During congressional session the President holds weekly levées; and one of these I determined to attend, prompted as much by curiosity to see how such things were done, as desire to pay my respects. Accordingly, on a certain night, at eight o‘clock precisely, I went to the White House, and was admitted without hesitation. On reaching the door of the reception room, I gave my card to the district marshal, who conducted me to President Pierce, to whom I was introduced. I was received with a hearty welcome, and a shake of the hand. Indeed, I noticed that he had a kindly word of greeting for all who came. Not having any very important communication to make that would be either startling or interesting to the President of the United States, I bowed, and retired to the promenade room, where I found numbers of people who had been “presented” walking about and chatting in groups on all sorts of subjects—political, foreign, and domestic, and anything they liked. Some were in evening dress, others not; but all seemed perfectly easy and affable one with another. There was no restraint, and the only passport required to these levées was decent behaviour and respectability. There was music also. A band was playing in the vestibule, and everyone evidently enjoyed the reunion, and felt perfectly at home. Never having been presented at court, I am not able to make any comparison pro or con.
There is also an observatory at Washington, which I visited; but not being fortunate enough to meet the—what shall I say? “astronomer-royal,” comes readiest, but that is not correct: well, then, the—“astronomer republic,” I did not see the large telescope and other astronomical instruments worked.
The photographic galleries were all situated on Pennsylvania Avenue, and they were numerous enough. At that time they rejoiced in the name of “Daguerrean Galleries;” and the proprietor, or operator, was called a “Daguerrean.” Their reception rooms were designated “saloons,” which were invariably well furnished—some of them superbly—and filled with specimens. Their “studios” and workshops behind the scenes were fitted with all sorts of ingenious contrivances for “buffing” and “coating” and expediting the work. Although the greatest number of mechanical appliances were employed in the Daguerreotype branch of photography, art was not altogether ignored in its practice. One house made a business feature of very beautifully coloured Daguerreotypes, tinted with dry colours, quite equal to those done in Europe. Another house made a feature of “Daguerreotypes painted in oil;” and the likeness was most admirably preserved. I saw one of the President, and several of the members of Congress, which I knew to be unmistakable portraits. Although the Daguerreotype was most tenaciously adhered to as the best means of producing photographic portraits, the collodion process—or the “crystaltype,” as they then called it—was not neglected. It was used by a few for portraits, but chiefly for views.
Having seen all that was worth seeing in the city, I made excursions into the country, in search of subjects for the camera or pencil.
Georgetown, a little way from Washington, and its picturesque cemetery, offer several pretty bits for the camera. Arlington Heights, the Long Bridge, and many nooks about there, are sufficiently tempting; but of all the excursions about Washington, Mount Vernon—a few miles down the Potomac, on the Virginia side—is by far the most interesting. Mount Vernon is the name of the place where General George Washington lived and died, and is the “Mecca” of the Americans. Nearly every day there are pilgrims from some or all parts of the States to the tomb of Washington, which is in the grounds of Mount Vernon. They visit this place with a kind of religious awe and veneration, and come from far and wide to say they have seen it. For, in truth, there is little to see but the strangest-looking and ugliest brick building I ever beheld, with open iron gates that allow you to look into the darkness of the interior, and see nothing. I took a view of the tomb, and here it is:—A red brick building, squat and low, of the most unsightly design and proportions imaginable—resembling one of our country “deadhouses” more than anything else I could compare it to. It was stuck away from the house among trees and brushwood, and in an advanced state of dilapidation—a disgrace to the nation that had sprung from that great man’s honest devotion! Over the Gothic entrance is a white slab, with the following inscription on it:—
“Within this Enclosure
Rest
the remains of
General George Washington.”
The remains of “Lady Washington” lie there also; and there are several white obelisks about to the memory of other members of the family.
The house itself is a “frame building” of two storeys, with a piazza running along the front of it, and is on the whole a mean-looking edifice; but was probably grand enough for the simple tastes of the man who dwelt in it, and has hallowed the place with the greatness and goodness of his life. The interior of the house looked as if it had once been a comfortable and cozy habitation. In the hall was put up a desk, with a “visitors’ book,” wherein they were expected to enter their names; and few failed to pay such a cheap tribute to the memory of the father of their country.
The grounds, which were full of natural beauties, had been allowed to run into a state of wild tangle-wood; and I had some trouble to pick my way over broken paths down to the riverside again, where I took the “boat,” and returned to the city, touching at Fort Washington on the way. The day had been remarkably fine; the evening was calm and lovely; the silence of the river disturbed only by the splash of our paddles, and the song of the fishermen on shore as they drew in their laden nets; and the moon shone as only she can shine in those latitudes. Nothing could denote more peace and quietude as I sailed on the Potomac on that lovely evening. There was such a perfect lull of the natural elements—such a happy combination of all that was beautiful and promising—it seemed impossible for such a hurricane of men’s passions—such yells of strife and shouts of victory, such a swoop of death as afterwards rushed down those valleys—ever to come to pass.
Such sad reverse was, however, seen on my second visit to the Potomac. The narration of the stirring scenes then presented will form a picture less peaceful and happy, but unfortunately intensely real and painfully true.