Clearfield Republican

A Visit to Mount Vernon.

What American is there who does not feel a sacred interest in that sweet place, on the shores of the quiet Potomac, once ennobled by Washington's presence, and now hallowed by his ashes? It is the Mecca of the republic a spot where her pilgrim-sons come, with reverential homage to stand beneath the noble old trees whose shadow once fell on the broad and godlike brow of Washington himself!

Our first visit to the Mount Vernon, two years ago, was in the golden flush of autumn. I well remember the crimson and russet robes of the quiet woods that fringed the water side, and the rude, narrow bridge, built far out in the river, over which we were compelled to pass before we could reach the shore. And then, the steep ascent up through a scarcely trodden path, whose outlines were scarcely discernible through the bright drifts of brown and orange leaves which fluttered down through the warm, blue air—the russet ferns, the purple asters, the golden rods, whose fiery torches hung like lines of flame along the natural terraces, and the sweet wild mint, whose fragrance even now seems inseparable from that October day at Mount Vernon!

But this time it was a bright winter scene, when our little party stood once more on the smooth shore—one of those days when the calendar tells us it is February, in obstinate contradiction to the radiant sky and warm breezes that speak of May itself. The sunny slopes and steep banks wore a delicate tinge of velvet green, and nature seemed as if preparing for the light feet of the coming spring-time!

Probably no private residence in the United States can boast a finer view than Mount Vernon. From the house a prospect is visible of the broad, bright river, with quiet sails gliding slowly over its sunny expanse, and miles on miles of wooded shores, rising up from the water side, and forming one of the finest natural panoramas imaginable.

The house itself stands on a bit of smooth, level lawn: a tiny opening in the midst of the grand old trees, whose interlacing branches are so plainly outlined against the blue heavens: and its old-fashioned portico, a sort of continuation of the eaves, supported by rude yet picturesque pillars seems almost like a memory of the past century. It is there, as the attendants tell us, that the arm-chair of Washington was brought on summer evenings: it was over the sunken stone flags forming its pavement that he was wont to pace for hours: and we look with a species of veneration on the keystones that have been worn away by the feet of Washington.

A wide, sunny old hall opens from this portico, extending through from door to door—not a narrow modern entry, but a genuine old Virginia hall, which looks like three or four spacious rooms thrown into one, and hung with quaint old maps of foreign countries, which still look down upon you with their discolored lines, though he who once gazed on them has gone into an undiscovered country, of which the world has neither map nor chart.

The library, the parlor, the dining room, are all places of interest, but more particularly the former. Once it must have been a splendid room; the remains of its departed grandeur may still be traced in its faded frescoes, dim oil-paintings, and massive chairs. It is said that this is the same furniture that adorned this library when Washington sat by the hearth, or perused the quaint pages of the weekly newspaper at the open window. His favorite arm-chair stands just within the hall, and every visitor who enters the house must, of course, take a seat in it, to prove its identity!

Passing out at the back door, we enter the gardens, which are not so attractive at this season of the year, although, during the summer, they are kept in excellent order. But the bright edgings of box which surround every flower-bed, and the cheerful evergreens have a pleasant effect, bathed, as they are, in the radiant sunshine: and the green-houses at the left hand, though narrow and old-fashioned, are full of blushing roses, camellias, geraniums, and azalias.

Here are exposed for sale tiny bouquets, arranged with the rare taste that all negroes seem intuitively to possess—relics of Mount Vernon which are eagerly bought up, at exorbitant prices, by all patriotic Yankees. At every available vantage-ground is also posted a gray-headed old negro with a bundle of sticks, over which he continually ejaculates—

"Nice hickory sticks, massa—rale Mount Vernon wood! Buy one, sah, to 'member Gineral Washington by?"

Of course every one buys one of these mementoes, firmly believing in the old darkey's solemn asseveration that they are "cut close to de Gineral's tomb," although we don't hesitate to say that if the Mount Vernon woods had been cut down three or four times over, they wouldn't have yielded half the number of "genuine hickory canes" that have been palmed off on unsuspecting strangers by these sable deceivers.

But the solemn old tomb itself! It is like a shrine, in its venerable age and unpretending simplicity. You can only see a structure of gray, mossy stone, with an iron gate, which forms the entrance of the family vault of the Washingtons. A simple sarcophagus is just visible inside, and there were the pleasant shadows of the moving trees can just fall, slumber the hallowed ashes of him who was the morning-star of our republic.

What a contrast to the burial places of kings and conquerors! He sleeps not in the gloom of great cathedrals, or in the light of consecrated tapers, among sculptured effigies and sable plumes, but wrapped in the green arms of the fragrant earth, with the moving boughs and murmuring river for a dirge. His grave is in the wide heart of the American nation, and his memory needs no lengthy inscription or solemn ceremonies to keep it alive.

The red, level light of sunset is beginning to checker the floor of the old portico as we descend the slope once more. We have lost the idle gayety with which we climbed up a few hours ago, and we step lightly and speak softly, like the pilgrims coming from the shadow of some old temple at Jerusalem. And as the swift little boat bears us away over the calm waters of the Potomac, we look back regretfully at the light elevation where the sunset is shining down on the mossy roof of Mount Vernon, and on the tomb of Washington.
MRS. GEORGE WASHINGTON WILLYs.

Washington City, Feb. 1858.