united him to his teacher and schoolmates. It was not so much his scholarship as his character that endeared him to both teacher and pupils. The secret of it was found in his _heart_ rather than his head. His school-mates were moved to tears on parting with him, and so was his teacher. And those tears were a sincere tribute to the unsullied character of the boy.
V.
FOUR INCIDENTS AND THEIR LESSONS.
Certain incidents occurred in the young life of our hero, which so forcibly ill.u.s.trate 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 G.o.d"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. G.o.d"s will be done."
"I hope I shall have grace to say so honestly."
"And I trust that G.o.d will give me grace to say so with true submission," continued Mr. Washington. "I should like to live if it is G.o.d"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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sionate 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 a.s.sumed 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 n.o.body 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."