and fearful of a convulsion that would bury everything in indiscriminate ruin, he got the officers to assemble and appoint a committee to visit Congress and lay before it their grievances and ask for redress. But Congress, though full of conditional promises, refused to do anything till the separate States were consulted, which meant, of course, till peace was secured and the army disbanded and powerless.

When this committee returned and reported its ill success, the murmuring grew louder and deeper, and Washington saw an abyss opening before him whose depths he could not fathom. What shape the dark shadow of coming evil would take he did not know; he only knew it was near at hand. At last it took definite form. One day a paper was handed him that had been freely circulated through the army, calling on the officers to assemble the next day at the "Temple" to decide on the measures the army should take in the present disastrous condition of things. This paper bore no signature, but was evidently written by an able hand,

and was well adapted to arouse and kindle into conflagration the smouldering fires in the army. This was plainly the purpose of the writer. He began by stating how ineffectual had been their appeal to Congress, and declared that the government had shown itself totally indifferent to their rights, and it was folly to trust longer to its sense of justice, saying, "Faith has its limits as well as its temper, and there are points beyond which neither can be stretched without sinking into cowardice or plunging into credulity." He then took a rapid survey of the past, spoke of their devotion to their country, their unparalleled sufferings and hardships endured without a murmur, and then in a series of scornful questions asked them how they had been rewarded. After arousing their indignation with this recital of their wrongs, and the contemptuous treatment with which their humble petitions had been received, he burst forth:

"If this be your treatment while the swords you wear are necessary to the protection of your country, what have you to expect from peace when your voice

shall sink and your strength dissipate by division, when those very swords, the instruments and companions of your glory, shall be taken from your sides, and no remaining mark of your military distinction left you but your infirmities and scars? Can you consent to retire from the field and grow old in poverty, wretchedness, and contempt? Can you consent to wade through the vile mire of dependency, and owe the remnant of that life to charity which has hitherto been spent in honor? If you can, go and carry with you the jest of Tories, the scorn of Whigs, and, what is worse, the pity of the world. Go, starve and be forgotten." Growing bold in his indignation, he swooped down on Washington himself, and exclaims, Suspect the man who would advise to more moderation and longer forbear ance."

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"If you revolt at this," he added, "and would oppose tyranny under whatever garb it may assume, awake, attend to your situation, and redeem yourselves. If the present moment be lost, every future effort will be in vain, and your threats will be empty as your entreaties are now." He closed this stirring appeal with this direful proposition: "Tell Congress that with them rests the responsibility of the future; that if peace returns, nothing but death shall separate you from your arms; if the war continues, you will retire to some unsettled country to smile in turn, and 'mock when their fear cometh.""

These fiery words fell on the excited feelings of the army like fire on gunpowder. A frightful gulf had opened at the very feet of Washington, and he gazed with a beating heart and like one stunned into its gloomy depths. These brave men whom he had borne on his great heart these seven long years were asked to throw him overboard at last! Must it be, then, that the stormy and bloody road they had travelled together so long was to end in this awful abyss in which home and country and honor were to go down in one black ruin? As he looked on the appalling prospect his heart sank within him, and he afterward said it was the darkest day of his life." Not in the gloomy encampment of Valley Forge, when he gazed on his half-naked, starving army dying around him, did the future look so hopeless. No lost battle-field ever bore so terrible an aspect. But what was to be done? The meeting had been called for the next day, so that there would be no time for passion to subside or cooler counsels to prevail. Should he forbid the meeting, as he had the power to do? No; the army was in no temper to submit to dictation. Besides, if he did, the evil would not be remedied. He must have something more than obedience; he must win back the love and confidence of the army, or all would be lost.

He well knew that when that army once broke away from him in anger and defiance, nothing but the blackness of desolation awaited his country. With that

before which Washington was slowly pacing when the generals, one after another, rode up and dismounted at the door. Wayne, Putnam, and Sullivan entered one after another, Steuben rode up from over the river, and Knox and Greene from New Windsor, and others, until they formed a noble group around their great chieftain. Of that deliberation no record has come down to us, but if the walls of the old room could speak, they would utter words of noble devotion and patriotism that would stir the heart like a trumpet call. It was determined that Washing

mountain-tops and in the deep hollows as Washington and his staff turned away from these head-quarters and began slowly to climb the hill back of Newburgh toward the "Temple," a frame building that stood in an open clearing. It was a large structure which had been erected as a place of worship for the army. As he approached it, absorbed in painful, anxious thought, he saw the open space around it filled with horses in military trappings held by orderlies or hitched to the trees, showing that the officers had already assembled. an opposite ridge across a morass, peeping

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out from among the trees, were scattered the huts of the encampment, where the army, half clad, half starved, and unpaid, lay murmuring and discontented. His eye rested for a moment upon them with a sad expression; then, dismounting and handing his horse to an orderly, he entered the building, packed with an anxious, waiting audience. Every eye was turned as that tall majestic form passed through the door and moved toward the raised platform at the other end of the room. His heavy footfall on the uncarpeted floor fell clear and distinct as the blows of a hammer in the profound silence. As he stepped upon it and turned around and cast his eye over the assembly, the painful sadness of his face showed that his great heart was stirred to its profoundest depths, and sent a thrill of sympathy through the room. As his eye swept over the throng he knew every countenance of those who composed it. They had been his comrades for seven long years. Shoulder to shoulder they had moved beside him in the deadly conflict. He had heard their battle-shout on the fields of his fame as they bore him on to victory. Brave men were they all, on whom he had relied, and not in vain, in the hour of deadly peril. A thousand proofs of their devotion came rushing back on his memory, and their toils and suffering rose before him till his heart swelled over them in affection and sorrow. He could have no words of rebuke for them-only words of love and sympathy. Absorbed in his feelings he forgot his spectacles as he unrolled his manuscript. Pausing he took them from his pocket, and remarked, in tone subdued by emotion, "These eyes, my friends, have grown dim, and these locks white in the service, yet I never doubted the justice of my country." They were simple words, but the sad, suppressed tone in which they were uttered sent a thrill through the room, and lips quivered and eyes moistened that had never blanched in the fiercest whirlwind of battle. He began this immortal address by referring to the anonymous writer of the appeal, and denouncing his conduct and advice in unsparing language, and then with a changed voice spoke of the army, its sufferings and devotion, of his own deep abiding attachment to it, saying that he had always been its "faithful friend"; had never left it except when called away by duty, but had ever been its companion in distress and

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danger; that he had rejoiced when he heard it praised, and was filled with indignation when it was traduced; that his own fame was inseparably bound up in its glory, and that it could not be supposed that at this late stage of the war he was indifferent to its interests," and pledged himself then and there anew to see all their wrongs redressed, all their rights established. As his deepening voice re-asserted his love for the army and steadfast adherence to its fortunes, eyes unaccustomed to weep overflowed with tears. Taking fire, as he proceeded, at the infamous advice to take up arms against their country, he exclaims, "My God! what can this writer have in view in recommending such measures? Can he be a friend to the country? No; he is plotting the ruin of both!

"Let me conjure you in the name of our common country, as you value your own sacred honor, as you respect the rights of humanity, as you regard the military or national character of America, to express your utmost horror and detestation of the man who wishes under any specious pretense to overturn the liberties of our country, and who wickedly attempts to open the flood-gates of civil discord, and deluge our rising empire in blood." He urged them to exhibit the same steadfast patriotism and devotion to duty that had ever characterized them, aud wait patiently for the justice their country was sure to render them. He closed this noble address in the following impressive language: "By thus determining and acting you will pursue the plain and direct road to the attainment of your wishes; you will defeat the insidious designs of our enemies, who are compelled to resort from open force to secret artifice; and you will give one more distinguished proof of unexampled patriotism and patient virtue, rising superior to the most complicated sufferings, and you will by the dignity of your conduct afford occasion for posterity to say, when speaking of the glorious example you have exhibited to mankind: Had this day been wanting, the world had never seen the last stage of perfection to which human virtue is capable of attaining."

With a stately bow he descended the platform and walked out of the building. As he passed through the door, Knox immediately arose and moved that the thanks of the officers be tendered to the commander

in-chief for his address, and to "assure him that the officers reciprocated his affectionate expressions with the greatest sincerity of which the human heart is capable." Other resolutions followed, which were unanimously carried. The deed was done, the rising storm sank to rest, and the terrible crisis was past. It was no figure of speech when he said that the course advised by this anonymous writer would drench this rising empire in blood. Civil war would inevitably have followed, the divided colonies easily fallen again into the hands of England.

Washington rode back to his headquarters, and received with a relieved and happy heart the congratulations of his officers.* The rumors of peace that now from time to time reached the army were at length confirmed, and on the 11th of April Congress issued a procla

It was afterward discovered that this dangerous appeal was written by Major John Armstrong, an aide-de-camp of Gates. It is but justice to say that after Washington becanie President, he, after hearing Armstrong's vindication of himself, acquitted, him of acting from treasonable motives.

mation that hostilities had ceased, but Washington did not make it known till the 18th. In the earlier years of the war men had enlisted for a certain time, but this time often expiring at the beginning or in the middle of a campaign, it caused great confusion and often disaster, so that at length they were enlisted for the war; and Washington was troubled lest the men should construe this proclamation as ending the war, and demand their immediate discharge. Still he saw it could not be kept secret, and he issued an order on the 18th of April announcing it.

"HEAD-QUARTERS, NEWBURGH, April 18, 1783. "The commander-in-chief orders the cessation of hostilities between the United States of America and the King of Great Britain to be publicly read to-morrow at 12 o'clock at the new building, and the proclamation which will be communicated herewith to be read tomorrow evening at the head of every regiment and corps of the army. After which the chaplains with the several brigades will render thanks to Almighty God for all His mercies, particularly for His overruling the wrath of men to His own glory, and causing the rage of war to cease among the nations."