When I reached the top of the dome, I felt a little tired; but probably not much more so than others who ascended. It is a fatiguing task for any one, to ascend to the height of three hundred feet, by means of a winding stairway.
That same afternoon I visited the unfinished monument erected to the memory of George Washington. This monument is beautiful in design. It was to have been five hundred feet high, surrounded at the base by a pantheon one hundred feet high and two hundred and fifty feet in diameter. But it has only reached the height of one hundred and seventy feet, having there abruptly stopped. It stands now a monument of the forgetfulness and ingratitude of the American people. Till it is finished—which I fear will never be—the whole land ought to be covered with one broad blush of shame.
The monument was commenced years ago, by a certain “Association” which collected large sums of money for the purpose; and for a short time the work went on so actively that had it thus continued till now, the grand column of stone would have pierced the clouds, and there would have been no way of getting at the top except by means of a balloon. It stopped short, however, at the height mentioned; and its square blunt-looking top is covered with boards, to keep the rain off; the poorly protected walls are cracking; and the stray swine are rooting and wallowing about in the mud at its base. Not seventy years have elapsed since George Washington, without whom we would probably never have been an independent nation, passed from earth, and now, alas! it seems that his memory has also passed from the hearts of his unworthy countrymen. Take John Smith’s word for it, reader, a nation that can thus soon forget its father and founder, the very author of its being, must, at no very distant day, lose sight of itself. Byron says:
“There is the moral of all human tales;
Tis but the same rehearsal of the past;
First freedom, and then glory—when that fails,
Wealth, vice, corruption, barbarism at last.”
In the Revolutionary war we gained our freedom, in the war of 1812 we perpetuated it; in the Mexican war we gained glory; then followed wealth, in the acquisition of California, Texas and other territory: in the recent civil war, we almost reached the vice, corruption and barbarism.
Next day I rode out to Georgetown, in a street-car and then hired a riding-horse, to visit Camp Pierpont, Virginia, several miles from the Chain Bridge, where I had spent my first winter in the army. The proprietor of the livery stable, as he led the horse out, saddled and bridled, said:
“You can ride a horse, eh?”