Washington, to be a city, lacks three elements—commerce, representation, health; the environs are picturesque, and the new forts on the hill-tops little injure the landscape.
But the question is not premature, whether Washington city will ever answer the purposes of a stable seat of government, and reflect the enterprise, patriotism, and taste of the American people.
I have sometimes thought that these huge public buildings,—now inadequate to accommodate the machinery of the Government,—would, at some future day, be the nucleus of a great lycee, and that Washington would become the Padua of the Republic, its University and Louvre, while legislation and administration, despairing of giving dignity to the place, would depart for a more congenial locality.
At any rate, the old Federal theory of a sylvan seat of government has failed.
For a sequestered and virtuous retreat of legislation, we have corruption augmented by dirt, and business stagnation aggravated by disease. There are virtues in the town; but these must be searched for, and the vices are obvious.
CHAPTER XXIX.
FIVE FORKS.
I commence my account on the battle-field, but must soon make the long and lonely ride to Humphrey's Station, where I shall continue it.
I am sitting by Sheridan's camp-fire, on the spot he has just signalized by the most individual and complete victory of the war. All his veterans are around him, stooping by knots over the bright fagots, to talk together, or stretched upon the leaves of the forest, asleep, with the stains of powder yet upon their faces. There are dark masses of horses blackened into the gray background, and ambulances are creaking to and fro. I hear the sobs and howls of the weary, and note, afar off, among the pines, moving lights of burying parties, which are tumbling the slain into the trenches. A cowed and shivering silence has succeeded the late burst of drums, trumpets, and cannon; the dead are at rest; the captives are quiet; the good cause has won again, and I shall try to tell you how.