is well, perhaps, that its walls cannot tell all or aught of the oppression and outrage which transpired within them. In its yard stood the just gallows whereon Wirz was hung for the tortures which he inflicted on Union. prisoners at Andersonville. Others were also executed here during the war.

Soon after the close of the war, Mr. George T. Brown, then Sergeant-at-Arms of the Senate, bought the property and proceeded to transmute the Old Capitol Prison into the three elegant mansions which now occupy its ground.

With this famous house must close my chapter on the Historic Homes and Haunts of Washington. To write minutely of them all would require a volume. Full detail is here impossible, but no one of the most famous has been omitted.

CHAPTER XLIX.

MOUNT VERNON-MEMORIAL DAY-ARLINGTON.

The Tomb of Washington-The Pilgrims Who Visit it-Where George and Martha Washington Rest-The American Mecca-The Thought of Other Graves-The Defenders of the Republic-Eating Boiled Eggs-A Butterfly Visit-The Old Mansion-House-Patriarchal Dogs-Remembering a Feast-The Room in which Washington Died-The Great Key of the Bastile-The Gift of Lafayette-The Harpsichord of Eleanor Custis-The Belle of Mount Vernon-Moralizing-Inside the Mansion-Uncle Tom's Bouquets-Beautiful Scenery-Memorial Day at Arlington-The Soldiers' Orphans-The Grave of Forty SoldiersThe Sacrifice of a Widow's Son-The Children's Offering-The Record of the Brave-A National Prayer for the Dead.

W

E have newer and dearer shrines, even, than the tomb of Washington; yet, in these soft, summer mornings, many pilgrims turn their faces toward Mount

Vernon.

Every morning a large company, including the young and the old, the refined and the vulgar, land at the little wharf below the home of Washington. Fathers and mothers come with their children and their lunch-baskets. Pretty girls come with venerable duennas, and young men come to look at them in spite of their keepers. Lovers come and go, maundering along the lanes, as lovers will. Relic-hunters come to break off twigs and pilfer pansies; newspaper people come, agog for an item; and, for the climax, we will believe that a few come solely to do reverence at the tomb of the Father of their country.

Passing up a wooded lane that winds over the hill, we reached the famed sarcophagus, which engravings have made familiar to many eyes that have never beheld it. Here, on their marble couch, amid the grassy slopes and tutelary trees of their ancient domain, rest the bodies of George and Martha Washington. Full of years and full of honors they laid down, and their tomb has been the Mecca of this continent. It never can be other than it is. Who would rob it of one hallowed memory? Yet, as I looked at its sculptured marble, I thought of many and many a nameless grave that I had seen by the roadside, and on the scathed fields of Virginia, parched by summer's sun, covered by winter's snow, unturfed, uncared-for-the grave of the volunteer. Dear to me as this sepulchre of the great, is the grave of the lowliest soldier who perished for his country.

The nation will reverence always the grave of Washington. But to this generation, and to the generations which shall come after, are committed many graves which cannot be held less dear. Let every city and every village in the land gather, as most precious jewels, the names of its dead who died for liberty. Set them in enduring marble; blazon them in the public places; let them greet the traveller on silent hill-tops, and in the peaceful vales; the names of our heroes, that we, our children, our children's children, to remotest time, may never forget the defenders of the republic, what they suffered and what they gained.

We ate boiled eggs and other good things within sight of the tomb of the Father of our Country-a very necessary proceeding before essaying to climb the hill. While we were eating, a bright blue butterfly came and paid

THE ROOM IN WHICH WASHINGTON DIED. 583

us a visit. It looked just as if one of the myrtles had danced up from the bank before us, and was palpitating in the sunshiny air. Miss Butterfly was the loveliest

"blue" I ever saw.

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 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.

crowd is not

In the dining-room, we see the famous marble mantel,