VIEW OF “THE CITY OF THE SLAIN.”—ARLINGTON.
The remains of over 8,000 soldiers, killed during the war, lie buried in this Cemetery;—the name, regiment, and date of death of each is painted on a wooden head-board.
From the tomb to the old mansion house is a pleasant walk over upland lawns and under sheltering trees. A few patriarchal dogs came forth to meet us, and that was all the welcome we received. Their tails were very limp, their ears very droopy, their legs very shaky, but they did their best to seem glad to see us, and that was more than anybody else did. One emaciated quadruped, I am sure, will remember to his dying hour the luncheon of beef and eggs of which he partook so peacefully yesterday, under an old tree within sight of Washington’s dining-room.
I am thankful that Congress appropriated thousands of dollars to repair the Mount Vernon mansion. A mansion in its day, its rooms can bear no comparison with those of modern houses which make no pretensions. The dining-hall is the only one that can claim anything like stateliness or elegance of proportion. The parlors are the merest boxes, each containing one high window. The chamber in which Washington died commands an exquisite view, through the vistas of the grounds, down the Potomac. But, oh! what a cell, compared with the spacious apartments inhabited by the great generals of our own day. Mrs. Washington never occupied this room after the death of her husband. It was closed, and all in it kept sacred to his memory. She removed to the chamber above, and occupied it till her death. We went up. It is a mere garret. One little attic-window gives a meagre glimpse of the lovely landscape below. But in its best estate the room must have been very contracted, dreary, and without a convenience. No modern “Bridget” would be content to occupy for a week such a room as this in which Martha Washington lived and died.
The home of Washington, now the home of the nation, at last is open, kindly and genial. Here, in the hall, in its glass case, hangs the great key of the Bastile, presented to Washington by Lafayette, at the destruction of that prison in 1789.
Here what an opportunity to stand and gaze and moralize over the history of the brave men and beautiful women whose faces it shut into darkness! So thick gather the celebrated names, I must not mention one.
Here, in the grand dining-room, stands the quaint old harpsichord which General Washington presented as a wedding gift to his adopted daughter, the beautiful Eleanor Custis. It was made in Cheapside, Haymarket, London, and old ocean tossed it over to delight the heart of the belle of Mount Vernon. Here what another fine opportunity to “reflect” over the broken and rusty keys that once thrilled to the touch of beauty, and stirred with melody in the presence of the great, and made the old halls ring with the music of festivals! Only my reflections, like many other people’s, have all come to me afterward, sitting here in my chair, thinking of that old harpsichord. When I looked at it, I doubt if I had a reflection at all. Staring at relics in the midst of a jostling crowd is not particularly conducive to reflection—at least not to emotion. Even the bedstead on which Washington died seems to lose half its sacredness being handled and commented on by a careless crowd.
In the dining-room, we see the famous marble mantel, carved in Italy, and presented to General Washington by Samuel Vaugh. Its proportions are not grand, but its carving is exquisite, and it still retains its whiteness and polish.
The dining-room is a noble apartment of lofty proportions, extending through the depth of the house, its windows on front, back and sides overlooking the loveliest portion of the grounds. It is a sunshiny room, fit for family cheer. And (reflection third) what illustrious men and famous women have broken bread and tasted wine within its carved and mouldy walls in the days that are no more!
The east and west parlors, leading from the dining-room, are meagre, high-windowed rooms. Indeed, the whole house of the Father of his Country, though, doubtless, a princely mansion in its day, reminds a denizen of the present generation of the growth of architecture, and of modern convenience and elegance, quite as much as of anything else. Out on the veranda, where a venerable Uncle Tom drives a thrifty trade in the bouquet line, we find the real beauty of Mount Vernon—its prospect. Here, looking out upon terraced lawns and forest trees, and down the gentlest of slopes to the wide Potomac, flecked with milky sails, steamboats plying its waves, and pleasure-barques drifting and dozing with the spring-time gales, we see one of the softest and fairest of landscapes. A gentle sky, the blue air goldened with daffodils and fragrant with hyacinths, pleasant friends by my side. Thus I think of Mount Vernon.