Mount Vernon,Dec. 31st, 1799.
Mount Vernon,Dec. 31st, 1799.
Mount Vernon,Dec. 31st, 1799.
Mount Vernon,Dec. 31st, 1799.
“Sir:—While I feel with keenest anguish the latedispensation of Divine Providence, I cannot be insensible to the mournful tributes of respect and veneration which are paid to the memory of my dear, deceased husband, and as his best services and most anxious wishes were always devoted to the welfare and happiness of his country, to know that they were truly appreciated and gratefully remembered, affords no inconsiderable consolation.
“Taught by that great example which I have so long had before me, never to oppose my private wishes to the public will, I must consent to the request made by Congress which you have had the goodness to transmit to me, and in doing this I need not, I cannot say, what a sacrifice of individual feeling I make to a sense of public duty.
“With grateful acknowledgments and unfeigned thanks for the personal respects and evidences of condolence expressed by Congress and yourself,
“I remain, very respectfully,“Your most obedient and humble servant,“Martha Washington.”
“I remain, very respectfully,“Your most obedient and humble servant,“Martha Washington.”
“I remain, very respectfully,“Your most obedient and humble servant,“Martha Washington.”
“I remain, very respectfully,
“Your most obedient and humble servant,
“Martha Washington.”
But this pain might have been spared her, for the monument is not yet erected, and the remains are still at Mount Vernon, their most fitting resting-place.
The twofold duties of life pressed constantly upon her, nor did she shirk any claim. Yet the compressed lip, and the oftentimes quivering eyelid betrayed the restless moanings of her aching heart.
It has been remarked that she resembled Washington in manners and person; she was like him as every weaker nature is like a stronger one living in close relationship. She received from his stronger will his influences, and he impressed her with his views so thoroughly that she could not distinguish her own. Relying on his guidance in every thing, she studied his features until her softer lineaments imperceptibly grew like his, and the tones of her voice sounded wonderfully similar. Imbibing the sentiments and teachings of such a nature, her own life was ennobled and his rendered happy.
She had lived through the five grand acts of the drama of American Independence, had witnessed its prelude and its closing tableaux, and stood waiting to hear the swell of the pëan she was yet to sing in heaven. Her life was passed in seasons of darkness, as of glorious, refulgent happiness, and was contemporaneous with some of the greatest minds that will ever shine out from any century. Her sphere was limited entirely to social occupations, and possessing wealth and position she gratified her taste. Had her character been a decided one, it would have stamped the age in which she flourished, for, as there never was but one Washington, so there will never come a time when there will be the same opportunities as Mrs. Washington had for winning a name and an individuality. But she did not aspire to any nobler ambition than merely to perform the duties of her home, and she lives in thememories of her descendants, and in the hearts of the people of the United States, as the wife of the illustrious Father of his Country, and the first in position of the women of the Revolution.
In the engraving we have before us, taken while in the Executive Mansion, we trace the gradual development of her life. All the way through it has counted more of bliss than of sorrow, and the calm contentment of the face in repose speaks of a heart full of peace and pleasantness. How expressive of sympathy and kindness of heart is that serene face, and how instinctively we would trust it! Sustained as she was by her deep devotional piety, and shielded by the protecting arm of her husband, she grew in spiritual development and fondly believed herself strong and self-reliant. But when she was tested, when the earthly support was removed, the inward strength was insufficient, and she pined under the loss until she died.
The death of her husband was the last event of Mrs. Washington’s life. It shattered her nerves and broke her heart. She never recovered from it. The shaft of agony which had buried itself in her soul was never removed. Fate had now dealt the last deadly blow to her earthly happiness. Her children, their father, the faithful, affectionate, sympathizing friend and counsellor, with whom through so many years she had stood side by side in great and grievous trials, dangers, and sorrows—all were gone? It was useless to strive to be courageous: a glance at the low, narrow vault under theside of the hill unnerved her. She stood, the desolate survivor, like a lone sentinel upon a deserted battle-field, regarding in mute despair the fatal destruction of hope, and love, and joy. Through all time that Saturday night would be the closing scene of her life, even though her existence should be lengthened to a span of years.
“The memory of his faintest tone,In the deep midnight came upon her soul,And cheered the passing hours so sad, so lone,As on they rolled.”
“The memory of his faintest tone,In the deep midnight came upon her soul,And cheered the passing hours so sad, so lone,As on they rolled.”
“The memory of his faintest tone,In the deep midnight came upon her soul,And cheered the passing hours so sad, so lone,As on they rolled.”
“The memory of his faintest tone,
In the deep midnight came upon her soul,
And cheered the passing hours so sad, so lone,
As on they rolled.”
Thirty months numbered themselves among eternity’s uncounted years, and it became apparent to all that another death-scene was to be enacted, and the lonely occupant of the room above that other chamber of death, was reaching the goal of its long felt desire. The gentle spirit was striving to free itself, and the glad light in the dim eye asserted the pleasure experienced in the knowledge of the coming change.
For many months Mrs. Washington had been growing more gloomy and silent than ever before, and the friends who gathered about her called her actions strange and incomprehensible. She stayed much alone, and declined every offer of company, but the last days of her life she seemed more cheerful and contented. When the end came on that bright, spring morning in 1801 she gave her blessing to all about her, and sank quietly to rest, in the seventy-first year of her age, and the third of her widowhood.
Her resting-place beside her husband is, like Mecca and Jerusalem, the resort of the travellers of all nations, who, wandering in its hallowed precincts, imbibe anew admiration and veneration for the immortal genius, whose name is traced in imperishable remembrance in the hearts of his grateful countrymen. Side by side their bodies lie crumbling away, while their spirits have returned to their Author. The placid Potomac kisses the banks of that precious domain, and the ripple of the receding waves makes pleasant music all day along the shore of Mount Vernon.
The temptation to see this historic and romantic home of the most beloved of the nation’s dead was not to be resisted, and one winter day in company with one of the few surviving relatives who bear that honored name, the start was made from Washington. Although the weather was cold and disagreeable, with a threatening aspect of a snow-storm, we found the little vessel filled with pilgrims, bound to the tomb of Washington. This trip is one of intense interest, and particularly since the events of the civil war have given to all the locality additional attraction. Arlington, Alexandria, and Fort Washington! what memories are stirred by mention of these names, and how acute is remembrance when we stand face to face with these places. The old commonwealth is dear to every generous American, whether of northern or southern birth, but more especially to the people of the South, whose ancestors fondly termed it the “motherland.”
It was the quaint look of the place which appealed strongest to the senses, and the fact that it is long past a century old, its foundation having been laid in 1748. The boat anchored at Alexandria, and we gazed wistfully up those streets through which Washington had often passed, and looked in vain to see some “vast and venerable pile, so old it seemed only not to fall,” but the residences of most of the old inhabitants are the abodes of wealth, and they exhibit evidences of care and preservation.
Alexandria was early a place of some note, for five colonial governors met here by appointment, in 1755, to take measures with General Braddock respecting his expedition to the West. “That expedition proceeded from Alexandria, and tradition still points to the site on which now stands the olden Episcopal Church (but then, in the woods), as the spot where he pitched his tent, while the road over the western hills by which his army withdrew, long bore the name of this unfortunate commander. But the reminiscences which the Alexandrians most cherish are those which associate their town with the domestic attachments and habits of Washington, and the stranger is still pointed to the church of which he was vestryman; to the pew in which he customarily sate; and many striking memorials of his varied life are carefully preserved.”
That old church where Washington and his wife were wont to worship, how tenderly it is looked upon now, and with what hallowed feelings! All the commonplacethoughts that fill our minds every day are laid aside, while we contemplate the character of the man who has stamped his image in the hearts of freemen throughout the world. There is another church at which one feels these ennobling heart-throbs, and which I confess moved me as sensibly, and that is the little Dutch church in “Sleepy Hollow,” once the shrine at which Washington Irving offered the adoration of his guileless heart. His beautifully expressed admiration of Washington possibly occasioned the constant comparison, and to many these two temples are as inseparable as the memories of these great men are linked.
The weather, which had been indicative all day of a storm, cleared off as we approached Mount Vernon, and as we landed at the wharf, it shone brightly upon us. Winding round the hill, following a narrow pathway, we reached the tomb before the persons who had taken the carriage-way came in view, but preferring to examine it last, we continued the meandering path to the front of the house. It had been the home, in early youth, of the person who accompanied me, and, listening to her explanations and descriptions, an interest was felt which could not otherwise have been summoned. The house is bare of any furniture whatever, save a small quantity owned by the persons who live there, and on a winter’s day looked cheerless and uninviting. The central part of Mount Vernon house was built by Lawrence Washington, brother to the General; the wings were added by the General, and the whole named after AdmiralVernon, under whom Lawrence Washington had served. The dining-room on the right contains the Carrara marble mantle-piece sent from Italy to General Washington. It is elaborately carved and is adorned with Sienna marble columns; Canova is said to be the artist who carved it. We feel ashamed to add, it is cased in wire-work to prevent its being demolished by injudicious, not to say criminal visitors. The rooms are not large, with the exception of the one mentioned above, which is spacious; the quaint old wainscoting and wrought cornices are curious, and in harmony with the adornments of the mansion. The piazza reaches from the ground to the eaves of the roof, and is guarded on the top by a bright and tasteful balustrade; the pillars are large and present a simple and grand idea to the mind. Beneath this porch the Father of his Country was accustomed to walk, and the ancient stones, to hearts of enthusiasm, are full of deep and meditative interest.
The room in which he died is small and now bereft of every thing save the mantle-piece; just above is the apartment in which she breathed her dying blessing. A narrow stair-case leads from the door of his room, which was never entered by her after his death. The green-house, once the pride of Mrs. Washington, has since been burned, and there remains but a very small one, put together carelessly to protect the few rare plants remaining. In front of the house, the front facing the orchards, and not the river, is a spacious lawn surrounded by serpentine walks. On either side, brickwalls, all covered with ivy and ancient moss, enclose gardens. The one on the right of the house was once filled with costly ornamental plants from the tropical climes, and in which was the green-house; but the box trees have grown high and irregular, and the creepers are running wild over what hardy rose bushes still survive to tell of a past existence of care and beauty. In the lifetime of Mrs. Washington, her home must have been very beautiful, “ere yet time’s effacing fingers had traced the lines where beauty lingered.” It is even now a splendid old place, but rapidly losing the interest it once had. The estate has passed out of the family, and the furniture has been removed by descendants, to whom it was given: much that lent a charm to the place is gone, and the only interesting object, save the interior of the mansion itself, is the key of the Bastile, presented by Lafayette, and hanging in a case on the wall. Portions of the house are closed, and the stairway in the front hall is barricaded to prevent the intrusion of visitors. The room in which Mrs. Washington died, just above the one occupied by her husband, was locked, and we did not view the room in which she suffered so silently, and from which her freed spirit sought its friend and mate.
The small windows and low ceilings, together with the many little closets and dark passage-ways, strike one strangely who is accustomed to the mansions of modern times; but these old homesteads are numerous throughout the “Old Dominion,” and are the most precious of worldly possessions to the descendants ofworthy families. There must be more than twenty apartments, most of them small and plain in finish. The narrow doors and wide fire-places are the ensigns of a past age and many years of change, but are eloquent in their obsoleteness.
The library which ordinarily is the most interesting room in any house, should be doubly so in this home of Washington’s; but, bare of all save the empty cases in the wall, it is the gloomiest of all. Books all gone, and the occupation of the room by the present residents deprives it of any attractions it might otherwise have. Here, early in the morning and late at night, he worked continuously, keeping up his increasing correspondence and managing his vast responsibilities.
Murmurs of another war reached him as he sat at his table planning rural improvements, and from this room he wrote accepting the position no other could fill while he lived.
Here death found him, the night before his last illness, when cold and hoarse he came in from his long ride, and warmed himself by his library fire. That night he went up to his room over this favorite study, and said in reply to a member of his family as he passed out, who urged him to do something for it, “No, you know I never take any thing for a cold. Let it go as it came.”
The winds and rains of eighty-odd years have beaten upon that sacred home on the high banks of the silvery waters beneath, since the widowed, weary wife was laidto rest beside her noble dead, and the snows of winter and storms of summer have left its weather-worn and stained front looking like some ghost of other days left alone to tell of its former life and beauty. In its lonely grandeur it stands appealing to us for that reverence born of sentiments, stirred by the recollections of the great and good.
There was no resisting the feelings of gloomy depression as we passed out the front toward the river, and took the path leading to the tomb. Far down the side of the hill, perched on a knoll surrounded by trees, a summer-house was seen, and the walk leading by many angles down to it. The view of the river is said to be fine from this point, but we did not undertake the difficulties of getting to it. The wooden steps constructed across the ravines are fast sinking to ruin, and the swollen stream from the side of the hill dashing against them, was distinctly audible to us as we stood far above. The swallows and bats seem to have built their nests in its forsaken interior, and we were not inclined to molest them.
Many times we looked back at the old homestead endeared to every American, and stamped upon memory each portion of its outlines.
High above it, the small cupola sported its little glittering weather-vane as brilliant as though it had been gilded but yesterday. Here again was an object which unconsciously associated Washington with his namesake, Washington Irving. In the pleasant summer-timeI had stood in front of the little “Woolfort’s Roost,” and enjoyed to the finest fibre of feeling its lovely simplicity. Above it, too, a little weather-cock coquetted with the wind as it swept down from Tappan Zee, the same said to have been carefully removed from the Vander Hayden palace at Albany, and placed there by tender hands long years ago. Upon the side of the hill I had stopped then as now, and looked back at the house above, embosomed in vines interspersed with delicately tinted fuchsias.
Even as we were standing now looking for the first and perhaps the last time upon Mount Vernon, so in the beautiful harvest month we had gazed upon the Hudson, spread out like a vast panorama with its graceful yachts and swift schooners, and descended the winding path to the water’s edge. But Mount Vernon was dressed in winter’s dreariness, and its desolate silence oppressed rather than elevated the feelings. It is a fit place for meditation and communion, and to a spiritual nature the influences of the ancient home are full of harmony. When the only approach was by conveyance from Alexandria, the visitors were not so numerous as since the days of a daily steamer from Washington City, and much of the solemnity usually felt for so renowned a spot is marred by the coarse remarks and thoughtless acts of the many who saunter through the grounds.
A gay party of idlers had arranged their eatables upon the stone steps of the piazza, and sat in the sunshinelaughing merrily. Even those old rocks smoothly worn, where so often had stood the greatest of men, were not hallowed nor protected from the selfish convenience of unrefined people. Callous, indeed, must be the heart which could walk unmoved through so endeared a scene. To tread the haunts where men have thought and acted great, is ennobling to sensitive organizations, and to linger over evidences of olden times inspires all generous minds with enthusiasm.
The grounds roll downward from the mansion house, and in a green hollow midway between that and the river, and about one hundred and fifty yards west from the summer-house, and thirty rods from the house, is the vault where reposed the remains of Washington and Martha his wife. Now the tomb contains about thirty members of his family, and is sealed up, and in front of the main vault, enclosed by an iron railing, are the two sarcophagi containing the ashes of husband and wife. “A melancholy glory kindles around that cold pile of marble,” and we stood mute in thought.
But before reaching it we pass the old vault where for a few years he was buried. The few cedars on it are withered and the door stands open, presenting a desolate appearance. With vines and flowers, and leafy trees filled with singing birds, this sight would perhaps be less chilling; but the barren aspects of nature united with the solemn stillness of the country, conspired tofreeze every thought of life and beauty, and the mind dwelt upon the rust of decay.[5]
5. This sketch was written previous to the restoration of the place by the Ladies’ Mount Vernon Association. Now it has been restored as far as possible, and many old relics have been returned to their apartments. The equestrian portrait of Washington by Rembrandt Peale, the harpsichord which was presented by Washington to his step-daughter, and which is well preserved, together with many old paintings and Revolutionary relics, adorn the once bare rooms. The bed on which Washington died has been restored to its place, and a number of pieces of furniture in the house at the time of Mrs. Washington’s death are again there. The grounds have been put in excellent order, and the old farm is cultivated and yields a revenue to the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association, which deserves unbounded credit for rescuing the grand old place from destruction, and restoring it as far as possible to its former appearance and condition.
5. This sketch was written previous to the restoration of the place by the Ladies’ Mount Vernon Association. Now it has been restored as far as possible, and many old relics have been returned to their apartments. The equestrian portrait of Washington by Rembrandt Peale, the harpsichord which was presented by Washington to his step-daughter, and which is well preserved, together with many old paintings and Revolutionary relics, adorn the once bare rooms. The bed on which Washington died has been restored to its place, and a number of pieces of furniture in the house at the time of Mrs. Washington’s death are again there. The grounds have been put in excellent order, and the old farm is cultivated and yields a revenue to the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association, which deserves unbounded credit for rescuing the grand old place from destruction, and restoring it as far as possible to its former appearance and condition.
Lafayette stopped at Mount Vernon when about to return to France after his visit to this country, in 1826, having reserved for the last his visit to Washington’s Tomb, and the scene is thus described by Mr. Seward in his Life of John Quincy Adams:
“When the boat came opposite the tomb of Washington, at Mount Vernon, it paused in its progress. Lafayette arose. The wonders which he had performed for a man of his age, in successfully accomplishing labors enough to have tested his meridian vigor, whose animation rather resembled the spring than the winter of life, now seemed unequal to the task he was about to perform—to take a last look at ‘The Tomb of Washington!’
“He advanced to the effort. A silence the most impressive reigned around, till the strains of sweet and plaintive music completed the grandeur and sacred solemnityof the scene. All hearts beat in unison with the throbbings of the veteran’s bosom, as he lookedfor the last timeon the sepulchre which contained the ashes of the first of men! He spoke not, but appeared absorbed in the mighty recollections which the place and the occasion inspired.”
During the summer of 1860, Albert, Prince of Wales, and heir apparent to the throne of England, visited, in company with President Buchanan, the tomb of Washington. Here amid the gorgeous beauties of a southern summer, the grandson of George the Third forgot his royalty in the presence of departed worth; and bent his knee in awe before a mere handful of ashes, which, but for the cold marble encompassing them, would be blown to the four winds of the earth. It was a strange sight to see that bright, youthful form kneeling before the tomb of the Father of his Country, and attesting his appreciation of the great spirit which more than any other wrested its broad domains from him.
Stealthily the years go by, and we wist not they are passing, yet the muffled and hoarse voice of a century astounds us with its parting. The centennial birthdays have been celebrated; we have passed the hundredth anniversary of victories won and independence achieved. If the glad, free spirits of the Chief and his companion are permitted to review their earthly pilgrimage, let it be a source of gratification to us to know they smile upon a Republic of peace. Their bodies we guard, while they crumbled away in the bosom of their birth-place,and as long as a son of America remains a freeman, it will be a well-spring of inspiration to feel that Virginia contains thePater Patriæand the woman immortalized by his love.
Painted by G. Stuart Engraved by G. F. Storm. A Adams