V.

Mount Vernon in Other Days.

THE stream of Time, which sweeps almost every thing human to oblivion, passes without injury by the everlasting column of Washington's fame. Those convulsions which threaten the permanence of our Union, and sicken us with the strifes of parties and the gore of battle, only render more and more dear the name of the Father of the American Republic.

The nations of the Old World, as they lift their wearied and half-palsied arms to strike for Liberty, utter the name of Washington with veneration, gratitude, and love. Wherever the all-glowing sun lights up the homes of earth's children,through all the continents and islands, along all the shores and rivers, on every green mountain's side, and down every blushing valley, the old tell his history to the young, and all nations rise up and call him blessed.

All that belonged to him has become dear to mankind. The ground his feet pressed is sacred. The trees he planted with his own hand, the groves through which he walked at evening, still seem to breathe his name as they rustle their zephyr-music. Even the sparkling ripples of that majestic stream which flows on by Mount Vernon seem to utter intelligible words to the ear of the pilgrim who from that green lawn looks through the bending boughs by moonlight on the glistening waters.

It was a beautiful spring morning, many years ago, when we set out from Washington to visit for the first time this Mecca of Liberty. The balmy air wafted through the carriagewindows the fragrance of early flowers, just peeping out from

the warm banks of the Potomac. The sun came calmly up over the old dome of the Capitol, and the mists rose from the bosom of the river to greet him, and then floated far away into the blue sky, as spirits go when they leave us for that bright land

"Where everlasting spring abides,

And never-withering flowers."

We could not say that there was a gay or glad heart among us: there would have been some, had we not been going to the Tomb of the Father of his country. But there was something so holy in the thought that we were approaching the spot where the greatest and purest of mankind rested from his heroism, that we felt mirth had no place in our feelings, and into that day levity could not enter.

But it was a cheerful ride, and an inspiring day. We do not remember that a cloud moved over our little party during the excursion; nor was our cheerfulness interrupted till we had reached the shrine of our pilgrimage and stood before the sarcophagus where the dust of Washington reposes.

No matter for our ride along the river, nor for its picturesque bends, or banks, or lawns, or woodlands. At every turn in the road we saw the calm waters of the silver stream, around which linger memories that are sanctified by all that is brave in chivalry and touching in patriotism.

A long ride through the oak forests brought us to the venerable mansion where Washington lived and died. At the porter's lodge we stopped to see the only living servant of the Patriot. She lived in the lodge, and still watched the gate.

She was fifteen years old when "the general" came back from the wars, covered with victory; and he remembered her well as he rode through the gate, and said, "Ah, my little Sylvia, the Britishers didn't hit me, after all: and they have all gone back to Old England, and I have come home to live and die on the estate"-and young Sylvia seized "the general's" hand and wet it with her tears. She saw Washington die;

she saw him when he was dead: and when she spoke of him she looked up to heaven, and, pointing her hand away, said, “Well, if we ever go there we shall see him again."

We left this octogenarian keeper, and she said many a kind word to us as we went on slowly threading our way to the mansion,-through deep ravines from which only the upper sky was visible, and now emerging on eminences from which we hoped to get at least a glimpse of the mansion. But holier feelings filled up the interval.

We were passing over new ground, where, warm with life and radiant with beneficence, the form of the hero so often passed. Even the air seemed haunted by his presence: every step we took was an epic.

See the outlines of the great historical picture. Passing this same rugged avenue, first the youth George Washington, with his surveying-instruments, to measure off the vast wilderness of the West, the happy homes he was afterwards to offer his brothers made free:-young Major Washington, setting out to instruct them in the art of war, to prepare them to achieve their independence:-Colonel Washington, on his departure to repel foreign and savage invaders:-the Representative, passing to and from the Congress of the patriots :--the heroic general, coming at long intervals through that war of fraternal blood, and going forth again to the sanguinary struggles of the Revolution, where brave men staked Liberty in the desperate game with King, Lords, and Commons:-the Farmer, going out to and returning from his fields:-the President, on his way to administer the government of a people he had led through the exhausting perils of an all-but exterminating war:-and, last of all, the citizen Washington, who had scorned a crown, as too base a reward for his long services in the cause of human freedom-returning by the same road we were travelling, his great heart filled with longings for home.

The carriage rising an eminence gave us a glimpse of the

wall and observatory of the Home of Washington. We were not ashamed of a few tears which came unbidden to our eyes.

We reached the gate of the mansion. A ruin—an old ruin -stood before us. It was not a feudal castle, with deep trench once filled with water; nor draw-bridge, over which once clattered the hoofs of warriors' steeds; nor massive arch, under which bent the plume of knight; nor spacious court-yard, in which the spears of an heroic band flashed in the moonlight; nor vast banquet-hall, that rang to the clangor of Crusader or the merry shout of victorious warrior who had come from measuring lance with the Infidel, to tell his tale of adventure to the startled ear of Europe. There was no watch-word; no vesper-chime stealing softly on the evening air; no hollow chant nor monkish prayer in gloomy chapel; no moon-lit watch on the overlooking tower. No one of all these. It was grander, better, dearer, than all this heroic legend.

It was once the home of the Father of a great and glorious nation, whose eagle wings now stretch from the turbulent Atlantic-far away over rich valleys waving with corn and dotted with happy habitations, rugged mountains, wide rivers, and green prairies-to the golden shores of the Pacific, where Empire looks toward the purple East and has made the circuit of the globe.

It was a ruin! The master of the house had long since gone away to another country, and Time had left the mansion like

"Some banquet-hall deserted."

The master would never return.

The servants told us that the present master would next year repair the dwelling.

"Oh, no!" we would have said to him. "Leave the holy place as he left it. Ye cannot make us think he has come back; ye cannot make good his place. Let the spot where he lived and died be left. Eternity is his dwelling now. Let Time spread its ivy never-sere kindly over the mansion, and

let not the winds blow harshly against it; for the great master is gone, and will return no more. Ye cannot make the place what it once was."

They showed us the apartments which are thrown open to visitors. We had letters; but we asked no privileges there which could not be accorded to all. We saw the hall, the drawing room, the parlor, and the dining-room, with the richly sculptured mantel-piece which La Fayette gave him.

As we passed out under the open sky, they pointed out to us the chamber where Washington died. We looked up to the windows. They showed us the lemon-tree he planted, old, but green still, and many plants in the conservatory, with long box alleys, and large squares, and page bushes, all planned and planted by his hand.

Down the green slope towards the river, not far from the bank, they showed us Washington's Tomb. We reverently gathered there, and bowed in silence and gratitude.

As the sun was going down behind the old oaks, fringing the edges of the clouds with gold, we entered our boat, and sailed slowly by under the lengthening shadows of the sacred groves which cluster their foliage around Mount Vernon.