Having traced the two Georges to the threshold of their careers, let us now proceed one step further, and take note of the first great public event in the lives of each.
For a long time preceding the year 1753 the French had laid claim to all the North American continent west of the Alleghany Mountains, stretching in an unbroken line from Canada to Louisiana. The English strenuously denied this right, and when the French commandant on the Ohio, in 1753, commenced erecting a fort near where the present city of Pittsburgh stands, and proceeded to capture certain English traders, and expel them from the country, Dinwiddie, Governor of Virginia, deemed it necessary to dispatch an agent on a diplomatic visit to the French commandant and demand by what authority he acted, by what title he claimed the country, and order him immediately to evacuate the territory.
George Washington, then only in his twenty-second year, was selected by the governor for this important mission.
It is unnecessary to follow him, in all his perils, during his wintry march through the wilderness. The historian of his life has painted in imperishable colors his courage, his sagacity, his wonderful coolness in the midst of danger, and the success which crowned his undertaking. Memory loves to follow him through the trackless wilds of the forest, accompanied by only a single companion, and making his way through wintry snows, in the midst of hostile savages and wild beasts, for more than five hundred miles, to the residence of the French commander. How often do we not shudder, as we behold the treacherous Indian guide, on his return, deliberately raising his rifle, and leveling it at that majestic form; thus endeavoring, by an act of treachery and cowardice, to deprive Virginia of her young hero! And oh! with what fervent prayers do we not implore a kind Providence to watch over his desperate encounter with the floating ice, at midnight, in the swollen torrent of the Alleghany, and rescue him from the wave and the storm. Standing bareheaded on the frail craft, whilst in the act of dashing aside some floating ice that threatened to engulf him, the treacherous oar was broken in his hand, and he is precipitated many feet into the boiling current. Save! oh, save him, heaven! for the destinies of millions yet unborn hang upon that noble arm!
Let us now recross the ocean. In the early part of the year 1764, a ministerial crisis occurs in England, and Lord Bute, the favorite of the British monarch, is driven from the administration of the government. The troubles with the American colonists have also just commenced to excite attention, and the young King grows angry, perplexed, and greatly irritated. A few days after this, a rumor starts into circulation that the monarch is sick. His attendants look gloomy, his friends terrified, and even his physicians exhibit symptoms of doubt and danger. Yet he has no fever, and is daily observed walking with uncertain and agitated step along the corridors of the palace. His conduct becomes gradually more and more strange, until doubt gives place to certainty, and the royal medical staff report to a select committee of the House of Commons that the King is threatened with insanity. For six weeks the cloud obscures his mental faculties, depriving him of all interference with the administration of the government, and betokening a sad disaster in the future. His reason is finally restored, but frequent fits of passion, pride and obstinacy indicate but too surely that the disease is deep-seated, and a radical cure impossible.
Not long after his return from the West, Washington was offered the chief command of the forces about to be raised in Virginia, to expel the French; but, with his usual modesty, he declined the appointment, on account of his extreme youth, but consented to take the post of lieutenant-colonel. Shortly afterward, on the death of Colonel Fry, he was promoted to the chief command, but through no solicitations of his own. Subsequently, when the war between France and England broke out in Europe, the principal seat of hostilities was transferred to America, and his majesty, George III, sent over a large body of troops, under the command of favorite officers. But this was not enough. An edict soon followed, denominated an “Order to settle the rank of the officers of His Majesty’s forces serving in America.” By one of the articles of this order, it was provided “that all officers commissioned by the King should take precedence of those of the same grade commissioned by the governors of the respective colonies, although their commissions might be of junior date;” and it was further provided, that “when the troops served together, the provincial officers should enjoy no rank at all.” This order was scarcely promulgated—indeed, before the ink was dry—ere the Governor of Virginia received a communication informing him that George Washington was no longer a soldier. Entreaties, exhortations and threats were all lavished upon him in vain; and to those who, in their expostulations, spoke of the defenseless frontiers of his native state, he patriotically but nobly replied: “I will serve my country when I can do so without dishonor.”
In contrast with this attitude of Washington, look at the conduct of George the Third respecting the colonies, after the passage of the Stamp Act. This act was no sooner proclaimed in America, than the most violent opposition was manifested, and combinations for the purpose of effectual resistance were rapidly organized from Massachusetts to Georgia. The leading English patriots, among whom were Burke and Barré, protested against the folly of forcing the colonies into rebellion, and the city of London presented a petition to the king, praying him to dismiss the Granville ministry, and repeal the obnoxious act. “It is with the utmost astonishment,” replied the king, “that I find any of my subjects capable of encouraging the rebellious disposition that unhappily exists in some of my North American colonies. Having entire confidence in the wisdom of my parliament, the great council of the realm, I will steadily pursue those measures which they have recommended for the support of the constitutional rights of Great Britain.” He heeded not the memorable words of Burke, that afterward became prophetic. “There are moments,” exclaimed this great statesman, “critical moments in the fortunes of all states, when they who are too weak to contribute to your prosperity may yet be strong enough to complete your ruin.” The Boston port bill passed, and the first blood was spilt at Lexington.
It is unnecessary to review in detail the Revolution. Let us pass to the social position of the two Georges in after-life.
On the 2d of August, 1786, as the king was alighting from his carriage at the gate of St. James, an attempt was made on his life by a woman named Margaret Nicholson, who, under pretense of presenting a petition, endeavored to stab him with a knife which was concealed in the paper. The weapon was an old one, and so rusty that, on striking the vest of the king, it bent double, and thus preserved his life. On the 29th of October, 1795, whilst his majesty was proceeding to the House of Lords, a ball passed through both windows of the carriage. On his return to St. James the mob threw stones into the carriage, several of which struck the king, and one lodged in the cuff of his coat. The state carriage was completely demolished by the mob. But it was on the 15th of May, 1800, that George the Third made his narrowest escapes. In the morning of that day, whilst attending the field exercise of a battalion of guards, one of the soldiers loaded his piece with a bullet and discharged it at the king. The ball fortunately missed its aim, and lodged in the thigh of a gentleman who was standing in the rear. In the evening of the same day a more alarming circumstance occurred at the Drury Lane Theater. At the moment when the king entered the royal box, a man in the pit, on the right-hand side of the orchestra, suddenly stood up and discharged a large horse-pistol at him. The hand of the would-be assassin was thrown up by a by-stander, and the ball entered the box just above the head of the king.
Such were the public manifestations of affection for this royal tyrant. He was finally attacked by an enemy that could not be thwarted, and on the 20th of December, 1810, he became a confirmed lunatic. In this dreadful condition he lingered until January, 1820, when he died, having been the most unpopular, unwise and obstinate sovereign that ever disgraced the English throne. He was forgotten as soon as life left his body, and was hurriedly buried with that empty pomp which but too often attends a despot to the grave.