MOUNT VERNON.
The sun raised himself in a huge globe of fire above the eastern horizon, as my friend’s spirited bays stood saddled at the door of the cottage, pawing, champing the bit, and playfully endeavouring to bite the black boy who held them. Finishing an early breakfast, we were soon in our saddles and full gallop on our journey; the dogs in an ecstacy of delight, bounding along at our sides, overhauling and putting in bodily terror every unfortunate cur that came in their way, as they sportively tumbled him over and over in curious examination; old Bernard, with glistening eyes and wagging tail, bestriding in grim fun the prostrate form of the enemy. We passed rapidly through the rough paved streets of Alexandria, watching eagerly for its famed beauties at their casements, and clearing the town, were soon on the rustic road that leads to the sacred place of America.
The meadows were glistening in the morning dew; the sweet perfume of the clover filled the air; the white daisy and delicate cowslip danced over their luxuriant grassy beds, as the fresh morning breeze fanned them in its passage; and amid the sea of melody high above the merry gossip of the bob-link, thechattering volubility of the mocking-bird, his yellow spotted breast swelling with delight, his keen eye gazing into the distance, the saucy “you-can’t-see-me” of the meadow lark sounded in merry challenge, while the clear “whew-whew-it” of the quail from the golden wheat-field, was echoed by his eager companion far down in the green vales, as they stretched softly and gently into the distance, in the long shadows of the early morning. Oh! let him that would scan the benevolence of the Creator, leave his restless bed in the sweltering city, and walk forth with the day in its youth,—for verily, like man, it hath its youth, its manhood and its old age—and the sweetness of morning is the youth of the day.
The hedges on the road side were covered with a tangled mass of verdure, from which wild vines and green ivy crept to the surrounding trees, wreathing gracefully their trunks and branches. The undergrowth was loaded with wild roses and honeysuckles. The graceful fleur-de-lis, curving its blue flowers, trembled upon the green banks, and the pond-lily floating on its watery bed, threw forth its grateful fragrance, as we occasionally passed through the swampy bottoms. Fat cattle grazed indolently in the meadows; while now and then, as we cantered by their pastures, the horses, with tails and manes erect, accompanied us on our journey, till arriving at their confines, with eager neighing, they would look after us, throw their heelshigh in the air, and gallop down into the broad fields in the very jollity of freedom. Every thing seemed contented and joyous. The hearty, happy-looking negroes, trudging along to their agricultural labours, doffed their hats to us, with a cheerful “good morning,” as we passed, or laughingly displayed their white teeth and big eyes, as they led the dew-wet horse to the bars to mount and drive to the milking the smooth, fat kine. A ride of an hour brought us to the woods that adjoin Mount Vernon, which are cleared of undergrowth, but in other respects as wild and untamed as if naught but the savage had ever placed foot in them. Silence reigned through the deep glades, unbroken, save by the hoofs of our horses as they resounded with hollow echo; the sharp chirp of the squirrel, jumping among the dry leaves; or the quick rap, rap, of the woodpecker, as his scarlet head and blue back glanced momentarily from some dead trunk upon our eyesight. We met with nothing to intercept our progress. Now and then, to be sure, a drove of hogs, feeding upon the mast in the forest, would marshal themselves in our path, stupidly staring at us with a sort of ludicrous, half-drunken gravity, snuffing the air, as if determined to intercept our progress; but as we came nearer, they would whirl short about, and with a simultaneous grunt, their tails twisted in the air, gallop off with desperate precipitation into the depths of the forest. Journeying a mile or two further, we came upon the porter’slodges, at the entrance of the domain proper, which were old and ruinous. Proceeding still farther over a very bad and rough carriage-road, we came suddenly in view of the Potomac; and Mount Vernon, with its mansion-house and smooth, green lawn, lay extended before us; Fort Washington’s battlements and cannon-filled embrasures in stern silence guarding it from the opposite side of the river.
Fastening our horses, under the guidance of a grey-headed old negro, born in the family of General Washington, we entered the lawn and came upon the rear-front, if the term may be allowed, of an old-fashioned mansion, surmounted by a cupola and weather-cock, semicircular piazzas extending around from each end, connecting it with the kitchen and servant’s apartments. Various buildings, all bearing the impress of time, were scattered about, evidently in architectural order and plan, and the two large gardens, rendered interesting by the flowers and plants, still blooming in the beds where they had been placed by the hands of the General, extended back to the forest from which we had just emerged. As we stood for a moment looking at the old building, we almost expected to see the yellow travelling-carriage of his Excellency, with its four beautiful bays, and liveried out-riders, draw up at the great hall door in its centre. Having sent in our address, we received permission from the courteous branch of the family, who now hold the estate, to enterand survey the interior. We were struck with its extreme simplicity, the lowness of the walls and ceilings, and the bare floors, which were waxed, not, as with us, carpeted. The sides of the rooms were composed exclusively of wooden panels, upon which hung some old oil paintings of merit,—engravings of naval actions between the English, the Dutch, and the French; and a small enamel miniature, which is considered the best likeness extant of Washington. Curiosities of various kinds covered the shelves and the mantels, and the painted porcelains and china jars, stood in stately display behind the glass doors of the old-fashioned beaufets in the corners.
Our attention was arrested for a moment, as we passed through one of the rooms, by a large rusty key of iron, enclosed in a glass case. It was the key of the Bastile, that infernal prison, that monument of centuries of grinding cruelty and oppression, where men vanished, and were seen no more of their day and generation,—where, by the intrigues of the courtier, the subtle blandishments of the minion of the palace, letters de cachet plunged equally the innocent, the imprudent, and the generous, into the jaws of living death,—that accursed congerie of dungeons where, from mid fellowship of rats and spiders, such scrap of soiled paper, written in the blood of the poor prisoner, fluttering from a loop-hole in its lofty towers, arrests the footstep of the casual passenger upon the causeway.
“Mases de Latude,thirty-twoyears prisoner in the Bastile, implores good Christians to intercede for him, so that he may once more embrace his poor old father and mother, if they yet live, and die in the open world.”
Surely, nothing but the hallowed air of Mount Vernon could have prevented the Prince of Darkness from bodily carrying off so precious a gem for his cabinet. One side of the great drawing-room was ornamented with a sculptured mantel in Italian marble, presented by Lafayette, the other was covered with cases containing books of high toned selection, while, from the third, its green silk curtain drawn aside, was suspended a portrait of the present family, by Chapman. The figures of the portrait, as large as life, presented a lady of middle age, clad in mourning, surrounded by a group of children advancing into youth. It was well executed, and in the dignified and saddened serenity, in the simple and natural grouping, and the pure and unaffected expression of the countenances, an American in any part of the world, would have at once recognised a family group of the more intellectual and refined of his own country. As we walked through the various rooms, from which the family had withdrawn, we were so overcome with the illusion, the work-basket with its scissors and thread—the half-opened book lying upon the table, the large Bible prominently, not ostentatiously, in its place, the portraits on the walls, the bustson their pedestals,—all causing such a vivid impression of present life and being, that we almost expected to see the towering form of the General entering the doorway, or passing over the green lawn spread between us and that Potomac which we had so often viewed from the same windows. We were at first disappointed at not seeing in some conspicuous place, the sword, which had so often been extended by the hand whose pulses quickened not in the hour of extremest peril, as it marshalled the road of human liberty; but our disappointment turned to admiration, and our hearts beat still higher, as we were referred to, and read this clause in his last testament:
“To each of my four nephews, I bequeath one of the swords of which I may die possessed. These swords are accompanied with the injunction not to unsheath them for the purpose of shedding blood, except it be for self-defence, or in defence of their country and its rights; and in the latter case, to keep them unsheathed, and prefer falling with them in their hands to the relinquishment thereof.”
Passing through the great hall, ornamented with pictures of English hunting scenes, we ascended the oaken stair-case, with its carved and antique balustrade;—we stood at the door—we pressed the handle—the room and the bed where he died were before us. Nothing in the lofty drama of his existence, surpassed the grandeur of that final scene;—the cold which he hadtaken from exposure, in overseeing some part of his grounds, and which resisted the earlier domestic remedies that were applied, advanced in the course of two short days into that frightful form of the disease of the throat, laryngitis.—It became necessary for him to take to his bed. His valued friend, Dr. Craik, was instantly summoned, and assisted by the best medical skill of the surrounding country, exhausted all the means of his art, but without affording him relief. He patiently submitted, though in great distress, to the various remedies proposed, but it became evident from the deep gloom settling upon the countenances of the medical gentlemen, that the case was hopeless;—advancing insidiously, the disease had fastened itself with deadly certainty. Looking with perfect calmness upon the sobbing group around him, he said—“Grieve not my friends; it is as I anticipated from the first;—the debt which we all owe, is now about to be paid—I am resigned to the event.” Requesting Mrs. Washington to bring him two wills from his escritoire, he directed one to be burnt, and placed the other in her hands, as his last testament, and then gave some final instructions to Mr. Lear, his secretary and relation, as to the adjustment his business affairs. He soon after became greatly distressed, and as, in the paroxysms which became more frequent and violent, Mr. Lear, who was extended on the bed by his side, assisted him to turn, he, with kindness, butwith difficulty, articulated, “I fear I give you great trouble, sir,—but—perhaps it is a duty that we all owe one to another—I trust that you may receive the same attention, when you shall require it.”
As the night waned, the fatal symptoms became more imminent—his breath more laboured and suffocating, and his voice soon after failed him. Perceiving his end approaching, he straightened himself to his full length, he folded his own hands in the necessary attitude upon his chest—placing his finger upon the pulse of the left wrist, and thus calmly prepared, and watching his own dissolution, he awaited the summons of his Maker. The last faint hopes of his friends had disappeared;—Mrs. Washington, stupified with grief, sat at the foot of the bed, her eyes fixed steadfastly upon him; Dr. Craik, in deep gloom, stood with his face buried in his hands at the fire,—his faithful black servant, Christopher, the tears uncontrolled trickling down his face, on one side, took the last look of his dying master; while Mr. Lear, in speechless grief, with folded hands, bent over his pillow on the other.
Nought broke the stillness of his last moments, but the suppressed sobs of the affectionate servants collected on the stair-case; the tick of the large clock in the hall, as it measured off, with painful distinctness, the last fleeting moments of his existence, and the low moan of the winter wind, as it swept through the leafless snow-covered trees; the labouring and wearied spiritdrew nearer and nearer to its goal; the blood languidly coursed slower and more slowly through its channels—the noble heart stopped—struggled—stopt—fluttered—the right hand slowly slid from the wrist, upon which its finger had been placed—it fell at the side—and the manly effigy of Washington was all that remained, extended upon the death couch.
We left that room, as those who leave a sick room: a suppressed whisper alone escaped us, as, with a sort of instinctive silence and awe, we drew the door slowly and firmly to its place behind us. We again descended the antique stair-case, and emerged upon the lawn, in front of the mansion. Passing through several coppices of trees, we approached the sepulchre, where rest the remains of his earthly semblance. In the open arch of a vault composed of brick, secured and firmly protected by gates of open iron work, were two large sarcophagi of white marble, in one of which, carved in high relief, with the arms of the republic, were deposited the remains of him, “who was first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen.” A marble slab, set into the brick wall of the exterior, bearing in black letters simply this inscription—
“The remains ofGen’l George Washington.”
There rested all that was mortal of the man, whose justice—whose virtue—whose patriotism—meet withno parallel in human history. There, within the smoke of his own hearth-stone, mouldered the remains of that towering form, whose spirit, whether in the battle, or in the council-hall, in the fierce dissensions of public discord, or in the quiet relations of social life, shone with the same stern and spotless purity.
The Potomac glittered like silver, between the trees in the noon-day sun at our feet; the soft mild breeze gently moved the leaves upon the tree tops—the chirp of the wren—the drowsy hum of the locust—the quick note of the thrush, as she hopped from twig to twig, were all that showed signs of life,—and those huge sarcophagi lay still—motionless—far, far from voiceless. Oh! my countrymen, never since he left us, hath it so behoved us to listen,—“While our Father’s grave doth utter forth a voice.”
We were exceedingly struck and affected by the truthfulness of the “Sweet Swan of Avon,” as we saw above the sarcophagi, (free passage to which was open over the large iron gates,) the clayey nest of the martin, or common house-swallow, built in the corner of the ceiling, where, in perfect security and confidence she fed her chirping brood, directly over the head of the departed hero. Pure, indeed, was the air, “nimbly and sweetly” did it play upon our senses. Oh! bard of England, as standing upon that hallowed spot, the spirit of the unfortunate Banquo whispered again to our memories, his words to the murdered Duncan.
“This castle hath a pleasant seat; the airNimbly and sweetly recommends itselfUnto our gentle senses.”Banquo.——“This guest of summer,The temple haunting martlet, does approve,By his lov’d mansionry, that the heavens’ breath,Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress,Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath madeHis pendent bed, and procreant cradle: Where theyMost breed and haunt, I have observed, the airIs delicate.”
“This castle hath a pleasant seat; the airNimbly and sweetly recommends itselfUnto our gentle senses.”Banquo.——“This guest of summer,The temple haunting martlet, does approve,By his lov’d mansionry, that the heavens’ breath,Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress,Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath madeHis pendent bed, and procreant cradle: Where theyMost breed and haunt, I have observed, the airIs delicate.”
“This castle hath a pleasant seat; the airNimbly and sweetly recommends itselfUnto our gentle senses.”
“This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.”
Banquo.——“This guest of summer,The temple haunting martlet, does approve,By his lov’d mansionry, that the heavens’ breath,Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress,Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath madeHis pendent bed, and procreant cradle: Where theyMost breed and haunt, I have observed, the airIs delicate.”
Banquo.——“This guest of summer,
The temple haunting martlet, does approve,
By his lov’d mansionry, that the heavens’ breath,
Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress,
Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made
His pendent bed, and procreant cradle: Where they
Most breed and haunt, I have observed, the air
Is delicate.”
We lingered long at the tomb, and with reluctance withdrew, as the advancing day warned us of our homeward returning ride.
The setting sun, streaming in radiance through the trees, measured in long shadows the persons of the two men dismounting at the cottage door, from whence they had departed so buoyant and joyous in its morning brightness. That setting sun, sinking beneath its gorgeous bed of crimson, gold and purple, left those men more chastened, true, more elevated, from their pilgrimage to the shrine of him whose name shall forever be the watchword of human Liberty.