observed them conversing, and often wondered and watched as a child to see if any of the party spoke, but never perceived that any thing was said. He was always dressed in black, and all three wore cocked hats. "It was Mrs. Washington's custom to return visits on the third day, and in calling on her mother, she would send a footman over, who would knock loudly and announce Mrs. Washington, who would then come over with Mr. Lear." "Her manners were

very easy, pleasant, and unceremonious, with the characteristics of other Virginia ladies." An English manufacturer breakfasted with the President's family on the 8th of June, 1794. "I confess," he says, "I was struck with awe and veneration when I recollected that I was now in the presence of the great Washington, the noble and wise benefactor of the world,' as Mirabeau styles him. The President seemed very thoughtful, and was slow in delivering himself, which induced some to believe him reserved. But it was rather, I apprehend, the result of much reflection; for he had, to me, an appearance of affability and accommodation. He was at this time in his sixty-third year, but had very little the appearance of age, ing been all his life so exceedingly temperate. Mrs. Washington herself made tea and coffee for us. On the table were two small plates of sliced tongue, and dry toast, bread and butter, but no broiled fish, as is the general custom here. She struck me as being something older than the President, though I understand they were both born the same year. She was extremely simple in her dress, and wore a very plain cap, with her gray hair turned up under it."

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Eight years of prosperity and progression blessed the administration of Washington, and now the hour of departure was drawing near. With feelings of pleasure, Mrs. Washington prepared for the long-desired return to her home on the Potomac; and when the dauntless robins began to sing and hardy daisies to bloom, the family set out, accompanied by the son of General Lafayette. Once again the wife and grandmother assumed the duties congenial to her nature, and it was reasonable to hope that she might pass many years of tranquil, unalloyed happiness under her own vine and fig-tree. The old life was resumed, and the long-silent house echoed the voices of the young and happy. It was during this season of rest and quiet that Washington devoted much of his time to the planning and laying out of the city which bears his name. An account is given of his coming, on one occasion, to it, and when he reached the wharf the cannon pealed forth a welcome. Passing along the Georgetown road, he halted in front of the place desig nated as the "White House," so called in honor of the former home of his wife, and intended as a resi dence for the President; workmen were then laying the foundation of the building afterward burned. He was deeply interested in the welfare of the chosen seat of the government, and an amusing anecdote is related of his conference with David Burns, whose residence was on the ground south of the Presidential mansion, and was until recently standing. Washing ton alludes to him in one of his letters as the "obstinate Mr. Burns;" and it is related that, when the

President was dwelling upon the advantage he would derive from the sale, the old man replied, "I suppose you think people here are going to take every grist that comes from you as pure grain; but what would you have been if you hadn't married the widow Custis?"

Mount Vernon was constantly thronged with visitors; and to the "Correspondence of Washington," which, during these last two years of his life, are very voluminous, we are indebted for many items of public and private interest. But a blow was in store for the contented wife, which none suspected. A cold, taken after a long ride about the farm, produced fever and swelling of the throat, which, on the 14th of December, 1799, resulted in the death of the deeply-loved husband. A wail of anguish went up from the nation as the direful news flew by each hut and hamlet; but in that hallowed room, forever consecrated, the brave woman who has lost her all, sits calmly serene. She suspects that he is gone, for the doctor and Mr. Lear are gazing at each other in mute anguish; and rising from her low seat at the foot of his bed, she sees the limbs are composed and the breath gone. O agony! what is there so fearful to a clinging woman's heart as the strong, loving arm that enfolded her, cold and stiff forever. The cover is straightened as he fixed it, and his face is composed after the vio lent struggle; but what is this appearance of triumph to the desolate widowed being, who gasps for breath like one drowning, as she totters to his side? But the sweet features calm her; perhaps she is thinking

of how he would have her do if his spirit could only speak. Whatever of inward peace receiving, there is a determined effort at control perceptible, and she is saying, ""Tis well; all is now over. I shall soon fol low him. I have no more trials to pass through." One long look, as if her hungry soul was obtaining food to feed on through all eternity, and she is assisted from the room. How full of holy memories must that chamber of death have been to her as she summoned courage to turn and drink in the last look. The great fireside, with the smouldering embers dying into ashes gray-the quaint old mantle, all covered with vials and appendages of a sick-apartment-their easy-chairs side by side, one deserted forever, and cruel sight to the pitiful sufferer—their bed, upon which lay her friend and companion for the last time. It was wrong to let her stand there and suffer so, but her awe-stricken appearance paralyzed the stoutest heart, and they only waited. A pale, haggard look succeeds the fierce intensity of her gaze, and she wraps her shawl about her, and turns forever from all she in that hour lost. Another room receives her; another fire is built for her; and in the endless watches of that black night she masters the longings of her heart, and never more crossed the threshold of that chamber of her loved and lost. A sickening feeling of utter loneliness and desolation ushered in the early morn of the first day of her widowhood, but her resolve was made; and when her loved ones saw it pained her, they urged her no more that she should go back to the Caaba of her heart.

"Congress resolved, that a marble monument be erected by the United States, in the Capitol at the city of Washington, and that the family of George Washington be requested to permit his body to be deposited under it, and that the monument be so designed as to commemorate the great events of his military and political life. And it further resolved,

"That there be a funeral procession from Congress Hall to the German Lutheran Church in honor of the memory of General George Washington, on Thursday the 26th inst., and that an oration be prepared at the request of Congress, to be delivered before both Houses on that day, and that the President of the Senate and Speaker of the House of Representatives be desired to request one of the members of Congress to prepare and deliver the same. And it further resolved,

"That the President of the United States be requested to direct a copy of the resolutions to be transmitted to Mrs. Washington, assuring her of the profound respect Congress will ever bear to her person and character; of their condolence on the late afflicting Dispensation of Providence, and entreating her assent to the interment of the Remains of General George Washington in the manner expressed in the first resolution.

And it further Resolved: "That the President of the United States be requested to issue a Proclamation notifying the People throughout the United States the recommendation contained in the third resolution."

In reply to the above resolutions which were