Chapter 1

So now the war was as good as finished. There was no more fighting. The British government was nearly ready to give up to the United States, and own that they "were, and of right ought to be, free and independent," as the great Declaration had said more than five years before. But such things take a long time to settle, and General Washington thought that the Americans could make a great deal better terms of peace if they kept ready for war. How tired he was of the war! How he longed to get back to Mount Vernon, and to his peaceful farmer's life! His letters written about this time are full of these desires. He was a great General; and the whole country honored and loved him as a man whose courage and skill had made his countrymen free, but he often said that he would give all the glory he had won if he could go back to his crops and his trees, his horses and his hounds, and his beloved family, and rest. Yet he stood by his post to the very last. He begged his countrymen to keep up the army, and not to lay down their arms till everything was sure. He begged his officers and soldiers to be patient and stay with him, though they had much reason to complain. They had been poorly paid, or not paid at all. Many of them were actually ruined for their country, and, when they left the army, did not know where or how they should get a living. At this moment some of them thought they would be happier and better off under a King, if that King were Washington. They said to themselves: "It is all very well to be free, but here is a free nation which turns its old soldiers out to starve, which does not pay its debts, which hardly deserves freedom. We should have greater justice, and more peace and safety, with this wise, strong man as King." One of Washington's officers hinted as much to him. The General was filled with sorrow and anger and shame at the very thought. What had he done, that men should think he would consent to such treason? He wrote to the man who had suggested the plan, "If you have any regard for your country, or respect for me, banish these thoughts from your mind."

At last, in the spring of 1783, word came that a treaty of peace had been signed, and that the independence of the United States was no longer disputed. This joyful news was read to the American army on the 19th of April, just eight years after the first gallant fight at Concord in 1775. Washington wrote a farewell address to the army which he had led so long. It was like the wise and loving speech of a good father. He thanked them warmly for the noble spirit with which they had upheld him during the tedious and cruel years of war; he reminded them of the end for which they had fought, that the United States might be a free nation, with the right to govern itself as it thought best; and he prayed them to do all that they could to make their country just and wise in peace, as it had been brave and fortunate in war. It was winter before Washington had the affairs of his command settled so that he could leave the army and return to his home. On the 4th of December he met the principal officers of the army at New York to bid them farewell. They were gathered for that purpose at Fraunce's Tavern when he entered. 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." Then one by one, as the officers came to him, he clasped hands with each, and embraced him in silence. These brave men, who had faced death together, and had cheerfully borne untold privation, were not ashamed to weep at parting with their beloved friend and chief. When he had saluted them all, he passed through a corps of soldiers outside the door, and walked to the river-side, followed by the officers in solemn silence. He entered the barge, and raising his hat, he waved them farewell; and they, with the same loving gesture, watched the barge push off, and turned away. Washington took his journey to Annapolis, in Maryland, gave up his commission to Congress, and returned to Mount Vernon.

He reached his home on Christmas-eve, 1783. It was more than eight years and a half since he had left it to join the Continental Congress at Philadelphia, and he had seen it but twice in that long interval. When he went away he was forty-three years old--in the very prime of manhood; when he returned he was fifty-one, and felt that he was growing old. Constant labor, constant care, exposure in the camp and on the march, and the sad and fearful experience of battle, had told upon his naturally strong frame, and he welcomed the prospect of rest as simply and as gladly as a tired child. He wrote to his dear friend Lafayette, who had returned to France: "At length I am become a private citizen on the banks of the Potomac; and under the shadow of my own vine and fig-tree, free from the bustle of a camp and the busy scenes of public life, I am solacing myself with tranquil enjoyments.... I have not only retired from all public employments, but I am retiring within myself, and shall be able to view the solitary walk and tread the paths of private life with heart-felt satisfaction."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE MAGIC SPINET.

BY MRS. J. E. McCONAUGHY.

The gay people of Paris were one day invited to attend a musical entertainment, in which "a magic spinet" was to be the chief attraction. Its wonders were set forth in glowing terms, and a large audience gathered at the appointed time to witness its performance. The poor musician, whose all was at stake, looked on the assembly with rejoicing eyes, but perhaps with a little trembling lest his "magic" should not work as perfectly as at rehearsals.

After some playing by himself and his two little children, all stepped back, and, at the word of command, the instrument repeated the whole symphony. This marvel was well received, when the musician pretended to wind up his machine by a very hard-working winch, which made a terrible racket.

Now the wise ones thought it all explained. "Only a foolish contrivance of weights and springs, like a barrel-organ," they said. That was just what the musician wished them to think, as it would make his triumph more decided. He now proceeded to show them that the instrument had a mind capable of hearing and obeying. Calling his children away, he waved his wand, and in an authoritative voice commanded, "Spinet, play"--such a tune.

The instrument obediently played the tune. Then the order was given, "Spinet, be silent," and all was quiet.

"Spinet, give us a light flourish," and it instantly warbled forth the gayest melody, which was received with rapturous applause. Then the whole sentiment of the audience was changed, and all admitted that Jean Baptiste Raisin, the musician, was also a great magician.

Evening after evening he repeated his performance, and the gold poured in beyond his fondest dreams. His reputation spread far and wide, and at last reached the King. He would have this novelty brought to court, and let the Queen and the royal ladies enjoy such a wonderful entertainment.

Jean was not used to courts, but his passion for money was growing fast, and he determined fairly to outdo himself in such a golden harvest field. His instrument was "instructed" to a most unusual degree, and at the appointed time was in good working order at the palace of Versailles. Everything proceeded famously until the organist carried on his old trick of "winding up." Royal ears were not used to such horrid discords as followed the working of that winch. The delicate nerves of all the ladies were dreadfully shocked, the Queen's in particular.

But I suppose a Queen's curiosity is much like other people's. She must have a view of the evil spirit inside the instrument, which seemed to play so unwillingly, judging from the shrieks it gave out on being wound up. The poor organist protested he had "lost the key." But that was of no avail.

"Can not some one break it open?" asked the King. Royalty has a very persuasive way, so Jean was forced at last to open the box; and what do you think they found within? A poor trembling little lad, not six years old, who operated a set of keys inside, which his father had constructed for him. The whole instrument was planned with this performance in view, the lad's small size and wonderful musical talent making the deception possible.

It was plain that the little one was half fainting with the stifled air he had breathed so long; and ready hands reached out to help him, and kind voices soothed and comforted him. When he was refreshed, all wished to hear him play in fair sight, and the praising and petting and confections and gold coins showered upon him would have turned a wiser head. Defeat was turned into a grand victory.

His father now invented a comedy, in which little Louis acted an important part.

A company appeared seated about a table, with a big black-pudding before them. When the pudding was cut, a great outcry was heard within. Soon it began to roll about the plates, and at last out hopped a little pig. They chased it about awhile with skewers, and finally, just as it was caught, it changed into an imp, with horns and hoofs, and a sabre by its side. Of course the company were greatly frightened, and tumbled down on the stage, pell-mell, all in a heap. But one sad day a performer thrust too hard with his sharp skewer, and poor little Louis performed and played no more. They laid him away in the pleasant cemetery, and very soon a heartbroken little sister, who could not be comforted, was laid beside him.

[Begun in No. 19 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, March 9.]

ACROSS THE OCEAN; OR, A BOY'S FIRST VOYAGE.

A True Story.

BY J. O. DAVIDSON.