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 sixty-eight 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.

I could not resist 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 and surrounded by trees, I saw a summer-house 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 down 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 seemed to have built their nests in its forsaken interior, and we were not inclined to molest them.

I looked back at the old homestead endeared to every American, and stamped upon memory each portion of its outlines.

High above me, the small cupalo 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 my nature 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 me, embosomed in vines interspersed with delicately tinted fuchsias.

Even as I was standing now looking for the first and perhaps the last time upon Mount Vernon, so in the beautiful harvest month I 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 elevating and 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 remark 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 enthu siasm.

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, con

spired to freeze every thought of life and beauty, and the mind dwelt upon the rust of decay.

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. But a stronger link than mere possessions animated the feelings, and bound that royal scion to the Patriot's grave. "Love of Liberty" was the magic wand which kindled in the breast of the stranger adoration for the memory of the departed, and when he turned to leave that place of sacredness, eyes not always used to weeping, were moist with falling tears.

Stealthily the years go by, and we wist not they are passing, yet the muffled and hoarse voice of a century astounds us with its parting. The centennial birthdays have been celebrated; soon we approach the hundredth anniversary of victories won and independence achieved. If the glad, free spirits of the Chief and his companion are permitted to review their earthly pilgrimage, let it be a source of gratification to us to know they smile upon a Republic of peace. Their bodies we guard, while they crumbled away in the bosom of their birth-place, and as long as a son of America remains a freeman, it will be a well-spring of inspiration to feel that Virginia contains the Pater Patrice and the woman immortalized by his love.

We have known changes as a nation, and there have been dreadful contentions in this beautiful land