PEACE.

I.

Ar length the struggle was ended. After eight years of sanguinary and doubtful war, came peace, at last, with independence, acknowledged by the chief masters of the world. On the nineteenth of April, 1775, the first blood of the revolution reddened the field of Lexington: on the nineteenth of April, 1783, proclamation was made of the treaty signed at Paris. On the second of the following November, the veteran and victorious soldiers were disbanded, by order of Congress, their illustrious Chief having the previous day taken his final leave of them, invoking from their grateful country and the God of battles "ample justice here and the choicest of Heaven's favors both here and hereafter."

Eight years of desolating war, though crowned with a triumph which only the most universal and profound patriotism, guided by wisdom almost superhuman, could have accomplished, had brought in their train so much suffering; to so many households mourning for fathers, brothers, husbands, sons; and with their conclusion a poverty so general and hopeless, that there was little of that turbulence of joy which a more sudden and less costly victory would have excited. He who, scarred and poorly clothed, laid aside his

arms, and turning toward the haunts of his childhood saw fields. which had blossomed as the rose half obscured with a new wilderness, with perhaps a charred and silent ruin in the midst, must have felt keenly what seems now to be so commonly forgotten, the fearful price which had been paid for liberty. But then, liberty was secured, and, thankful for this, nearly every one determined to carry content with his remaining energies into a laborious private life.

On the eighteenth of November the British army retired from New York, and the American troops, still in service, entered from an opposite direction, General Washington and Governor Clinton riding at the head of the procession. These events caused, of course, a general joy in the city, and they were celebrated with the utmost enthusiasm. Governor Clinton gave public dinners, first to Washington and his companions in arms, and soon after to the French ambassador, the Chevalier de la Luzerne. At the last there were present more than one hundred gentlemen, besides the Commander-in-Chief, with his general officers in the city, and the principal persons connected with the state government; and in the evening followed the most splendid display of fireworks, from the Bowling Green, that had ever been seen in America. The next day, the fourth of December, occurred the most sadly impressive scene in Washington's history. At noon the officers of the army assembled, according to his request, for a final parting, at Frauncis's tavern, in Broad street. We have a touching description of the scene, by an eye-witness. The Chief, with his customary punctuality, entered the room where his brave associates for so many years were assembled. His emotions were too strong to be concealed. Filling a glass, he turned to them and said: "With a heart full of love and gratitude, I now take leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as

your former ones have been glorious and honorable." Having drank, he added, "I cannot come to each of you to take my leave, but shall be obliged if each of you will come and take me by the hand." General Knox, being nearest, turned to him. Incapable of utterance, the Chief embraced him, with tears, and in the same affectionate manner he bade farewell to each succeeding officer. In every eye was the tear of dignified sensibility, and not a word interrupted the eloquent silence. Leaving the room, Thatcher continues, he passed through the corps of Light Infantry, and walked to Whitehall, where a barge awaited to convey him to Paulus Hook. The whole company followed in mute and solemn procession, their melancholy countenances displaying emotions which cannot be described. Having entered the barge, he turned to his friends, who stood uncovered upon the shore, and waving his hat, bade them a silent adieu.*

* There are some allusions to these scenes in an interesting letter, addressed to a friend at Albany, by one of the officers who shared the last march of the revolutionary army. "I suppose," says the writer, " Mrs. Denison told you the news, up to the time she left. You know all about our marching in. There has been nothing done since but rejoice, so far as general appearances go, and for my part, considering that we are finally free and independent, why, good God! what should I care for the looks of the old house-perfectly sacked, and in such a condition that if the little paper in my exchequer were turned into specie, I should not be able to give it the complexion it had when we quitted it. After all, since Henry was killed, it's of no great consequence what we have suffered in property. If he were with me and the girls, why, we could make things answer, in some way. Don't suspect I think of placing these private troubles against the public good we have, and which will make up a thousand times to our children all we have lost and endured. Every body now sees what a great character General Washington is. I have heard a good deal about the leave taking at Black Sam's. Happy as was the occasion, and prayed for as it was by him and all patriots, when he might feel that there was not an enemy in America, it brought with it its sorrows, and I could hardly speak when I turned from taking my last look of him. It was extremely affecting. I do not think there ever were so many broken hearts in New York as there were that night. That cursed captain carried off Johnson's girl, after all. He never would think of such a thing you know. He feels down, down. I am suspicious he will never be the man he was. The Chief was told the story by General Knox, and he said he sincerely sympathized with Johnson. That is like him. He was always touched by every body's misfortunes. I saw him at the French minister's dinner. He looked considerably worn out, but happy, though every now and then he seemed to be thinking what all this had cost, and regretting that one friend or another who had stood the fire had not lived to see the glorious end. As to