"As to myself, the delay may be compared to a reprieve; for in confidence I tell you (with the world it would obtain little credit) that my movements toward the chair of government will be accompanied by feelings not unlike those of a culprit going to the place of execution; so unwilling am I, in the evening of a life consumed in public cares, to quit my peaceful abode for an ocean of difficulties, without the competency of political skill, abilities, and inclination which is necessary to manage the helm. I am sensible that I am embarking with the voice of the people, and a good name of my own, on this voyage, and what returns will be made for them, Heaven alone can foretell. Integrity and firmness are all I can promise. These, be the voyage long or short, shall never forsake me, though I may be deserted by all men; for of the consolations to be derived from these, the world cannot deprive me."
Such was the foundation of his modest confidence—firmness and integrity, the true pillars of honest greatness. And these never deserted him. He kept his promise to himself in all times, circumstances, and temptations; and though, on a few rare occasions during the course of a stormy season, in which the hopes, fears, and antipathies of his fellow-citizens were strongly excited, his conduct may have been assailed, his motives were never questioned. None ever doubted his firmness, and the general conviction of his integrity was founded on a rock that could neither be undermined nor overthrown.
His progress from Mount Vernon to New York, where Congress was then sitting, was a succession of the most affecting scenes which the sentiment of a grateful people ever presented to the contemplation of the world. His appearance awakened in the bosoms of all an enthusiasm so much the more glorious because so little characteristic of our countrymen. Men, women, and children poured forth and lined the roads in throngs to see him pass and hail his coming. The windows shone with glistening eyes, watching his passing footsteps; the women wept for joy; the children shouted, "God save Washington!" and the iron hearts of the stout husbandmen yearned with inexpressible affection toward him who had caused them to repose in safety under their own vine and fig-tree. His old companions-in-arms came forth to renovate their honest pride, as well as undying affection, by a sight of their general, and a shake of his hand. The pulse of the nation beat high with exultation, for now, when they saw their ancient pilot once more at the helm, they hoped for a prosperous voyage and a quiet haven in the bosom of prosperity.
His reception at Trenton was peculiarly touching. It was planned by those females and their daughters whose patriotism and sufferings in the cause of liberty were equal to those of their fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers. It was here, when the hopes of the people lay prostrate on the earth, and the eagle of freedom seemed to flap his wings, as if preparing to forsake the world, that Washington performed those prompt and daring acts which, while they revived the drooping spirits of his country, freed, for a time, the matrons of Trenton from the insults and wrongs of an arrogant soldiery. The female heart is no sanctuary for ingratitude; and when Washington arrived at the bridge over the Assumpink, which here flows close to the borders of the city, he met the sweetest reward that, perhaps, ever crowned his virtues.
Over the bridge was thrown an arch of evergreens and flowers bearing this affecting inscription in large letters:
"December 26, 1776.
"The hero who defended the mothers will protect the daughters."
At the other extremity of the bridge were assembled many hundreds of young girls of various ages, arrayed in white, the emblem of truth and innocence, their brows circled with garlands, and baskets of flowers in their hands. Beyond these were disposed the grown-up daughters of the land, clothed and equipped like the others, and behind them the matrons, all of whom remembered the never-to-be-forgotten twenty-sixth of December, 1776. As the good Washington left the bridge, they joined in a chorus, touchingly expressive of his services and their gratitude, strewing, at the same time, flowers as he passed along. That mouth whose muscles of gigantic strength indicated the firmness of his character and the force of his mind, was now observed to quiver with emotion; that eye which looked storms and tempests, enemies and friends, undauntedly in the face, and never quailed in the sight of man, now glistened with tears; and that hand which had not trembled when often life, fame, and the liberty of his country hung on the point of a single moment, now refused its office. His hat dropped from his hand as he drew it across his brow.
His reception everywhere was worthy of his services and of a grateful people. At New York the vessels were adorned with flags, and the river alive with boats gayly decked out in like manner, with bands of music on board; the place of his landing was thronged with crowds of citizens, gathered together to welcome his arrival. The roar of cannon and the shouts of the multitude announced his landing, and he was conducted to his lodging by thousands of grateful hearts, who remembered what he had done for them in the days of their trial.
It had been arranged that a military escort should attend him; but when the officer in command announced his commission, Washington replied, "I require no guard but the affections of the people," and declined their attendance.
At this moment, so calculated to inflate the human heart with vanity, Washington, though grateful for these spontaneous proofs of affectionate veneration, was not elated. In describing the scene in one of his familiar letters, he says: "The display of boats on this occasion with vocal and instrumental music on board, the decorations of the ships, the roar of cannon, and the loud acclamations of the people, as I passed along the wharves, gave me as much pain as pleasure, contemplating the probable reversal of this scene, after all my endeavors to do good." Happily, his anticipations were never realized. Although his policy in relation to the French Revolution, which was as wise as it was happy in its consequences, did not give universal satisfaction, still he remained master of the affections and confidence of the people. The laurels he had won in defence of the liberties of his country continued to flourish on his brow while living, and will grow green on his grave to the end of time.