XXXV.

A Summer Morning's Ride to the Country-Seat of the old Patriot and Poet, Joel Barlow.-A Hospital.

IT was one of those heated, pulseless mornings which are often felt in Washington in midsummer. The still air burned on the cheek; even the insects which bask in noonday sultriness had fled to their night-homes among the drooping leaves. The air could not move: every breeze was dead. The Potomac seemed to have stopped; for in its long and broad sweep to Alexandria it showed not a ripple or shimmer. cloud moved over its bosom, which lay all unfolded, reflecting nothing but the great dome of the Capitol, as the sun rising behind it painted it, in all its grandeur and beauty, on the deep blue of the river.

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Looking out from my window, I was glad enough to see that my friend W—- had come up with his mettled grays. “I've called to take you in for a drive out among the hills, where we can get at least one mouthful of fresh air."

Rising over the heights of Georgetown, a cool breeze came down the river from the northwest, and in making the circuit around Fort Gaines the magnificent panorama of the Upper Potomac opened upon us, with its thousand hills, many of them crowned with tented encampments and waving flags, all threaded by the great river as it came down cool and sparkling from its picturesque mountain home.

Leaving the public road, we entered a gate-way, by the side of which stood the lodge that in olden time had guarded the entrance to the magnificent estate of JOEL BARLOW,—the soldier, traveller, ambassador, poet, patriot, scholar, friend of science, and patron of arts.

On his return from Europe, after an absence of seventeen years, he resolved to settle down and devote the rest of his life to his favorite pursuits,-letters, art, and society. His ample fortune enabled him to gratify all his highest tastes. He purchased an estate of two thousand acres near Georgetown, more varied and entrancing in its scenery, and more commanding in the wide sweep of its surroundings, than any other spot in the immediate neighborhood of the then youthful capital of his country. A fairer spot could hardly have been found. The estate was nearly all one park of fine old oaks of primitive growth, interspersed with many other kinds of the finest forest-trees, and the variety and magical effects of artistic culture of species that were lacking imparted higher embellishment to what nature had already made so beautiful. Abrupt hills, covered by gnarled oaks and lofty evergreens, still cast their shadows down into deep tangled dells and gorges, through which crystal brooks find their murmuring, tinkling way.

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A winding road of a quarter of a mile brought us out on a high, commanding tableau of several acres, in the centre of which Barlow erected his substantial, massive, brick-and-stone mansion, and where he intended to pass his life and end his days. It is a spacious, grand, and cheerful edifice. A wide hall divides the main body of the house. The suite of large rooms on the east was devoted to the grand salon and the gallery of sculpture, painting, and rare objects of vertu; on the west side was his great library and the dining-room. circular carriage-road swept by the entrance; while on all other sides a vast and splendid garden extended, ornamented and enriched by every native and exotic tree, shrub, fruit, and flower that could live in the climate. Birds of all varieties of plumage and song filled this paradise-scene with music, and sparkling fountains scattered their cooling spray on the summer air. Through ample vistas among the monarch trees, the most captivating landscapes opened in all directions.

The city of Georgetown-even then gray as an old French town perched on an eminence-lay below; the rising capital was clearly seen in the distance; the wild scenery of the Upper Potomac mountains was unfolded on the north; while on the south the broad Potomac itself, with its majestic tide, went sweeping by, in its long and tranquil reaches, to the sea. Here Barlow clustered around him every thing which wealth need purchase, or a chastened fancy invent. But Kalorama (as he called his estate) had one charm besides, without which it would have been a desert to its master. His house was the scene of princely hospitality and elegant society. All the great, the learned, the accomplished, and the beautiful men and women of that wonderful age were, sooner or later, his guests. His old friend and companion George Washington, alone, was not there. But there was Adams, and Jefferson, and Madison, and Monroe, all the fathers of the republic, all foreigners of rank and learning, artists and poets; and these circles were embellished by the most gifted and brilliant women of the age.

The spirits of the great departed seemed still to haunt those. stately halls; and I confess that when I was aroused from my revery by the tap of my friend's hand on my shoulder, saying, "Now, Charley, shall we look through the wards first?" a cold shudder went through me; for it had only just occurred to me that I was standing in the very centre of

"The Small-Pox Hospital of the Army of the Potomac." I somewhat suddenly withdrew for a ramble in the garden, remarking to my friend I thought I would see that first.

Under the shade of a broad-spread clump of flowering shrubs I sat down on a marble seat, to contemplate the strange contrast. The garden, evidently, preserved the main outlines of the original plan. The walks, the trees, the grass-plats, were still there. But they showed no sign of the pruning hand. The fruit-trees were dying; the box had outgrown its borders; tall and noxious weeds were growing in wild luxu

riance over the genial soil. The out-buildings were going to decay. The fences were falling down, and the whole place looked forsaken and desolate. One spot alone was blooming, and it was the oasis in the desert. The surgeon and his attenddants had taken care of it, and it was one mazy labyrinth of flowers. How changed all this from other days, when travellers from a distance came to see what could be likened only to the gardens of Armida!

In those days Barlow was in the very noontide of his intellectual vigor. Born in the village of Reading, Connecticut, in 1754, he was now in his fiftieth year. His learning was vast in its range, and his devotion to science and literature had become the ruling passion of his life. Long familiarity with the great men, the languages, and the society of Europe had specially fitted him for the work he proposed to do. He resolved to write a great epic poem; and in ten years the "Columbiad" appeared, in what would even in our times be termed splendid style. During this decade he alternated his labors by making a careful and exceedingly valuable collection of materials for an elaborate history of the country. It will always be a fruitful source of regret to historians that this work was never executed. The scholars and statesmen of his time who knew Barlow's plan, and had seen chapters of the work already written, did not doubt that the writer would leave in his history an imperishable monument to his fame.

Another enterprise also received his most earnest efforts. Feeling and knowing, with all statesmen, how much strength and glory are imparted to republics and empires by institutions for the promotion of science and art, he labored unceasingly to persuade Congress to establish a national Institute, modelled after the Institute of France. Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Hamilton, Burr, and all the illuminated men of the time, were his coadjutors; and the whole plan was ready for adoption, when two events occurred which ar

rested its progress, the second war with England, and the departure of Barlow for Europe.

One evening President Madison drove out to Kalorama for a private conversation with Barlow. They sat for several hours in the library undisturbed, engaged in an earnest conversation on the condition of Europe, our relations with the great Powers, particularly with Napoleon, then in the zenith of his splendor, and England, with whom it had now (1811) become plain enough we must have a second contest.

No American-not excepting Jefferson, who had so recently retired to Monticello-understood the politics of Europe better than Barlow. He was popular in France, and was sure of a cordial greeting at the court of Napoleon.

Barlow was requested by the President to accept the mission to the Emperor; but it would involve the interruption and perhaps the final failure of his plans for the rest of his life. For several hours Madison was unable to shake his decision. But by persuading him that he would be able to negotiate a treaty of commerce and indemnity for former spoliations, and thus not only secure justice for many of our citizen, but fortify our Government with France in anticipation of an approaching war with our common foe, this appeal to Barlow's patriotism turned the scale. He consented to go. Alas! when he turned to take a final look at the enchanted home he was leaving, he was looking on it for the last time.

He sailed for France. He made no progress for several months, being, as he said, "continually baffled by the intrigues of the Minister of Foreign Affairs,-the Duke of Bassano."

It was only in October, 1812, that he was promised an opportunity of cutting the Gordian knot. He was invited to a personal conference with the Emperor at Wilna, in Poland, where the restless genius of conquest and glory had halted on his way to Moscow.

Barlow set out at once, and plunged into a Polar winter.