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 commonplace thoughts 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 Admiral Vernon, 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, brick walls, 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 of worthy 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 laid to 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.