mind and heart, and has been pronounced by Alison, the eminent British historian, unequalled by any composition of uninspired wisdom. It is a political legacy which not only the countrymen of Washington, but the world ought to value, as one of the most precious gifts ever bestowed by man upon his race. It is permeated with the immortal spirit of a true MAN, a true PATRIOT, and a true CHRISTIAN.

The Farewell Address was published in the Philadelphia Advertiser, in September, 1796, and produced a most profound sensation. The ribald voice of party spirit, which had been for a long time uttering the most scandalous abuse concerning the President, was at once subdued in tone, if not silenced, for it was deprived of the theme of Washington's renomination, which had been a convenient excuse for partisan attacks. The address was entered at length upon the journals of several of the state legislatures; was published in every newspaper in the land, and in many of those in foreign countries; and in legislative bodies and social and diplomatic circles abroad, it was a fruitful topic of remark for some time. Of all the associations which cluster around Mount Vernon, none should be dearer to the heart of every American-to every friend of freedom and good order-than that connected with WASHINGTON'S FAREWELL ADDRESS.

And now Washington calmly looked forward to his retirement from public life with a heart full of joy and gratitude. The eight years of his administration of public affairs had been years of immense toil, anxiety, and vexation. They had been stormy years, for blasts of disturbing and dangerous sentiments came frequently from the borders of the hurricane that swept so terribly over France, the old ally of the United States; and

the electric forces of party spirit, subtle and implacal le, had cast down, from the black clouds of selfish hate, a copious hail of abuse. But amid all that storm-in the face of those fierce blasts and that pelting hail, Washington stood calm, dignified, and unharmed; and he approached the hour when he should be no longer a public servant, to be applauded or reviled, with that serenity of mind which nothing but a conscience void of offence toward God and man can impart. And yet he was not always unmoved by the ungenerous attacks of his enemies. To his long-tried and dearly-loved friend, General Knox, then in the far east, he wrote, two days before his retirement:

"To the wearied traveller who sees a resting-place, and is bending his body to lean thereon, I now compare myself; but to be suffered to do this in peace is too much to be endured by some. To misrepresent my motives, to reprobate my politics, and to weaken the confidence which has been reposed in my administration, are objects which cannot be relinquished by those who will be satisfied with nothing short of a change in our political system. The consolation, however, which results from conscious rectitude, and the approving voice of my country, unequivocally expressed by its representatives, deprive their sting of its poison, and place in the same point of view the weakness and malignity of their efforts."

Never since has the unscrupulous virulence of party spirit been so manifest as at the time in question. No one dared openly to charge Washington with a dishonest or dishonorable act, during his long public life; and yet, by inuendos and falsehoods of the darkest aspect, disguised as insinuations, his political enemies attempted to destroy his popularity, and to

send him into private life without the sweet consolations of the approval of his countrymen.

One specimen of the venom of party hate will be sufficient to illustrate the remarks just made. I quote from a corre spondent of the Aurora, a Philadelphia paper in opposition to Washington's administration. The number containing the following article was printed three days after the President's retirement from office:

"Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation,' was the pious ejaculation. of a man who beheld a flood of happiness rushing upon mankind. If ever there was a time that would license the reiteration of the exclamation, that time is now arrived; for the man who is the source of all the misfortunes of our country, is this day reduced to a level with his fellow-citizens, and is no longer possessed of power to multiply evils upon the United States. If ever there was a period for rejoicing, this is the moment; every heart in unison with the freedom and happiness of the people, ought to beat high with exultation that the name of WASHINGTON, from this day, ceases to give a currency to political iniquity, and to legalize corruption. A new era is now opening upon us, an era which promises much to the people; for public measures must now stand upon their own merits, and nefarious projects can no longer be supported by a name. When a retrospect is taken of the Washingtonian administration for eight years, it is a subject of the greatest astonishment that a single individual should have cankered the principles of republicanism in an enlightened people, just emerged from the gulf of despotism, and should have carried his designs against the public liberty so far, as to have put in jeopardy its

very existence. Such however are the facts, and with these staring us in the face, this day ought to be a JUBILEE in the United States."

How utterly impotent were such attempts to injure the character of Washington, let history testify.

On the 3d of March, 1797, Washington gave a farewell dinner, to which many of the leading persons at the seat of government were invited. These were chiefly the officers of government and members of the diplomatic corps, with their wives. Bishop White, whose sister was the wife of Robert Morris, was present, and described some of the events of the banquet.

"During the dinner," wrote the bishop, “much hilarity prevailed; but on the removal of the cloth, it was put an end to by the President-certainly without design. Having filled his glass, he addressed the company, with a smile on his countenance, saying, 'Ladies and gentlemen, this is the last time I shall drink your health as a public man. I do it with sincerity, and wishing you all possible happiness.' There was an end to all hilarity; and the cheeks of Mrs. Liston, wife of the British minister, were wet with tears."

On the following day John Adams, who had been elected Washington's successor, was inaugurated the second President of the United States. The event took place in the Hall of the Representatives, which was densely crowded with spectators. At the appointed hour Washington rode to Congress Hall in his coach, drawn by six horses, and, amidst the most enthusiastic cheers, entered the room prepared for the ceremonies which were to release him from public life. He was followed by Mr. Adams, and when they were seated, perfect silence prevailed. Washington then arose, and with the most commanding dig.

nity and self-control, introduced Mr. Adams to the assembly, and proceeded to read, in a firm, clear voice, a brief valedictory.

"The most profound silence greeted him," says a still living eye and ear witness of the august event, "as if the great assembly desired to hear him breathe, and catch his breath in homage of their hearts. Mr. Adams covered his face with both his hands; the sleeves of his coat and his hands were covered with tears." As he pronounced his parting words, a sob was heard here and there in the assembly; and when he sat down, the whole audience were in tears. "Then," says the eye-witness just quoted, "when strong nervous sobs broke loose, when tears covered the faces, then the great man was shaken. I never took my eyes from his face. Large drops fell from his cheeks."

The late President Duer, of Columbia College, who was present on that occasion, says that when Washington left the hall, there was "a rush from the gallery that threatened the lives of those who were most eager to catch a last look of him who, among mortals, was the first object of their veneration.” "Some of us," he said, "effected an escape by slipping down the pillars.

When Washington had entered his carriage, the multitude in the streets uttered long and loud huzzas, and he waved his hand in return.

"I followed him," says Duer, "in the crowd to his own door, where, as he turned to address the multitude, his countenance assumed a serious and almost melancholy expression, his voice failed him, his eyes were suffused with tears, and only by his gestures could he indicate his thanks, and convey a farewell blessing to the people."