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-time I 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 sunshine laughing 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 to freeze 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.
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 solemnity of the scene. All hearts beat in unison with the throbbings of the veteran’s bosom, as he looked for the last time on 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.