When the Declaration of Independence was proposed Mr. Morris became one of its ardent supporters. At that very time his large estate was within the power of the enemy. He well knew that his signature to the proposed instrument would be destructive to all his property within the reach of British hirelings. Most faithfully was the work executed. Even his extensive woodlands of a thousand acres were subjected to axe and fire—his family driven from home and every species of devastation resorted to that malice could invent, hatred design, revenge execute. But Liberty was dearer to this devoted patriot than earth and all its riches. He boldly sanctioned and fearlessly affixed his name to the great certificate of our national birth and rejoiced in freedom illumined by the conflagration of his own Elysian Morrisania. His family and himself suffered many privations during the remainder of the war. They endured every hardship with heroic fortitude without regret for the past and with buoyant hope for the bright future.
In 1777 he resigned his seat in Congress and rendered important services in the legislature of his native State. He also served in the tented field and rose to the rank of major-general of militia. He was a good disciplinarian and reduced the state troops to an excellent organization. In every situation he ably and zealously discharged all his duties and did not leave the service of his country until the American arms were triumphant and the Independence of our nation acknowledged by Great Britain. Then he retired to his desolated plantation—converted his sword into a pruning hook—his musket into a ploughshare and his farm into a delightful retreat where his friends from the city often visited him to enjoy his agreeable society—talk of times gone by and rejoice in the consolations of blood-bought Liberty. Peacefully and calmly he glided down the stream of time until January 1798 when his immortal spirit left its frail bark and launched upon the ocean of eternity in a more substantial vessel. He died serene and happy surrounded by an affectionate family and kind friends. His remains were deposited in the family vault upon his farm under the honors of an epic and civic procession.
The private virtues and public services of Mr. Morris rendered him dear to all who knew him. His appearance was in every way commanding. A noble and graceful figure, a fine and intelligent face, an amiable and agreeable disposition, a warm and ardent temperament, a benevolent and generous heart, an independent and patriotic soul—crowned with intelligence, refinement and goodness—he was in all respects worthy to be admired and beloved. His examples illustrate the patriotism that impelled to action during the Revolution. He had everything that could be destroyed to lose if successful—if not—death was his probable doom. Previous to the war he was a favorite of the king—his brother Staats was a member of Parliament and a general officer under the crown. But few made as great personal sacrifices and no one made them more cheerfully. Like Marion—he preferred a morsel of bread, a meal of roasted potatoes with Liberty—to all the trappings of royalty and all the honors that could be conferred by a king. So long as this kind of patriotism finds a resting place in the bosoms of a respectable majority of Columbia's sons—our UNION is safe. Let this be banished by the majority as it is by a fearful minority—the fair temple of our Liberty will perish in flames kindled by its professed guardians. Freemen of America! I warn you to preserve, in original purity, the freedom purchased with the rich blood of our fathers.
ROBERT MORRIS.
Self is the Sahara of the human heart where all the noble powers of the soul are buried in its scorching sands. We may pour upon it floods of human woe and streams of melting kindness without producing the least appearance of sympathy or gratitude. The blighting sirocco of cold indifference sweeps over this desert mind, increases the powers of absorption—annihilates all that is cheering and lovely. The keenest miseries of a fellow man cannot move it—the mournful obsequies of his death cannot shame it. It is one of the foul blots imprinted on human nature by Lucifer and should be hurled back to Pandemonium. It dwells only in little minds and pinches them as dandy boots do the feet—covering them with excrescences as painful as corns and chilblains. He who is a slave to self could calmly look on the "wreck of matter and the crash of worlds" if it would add one item to his sordid gains.
Man was created a social being—benevolent, sympathetic, kind, affectionate—quick to feel and prompt to alleviate the misfortunes of his fellow man. But for the soul-killing influence of self these noble germs of human nature, as originally cast in the mould of creative wisdom, would bud and blossom as the rose and crown the human family with millennial glory.
On the pages of history we find many bright spots of self sacrifice and blooming benevolence. Individuals have lived who banished self and devoted their lives, fortunes and sacred honors to promote the best interests of the human race—men whose motives, impelling them to action, were chastened by purity, who aimed to promote public good and personal happiness.
In the history of the American Revolution we find a cheering catalogue of such philanthropists whose memories we delight to honor. No one among them did more to accomplish the great end in view than Robert Morris. He was born at Liverpool, Lancashire, England on the 20th of January 1734. His father was a respectable merchant and settled at Oxford on the eastern shore of Maryland in 1746. He then sent for this son who arrived at Oxford at the age of thirteen. He received only a good commercial education. At the age of fifteen he lost his father by death. He was then in the counting house of Charles Willing one of the most thorough and enterprising merchants of Philadelphia. After having served a faithful apprenticeship Mr. Willing set him up in business and remained his fast friend and adviser. For several years he prospered alone but finding the cares of life pressing upon him he wisely resolved to take a partner to accompany him in his pilgrimage through this vale of tears. That partner was the meritorious Mary, daughter of Col. White and sister to the pious and learned Bishop White. She possessed every quality that adorns her sex and renders connubial felicity complete. What is now more than then considered by too many heartless bipeds a sine qua non—she brought with her—wealth. This desideratum is often a blighting substitute for genuine affection—too often the corroding mildew of matrimonial happiness. No man or woman with a good heart, clear head and sound discretion—ever married riches instead of the person. It is the quintessence of self.
Not so with Mr. Morris and his partner. Their richest treasure was mutual esteem flowing from the pure fountain of their kindred hearts anxious to promote the reciprocal happiness of each other and the felicity of all around them. Nothing occurred to mar their refined enjoyments until the revolutionary storm burst upon the Colonies.