Our attention was arrested for a moment, as we passed throug

A

GALLOP

AMONG

AMERICAN SCENERY:

OR,

SKETCHES

OF

AMERICAN SCENES AND MILITARY ADVENTURE

BY

AUGUSTUS E. SILLIMAN.

[Illustration]

NEW-YORK:

D. APPLETON & CO., 200 BROADWAY.

PHILADELPHIA:

GEO. S. APPLETON, 148 CHESNUT STREET.

M DCCC XLIII.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843,

BY D. APPLETON AND CO.,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern

District of New-York.

H. LUDWIG, PRINTER,

72 Vesey-st., N. Y.

TO

BENJAMIN D. SILLIMAN,

THIS

LITTLE VOLUME

IS

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,

BY

HIS BROTHER.

A number of the following Sketches have appeared at intervals in the

columns of the New-York American.

CONTENTS.

I. BANKS OF THE POTOMAC 1

II. THE COUNTRY PASTOR 8

III. MOUNT VERNON 13

IV. MEDICAL STUDENT 25

V. THE RESURRECTIONISTS 39

VI. OLD KENNEDY, NO. I. 44

VII. OLD KENNEDY, NO. II. 53

VIII. OLD KENNEDY, NO. III. 59

IX. OLD KENNEDY, NO. IV. 68

X. LEE’S PARTISAN LEGION 78

XI. HUDSON RIVER 107

XII. NIGHT ATTACK ON FORT ERIE 113

XIII. BATTLE OF LUNDY’S LANE 120

XIV. LAKE GEORGE AND TICONDEROGA 131

XV. MONTREAL 139

XVI. THE NUN 144

XVII. CATARACTS OF NIAGARA 148

XVIII. MOUNT HOLYOKE 155

XIX. WHITE MOUNTAINS 160

XX. BASS FISHING OFF NEWPORT 169

XXI. BRENTON’S REEF 176

XXII. OLD TRINITY STEEPLE 185

XXIII. LONG ISLAND SOUND 201

XXIV. GREEN-WOOD CEMETERY 220

APPENDIX 233

BANKS OF THE POTOMAC.

No.—State-street—(storm without)—apartment strewed with sundry bachelor

appurtenances, fronting on the Battery—a gentleman, in dressing-gown and

embroidered slippers, measuring the room with hasty strides—exclaimeth

impatiently—

North-east by the flags of the shipping in the bay! North-east by the

chill rain dashing on the window panes! North-east by the weather-cocks

on all the steeples, from St. Paul’s to the dog-vane on the stable end!

_North-east_ by the ache of every bone in my body! Eheu! What’s to be

done? No going abroad in this torrent. I’ve read all the landlady’s

little library. How shall I kill the enemy? I’ll whistle; vulgar. Sing;

I can’t. There are the foils and the gloves. Pshaw! I have no friend to

pommel or pink; besides, the old lady in the room below, has nerves.

Whew! how it pours. I’ll—I’ll—stand and look out into the street.

Jupiter! how near the bread-cart came to going over the chimney sweep.

Poor Sooty—how he grins! He owes the worm no silk—whatever obligations

his rags may be under to the sheep. Poor fellow! Holloa! ho! blackey;

catch this quarter, and get you a hot breakfast. There goes that

confounded battery gate again! bang—bang—night and day. There’s never a

loafer takes his morning promenade, or even siesta on the grass, but must

needs follow his dirty face through that particular gate.

Alas! me miserable. What shall I do? The spirit of ennui rides me as

thoroughly as did the “old man of the sea” Sinbad the sailor. Eh! they’re

the dumb bells. Diminish nervous excitability, by muscular exertion.

Good!—humph; and there’s the old lady’s nerves below. How the wind roars

and rumbles round the chimney tops. Rain—rain—rain. There! that tin spout

is choked, and the gutter is pouring over a young cataract. Oh! that I

were a newspaper carrier, or a whale—or the sea serpent, chasing the down

East fishermen—or—in short, any thing, so that I need not mind the wet.

Hum—hum—what shall I do? I have it. Eureka! I have it. I’ll sit down and

give my friend of the American an account of my last ramble.

(Rolleth his chair up to the table at the fire—crosseth his legs on the

fender—and proceedeth to nib his pen.) Now for it. (Writes.)

* * * * *

You well recollect, my dear Mr. Editor, the arguments that I used, to

induce you to make a short journey to the South with me last summer;

and your answer, “I can’t leave the paper.” You well recollect that I

urged that we were not born to work alone; that life was short; that

sixteen or sixty, its term was but a flash; that we were rushing on

with increased velocity to that bourne, whose sands are marked, by

no returning foot-print—that bourne where the sceptre and diadem of

the monarch lie contemptuously hurled with the goad and chain of the

slave—where, their service ended, the broken wain of the yeoman, and the

grim cannon of the soldier, interlock their shattered wheels; the bayonet

and pruning-hook—the sword and the ploughshare rest without a name. You

well recollect that I reproached you, the rather, with too great love for

the green fields and giant elms around your cottage at Elizabethtown;

that I swore by my faith! and I believed in the doctrine of Pythagoras,

that I should look to see thy immortal part, transferred on its exit,

from its present habitation to one of those huge trees towering into the

blue ether; that there, in the sunny mornings of summer, for sonnets

which do enliven thy columns, I should hear the joyous call of the

robin—the shrill whistle of the scarlet oriole; for sparkling wit,—the

dew of night glittering on thy leaves in the early sunbeams; for wise

old saws, and dreamy legends, venerable moss gathering upon thy trunk

and branches, while, alike in the evening wind or howling blast, thou

shouldest stand firm against casuistry or dictation. “Wilt go? Wilt join

me?”—with soft persuasion murmured I. “The paper—the paper—the pa—per,”

quoth thou. “Presto,” quoth _I_—and without more ado started in my usual

heels-over-head fashion, alone on my journey.

I swept over the broad breast of the Delaware-dashed down the enemy

insulted Chesapeake—bounded through the city of riots and beauty, and

came down on my feet at the cottage of my whole-souled friend, Tom B——,

on the banks of the Potomac. The afternoon of my arrival was warm and

still, and every thing in nature, even the birds, seemed wrapped in

indolent repose. Slowly sauntering through the long vistas of sycamores

and elms, which adorned the grounds in picturesque avenues, the airy East

Indian cottage of my friend suddenly broke upon my sight, peering from

a whole load of flowering vines and sweet briars, tall white lilies,

and moss roses, from thick beds of myrtle at their feet, climbing into

the half open lattices, while two towering pines almost crossed their

extended branches above its lowly roof. I stole quietly through the

open door, examining the choice Italian landscapes hanging upon the

walls of the airy grass-matted hall,—slid through the drawing-rooms,

stopping for a moment to scan the crouching Venus and dying Gladiator

on their pedestals; to admire the exquisite Magdalen of Carlo Dolce—the

lovely Claude, the Cenci, and Flora beneath their silken tassels,—and

coming out upon the verandah overlooking the river, suspended in his

grass hammock, found master Tom, enjoying his luxurious siesta. His

double-barrelled gun and game-bag—his linen shooting jacket, huge

sombrero, and hunting-boots, were tumbled promiscuously in one corner

of the piazza,—while half a dozen fine plover, turning up their plump

breasts, a partridge, and some score of yellow-legged snipe, with the

powder-flask and shot-belt, were thrown across the back of the rustic

settee, trophies of his morning’s sport, beneath which, with their noses

extended between their legs in like luxurious repose, lay the huge old

Newfoundlander, “Bernard,” and his favourite pointer, “Soho.”

The mild breeze bore in the sweet perfume of the honey-suckle from a

neighbouring arbour, and the broad Potomac, stretched tranquilly onwards,

undisturbed save by the occasional jibe of the boom, or lazy creak of the

rudder of some craft, reflected with her white sails upon its surface.

The garden, with its white-gravelled walks, bordered with box, descended

in parterres to the river’s edge—an embroidered carpet of flowers;

and lemon and orange trees, released from their winter’s confinement,

displayed their golden fruit, hanging amid the green leaves in tempting

profusion. I bent over and looked into the hammock, and could not but

admire the serenity of the manly features, the measured heave of the

broad chest, and the masses of raven locks, playing around the white

forehead of the sleeper, as they were slowly lifted by the play of the

passing wind. I thought it were a sin to disturb him, so drawing out my

cigar case, I stretched myself on the settee at his side, complacently

reclining my head upon its arm. Whiles watching the blue smoke of my

“Regalia,” as it slowly wreathed and floated above my head—whiles

watching the still dreamy flow of the river—and whiles—if I must confess

it—cogitating which had been the wisest, myself the bachelor, or Tom the

married man,—Tom, myself, the dogs, forming a tolerably correct picture

of _still_ life,—a still life that remained unbroken for some half hour,

when through the glass door of the drawing-room a beautiful boy of three

or four years came galloping into the piazza, and bounding towards

the dogs, threw himself full length upon the shaggy Newfoundlander,

manfully striving to pull open his huge jaws with his little hands. The

Newfoundlander opening his eyes, saw me, and raising himself on his legs,

gave a low growl; while the child, relinquishing his hold upon the ears

to which he had clung, as the dog rose to his feet, came slowly up to

me, and placing his plump little hands upon my knee, looked curiously

and inquiringly into my face, his golden locks falling in a profusion

of ringlets down his superb sunburnt shoulders. I was charmed with the

confidence, and innocence, and sweetness beaming from his gaze, and

took him upon my knee, his hand playing with my watch guard, while his

beautiful blue eyes remained fixed in the same look of curious inquiry

on mine. I said it was a picture of _still_ life. Tom, aroused by the

dog, slowly lifted his head over the edge of the hammock, rubbed his

eyes as if uncertain whether he were in a dream, as I calmly and silently

returned his astonished gaze, and then, with a single swing, was at my

side, both of my hands clasped in his. The next moment, I fancy the

picture was other than _still_ life.

Why should I tell you of the tea-table, loaded with delicacies in the

matted hall, as the soft evening sun-set poured its last rays through

it? of the symmetrical figure clad in snowy whiteness—the Grecian

features, the dark Andalusian eyes, beaming with kindness from behind

the glittering silver at its head? Why, that the youngster tied by the

handkerchief in the high chair at his mother’s side, pertinaciously

kicked his tiny red shoes about him in frolic glee, while my little

knight of the golden locks, did the duty of the trencher at his father’s

elbow? Why, that as the shades of evening faded into twilight, that the

young gentry were snugly ensconced in their little bed, the mother’s

soft cheek pressed against the forehead of the eldest as he lisped his

evening prayer? and why, as soon “like twin roses on one stalk,” as they

were wrapped in innocent slumber, we sat in the fading twilight, talking

over old scenes and boyish recollections, retracing our steps back to

those days which, softened by the lapse of time, appear divested of every

thing save brightness and sunshine? why but to tell you that we were

aroused from those retrospections, by the sound of the church-going bell,

musically chiming in the distance.

THE COUNTRY PASTOR.

The slow tolling—now almost dying away, and now striking more strongly

upon the ear—arose from the church in the neighbouring town, where my

friends were in the habit of worshipping, and where they were to have the

opportunity on that evening of hearing the voice of their time-honoured

pastor—an opportunity which his great age and increasing infirmities had

made equally rare and valuable. I gladly accepted the invitation to join

them, as, aside from a desire to see the aged man, of whom I had so often

heard, if there is a time for devotion more consonant to my feelings than

another, it is when the quietness and serenity of a summer’s evening

dispel all external impressions, and every thing appears in unison with

harmony and benevolence.

As we walked the short half mile between the cottage and the church,

the stars shone in beauty amid the still rosy tints of the west—the

night-hawk stooped towards us, as he wheeled in his airy circles—the

whip-poor-will in the adjoining meadows sounded his mournful note,

and the crickets, with the chirping frogs in the neighbouring ponds,

sustained a ceaseless chorus. Arrived at the church-yard, we picked our

way among the old brown tomb-stones, their quaint devices, contrasted

here and there with others of more modern pretensions in white marble,

and entering the church, took our seats in silence. We were early; but

as the church gradually filled, it was interesting to watch group after

group, as it noiselessly measured the aisles, and sunk quietly upon

the cushioned seats. Now and then a pair of bright eyes would glance

curiously around from beneath a gay bonnet, and a stray tress be thrown

hastily aside; but alas! those clad in the habiliments of wo, too, too

often moved, phantom-like, to their places; the lights, as they threw a

momentary glare on their pale and care-worn faces, making more dark the

badges which affection has assumed as a tame index of inward grief. The

slow toll of the bell ceased—the silence became more deep;—an occasional

cough—the rustling of a dress—the turn of a leaf alone breaking the

perfect stillness.

The low tones of the organ rose gently and sweetly, and the voluntary

floated softly and mist-like over the assembly; now rising, and falling,

and undulating, with like dreamy harmony, as if the Æolian harp were

answering, with the passing airs playing among its strings, the ocean

gently laving her pebbly shores; then gradually rising and increasing

in depth, it grandly and solemnly ascended upwards, till thrown back,

reverberated from the walls of the circular dome above us, it rolled away

in deep and distant thunders. All became again silent. The venerable

form of a man of four-score years, his hair bleached with the sorrows of

eighty winters, rose slowly in the pulpit, and as, with eyes closed, yet

lifted to Heaven, he feebly supported himself with outstretched arms upon

its cushion, we heard almost in a whisper, “Let us pray, my brethren,”

fall tremulously from his lips. Nought, but the perfect stillness,

enabled us at first to hear the sentences pronounced with evident and

painful effort; but as he advanced in prayer, that almost whisper, became

firm and distinct, and his pallid cheek lighted up with a hectic flush,

as he waxed eloquent in the presence of his Maker.

His venerable features appeared to glow almost with inspiration, as he

drew near the throne of the Holy One; and the hearts of the mourners beat

more calmly, as they felt themselves carried into the presence of Him

that suffered. More thoughtless than the swallow that skims the summer

skies, must he have been, who could have heard that prayer, and not have

joined with reverence in its solemnity. His closing words still ring upon

my ear, and long will remain stamped upon my memory.

“My children—your fathers, and your fathers’ fathers have listened to my

voice. Generations have passed by me to their long account, and still

I have been left, and still my voice hath arisen from this holy place.

Wo! wo is me, if my Master hath looked upon me as a slack and unworthy

servant to his people. My children—but a few short days, and this

trembling voice that still strives to teach his blessed will, shall be

hushed in that sleep which the Archangel’s trump alone shall break—this

tottering form be laid beneath the mould from whence it came, there to

remain till that trump shall demand its presence at the judgment seat.

But with the last tones of this quivering voice, with the last grasp of

these trembling hands, I extend to you the sacred volume, as your guide

to happiness in this, your only light into the world to come.

“The sneers of human reason and vain philosophy shall desert you

assuredly, my children, as you stand upon the edge of that awful

precipice, where each of you _alone_ must take the fated plunge into the

deep darkness of the future—but this, this shall make clear your passage

as brightest noon-day. My children—I look back upon you as I speak—my

hand is on the door-latch—my foot upon the threshold—oh! when your short

days like mine are numbered, may you with the same reliance in his mercy,

say, Lo, blessed Master, we stand without—receive us into thy kingdom.”

As the service ended, it was good to see the kind-hearted feeling, with

which the congregation gathered around the venerable man—for he was pure,

and sincere, and true; and of a verity, as he said, his voice had arisen

among them above the infant’s wail, at the baptismal font—had joined

them with cheerfulness at the marriage feast, and still been heard in

solemn sympathy at the side of the dark and silent grave. It was the last

time that he addressed them. Not many days, and another voice pronounced

the burial service of the dead in that green church-yard, and the form of

the good old man was covered from their sight beneath its sod.

As we returned to our cottage home, the crescent moon was streaming

in silvery brightness, the constellations and galaxy resplendent with

“living fires,” and the far, far worlds rolling in immeasurable distance,

as twinkling stars trembled upon our human vision. The dews of night were

moist upon the grass, as we re-measured the lawn that led to the cottage;

where, after planning our visit for the following morning to Mount

Vernon, we soon were wrapped in contented and grateful repose.

MOUNT VERNON.

The sun raised himself in a huge globe of fire above the eastern horizon,

as my friend’s spirited bays stood saddled at the door of the cottage,

pawing, champing the bit, and playfully endeavouring to bite the black

boy who held them. Finishing an early breakfast, we were soon in our

saddles and full gallop on our journey; the dogs in an ecstacy of

delight, bounding along at our sides, overhauling and putting in bodily

terror every unfortunate cur that came in their way, as they sportively

tumbled him over and over in curious examination; old Bernard, with

glistening eyes and wagging tail, bestriding in grim fun the prostrate

form of the enemy. We passed rapidly through the rough paved streets of

Alexandria, watching eagerly for its famed beauties at their casements,

and clearing the town, were soon on the rustic road that leads to the

sacred place of America.

The meadows were glistening in the morning dew; the sweet perfume of the

clover filled the air; the white daisy and delicate cowslip danced over

their luxuriant grassy beds, as the fresh morning breeze fanned them

in its passage; and amid the sea of melody high above the merry gossip

of the bob-link, the chattering volubility of the mocking-bird, his

yellow spotted breast swelling with delight, his keen eye gazing into

the distance, the saucy “_you-can’t-see-me_” of the meadow lark sounded

in merry challenge, while the clear “whew-whew-it” of the quail from the

golden wheat-field, was echoed by his eager companion far down in the

green vales, as they stretched softly and gently into the distance, in

the long shadows of the early morning. Oh! let him that would scan the

benevolence of the Creator, leave his restless bed in the sweltering

city, and walk forth with the day in its youth,—for verily, like man, it

hath its youth, its manhood and its old age—and the sweetness of morning

is the youth of the day.

The hedges on the road side were covered with a tangled mass of verdure,

from which wild vines and green ivy crept to the surrounding trees,

wreathing gracefully their trunks and branches. The undergrowth was

loaded with wild roses and honeysuckles. The graceful fleur-de-lis,

curving its blue flowers, trembled upon the green banks, and the

pond-lily floating on its watery bed, threw forth its grateful fragrance,

as we occasionally passed through the swampy bottoms. Fat cattle grazed

indolently in the meadows; while now and then, as we cantered by their

pastures, the horses, with tails and manes erect, accompanied us on our

journey, till arriving at their confines, with eager neighing, they

would look after us, throw their heels high in the air, and gallop down

into the broad fields in the very jollity of freedom. Every thing seemed

contented and joyous. The hearty, happy-looking negroes, trudging along

to their agricultural labours, doffed their hats to us, with a cheerful

“good morning,” as we passed, or laughingly displayed their white teeth

and big eyes, as they led the dew-wet horse to the bars to mount and

drive to the milking the smooth, fat kine. A ride of an hour brought us

to the woods that adjoin Mount Vernon, which are cleared of undergrowth,

but in other respects as wild and untamed as if naught but the savage

had ever placed foot in them. Silence reigned through the deep glades,

unbroken, save by the hoofs of our horses as they resounded with hollow

echo; the sharp chirp of the squirrel, jumping among the dry leaves;

or the quick rap, rap, of the woodpecker, as his scarlet head and blue

back glanced momentarily from some dead trunk upon our eyesight. We

met with nothing to intercept our progress. Now and then, to be sure,

a drove of hogs, feeding upon the mast in the forest, would marshal

themselves in our path, stupidly staring at us with a sort of ludicrous,

half-drunken gravity, snuffing the air, as if determined to intercept our

progress; but as we came nearer, they would whirl short about, and with

a simultaneous grunt, their tails twisted in the air, gallop off with

desperate precipitation into the depths of the forest. Journeying a mile

or two further, we came upon the porter’s lodges, at the entrance of

the domain proper, which were old and ruinous. Proceeding still farther

over a very bad and rough carriage-road, we came suddenly in view of the

Potomac; and Mount Vernon, with its mansion-house and smooth, green lawn,

lay extended before us; Fort Washington’s battlements and cannon-filled

embrasures in stern silence guarding it from the opposite side of the

river.

Fastening our horses, under the guidance of a grey-headed old negro,

born in the family of General Washington, we entered the lawn and came

upon the rear-front, if the term may be allowed, of an old-fashioned

mansion, surmounted by a cupola and weather-cock, semicircular piazzas

extending around from each end, connecting it with the kitchen and

servant’s apartments. Various buildings, all bearing the impress of time,

were scattered about, evidently in architectural order and plan, and

the two large gardens, rendered interesting by the flowers and plants,

still blooming in the beds where they had been placed by the hands of

the General, extended back to the forest from which we had just emerged.

As we stood for a moment looking at the old building, we almost expected

to see the yellow travelling-carriage of his Excellency, with its four

beautiful bays, and liveried out-riders, draw up at the great hall door

in its centre. Having sent in our address, we received permission from

the courteous branch of the family, who now hold the estate, to enter

and survey the interior. We were struck with its extreme simplicity,

the lowness of the walls and ceilings, and the bare floors, which were

waxed, not, as with us, carpeted. The sides of the rooms were composed

exclusively of wooden panels, upon which hung some old oil paintings of

merit,—engravings of naval actions between the English, the Dutch, and

the French; and a small enamel miniature, which is considered the best

likeness extant of Washington. Curiosities of various kinds covered the

shelves and the mantels, and the painted porcelains and china jars, stood

in stately display behind the glass doors of the old-fashioned beaufets

in the corners.

Our attention was arrested for a moment, as we passed through one of the

rooms, by a large rusty key of iron, enclosed in a glass case. It was

the key of the Bastile, that infernal prison, that monument of centuries

of grinding cruelty and oppression, where men vanished, and were seen

no more of their day and generation,—where, by the intrigues of the

courtier, the subtle blandishments of the minion of the palace, letters

de cachet plunged equally the innocent, the imprudent, and the generous,

into the jaws of living death,—that accursed congerie of dungeons where,

from mid fellowship of rats and spiders, such scrap of soiled paper,

written in the blood of the poor prisoner, fluttering from a loop-hole in

its lofty towers, arrests the footstep of the casual passenger upon the

causeway.

“Mases de Latude, _thirty-two_ years prisoner in the Bastile, implores

good Christians to intercede for him, so that he may once more embrace

his poor old father and mother, if they yet live, and die in the open

world.”

Surely, nothing but the hallowed air of Mount Vernon could have prevented

the Prince of Darkness from bodily carrying off so precious a gem for

his cabinet. One side of the great drawing-room was ornamented with a

sculptured mantel in Italian marble, presented by Lafayette, the other

was covered with cases containing books of high toned selection, while,

from the third, its green silk curtain drawn aside, was suspended a

portrait of the present family, by Chapman. The figures of the portrait,

as large as life, presented a lady of middle age, clad in mourning,

surrounded by a group of children advancing into youth. It was well

executed, and in the dignified and saddened serenity, in the simple

and natural grouping, and the pure and unaffected expression of the

countenances, an American in any part of the world, would have at once

recognised a family group of the more intellectual and refined of his own

country. As we walked through the various rooms, from which the family

had withdrawn, we were so overcome with the illusion, the work-basket

with its scissors and thread—the half-opened book lying upon the table,

the large Bible prominently, not ostentatiously, in its place, the

portraits on the walls, the busts on their pedestals,—all causing such

a vivid impression of present life and being, that we almost expected to

see the towering form of the General entering the doorway, or passing

over the green lawn spread between us and that Potomac which we had so

often viewed from the same windows. We were at first disappointed at not

seeing in some conspicuous place, the sword, which had so often been

extended by the hand whose pulses quickened not in the hour of extremest

peril, as it marshalled the road of human liberty; but our disappointment

turned to admiration, and our hearts beat still higher, as we were

referred to, and read this clause in his last testament:

“To each of my four nephews, I bequeath one of the swords of which I

may die possessed. These swords are accompanied with the injunction not

to unsheath them for the purpose of shedding blood, except it be for

self-defence, or in defence of their country and its rights; and in the

latter case, to keep them unsheathed, and prefer falling with them in

their hands to the relinquishment thereof.”

Passing through the great hall, ornamented with pictures of English

hunting scenes, we ascended the oaken stair-case, with its carved and

antique balustrade;—we stood at the door—we pressed the handle—the

room and the bed where he died were before us. Nothing in the lofty

drama of his existence, surpassed the grandeur of that final scene;—the

cold which he had taken from exposure, in overseeing some part of his

grounds, and which resisted the earlier domestic remedies that were

applied, advanced in the course of two short days into that frightful

form of the disease of the throat, laryngitis.—It became necessary for

him to take to his bed. His valued friend, Dr. Craik, was instantly

summoned, and assisted by the best medical skill of the surrounding

country, exhausted all the means of his art, but without affording

him relief. He patiently submitted, though in great distress, to the

various remedies proposed, but it became evident from the deep gloom

settling upon the countenances of the medical gentlemen, that the case

was hopeless;—advancing insidiously, the disease had fastened itself

with deadly certainty. Looking with perfect calmness upon the sobbing

group around him, he said—“Grieve not my friends; it is as I anticipated

from the first;—the debt which we all owe, is now about to be paid—I am

resigned to the event.” Requesting Mrs. Washington to bring him two wills

from his escritoire, he directed one to be burnt, and placed the other in

her hands, as his last testament, and then gave some final instructions

to Mr. Lear, his secretary and relation, as to the adjustment his

business affairs. He soon after became greatly distressed, and as, in

the paroxysms which became more frequent and violent, Mr. Lear, who was

extended on the bed by his side, assisted him to turn, he, with kindness,

but with difficulty, articulated, “I fear I give you great trouble,

sir,—but—perhaps it is a duty that we all owe one to another—I trust that

you may receive the same attention, when you shall require it.”

As the night waned, the fatal symptoms became more imminent—his breath

more laboured and suffocating, and his voice soon after failed him.

Perceiving his end approaching, he straightened himself to his full

length, he folded his own hands in the necessary attitude upon his

chest—placing his finger upon the pulse of the left wrist, and thus

calmly prepared, and watching his own dissolution, he awaited the summons

of his Maker. The last faint hopes of his friends had disappeared;—Mrs.

Washington, stupified with grief, sat at the foot of the bed, her eyes

fixed steadfastly upon him; Dr. Craik, in deep gloom, stood with his face

buried in his hands at the fire,—his faithful black servant, Christopher,

the tears uncontrolled trickling down his face, on one side, took the

last look of his dying master; while Mr. Lear, in speechless grief, with

folded hands, bent over his pillow on the other.

Nought broke the stillness of his last moments, but the suppressed sobs

of the affectionate servants collected on the stair-case; the tick of the

large clock in the hall, as it measured off, with painful distinctness,

the last fleeting moments of his existence, and the low moan of the

winter wind, as it swept through the leafless snow-covered trees; the

labouring and wearied spirit drew nearer and nearer to its goal; the

blood languidly coursed slower and more slowly through its channels—the

noble heart stopped—struggled—stopt—fluttered—the right hand slowly slid

from the wrist, upon which its finger had been placed—it fell at the

side—and the manly effigy of Washington was all that remained, extended

upon the death couch.

We left that room, as those who leave a sick room: a suppressed whisper

alone escaped us, as, with a sort of instinctive silence and awe, we drew

the door slowly and firmly to its place behind us. We again descended the

antique stair-case, and emerged upon the lawn, in front of the mansion.

Passing through several coppices of trees, we approached the sepulchre,

where rest the remains of his earthly semblance. In the open arch of a

vault composed of brick, secured and firmly protected by gates of open

iron work, were two large sarcophagi of white marble, in one of which,

carved in high relief, with the arms of the republic, were deposited the

remains of him, “who was first in war, first in peace, and first in the

hearts of his countrymen.” A marble slab, set into the brick wall of the

exterior, bearing in black letters simply this inscription—

“The remains of

Gen’l George Washington.”

There rested all that was mortal of the man, whose justice—whose

virtue—whose patriotism—meet with no parallel in human history. There,

within the smoke of his own hearth-stone, mouldered the remains of

that towering form, whose spirit, whether in the battle, or in the

council-hall, in the fierce dissensions of public discord, or in the

quiet relations of social life, shone with the same stern and spotless

purity.

The Potomac glittered like silver, between the trees in the noon-day sun

at our feet; the soft mild breeze gently moved the leaves upon the tree

tops—the chirp of the wren—the drowsy hum of the locust—the quick note of

the thrush, as she hopped from twig to twig, were all that showed signs

of life,—and those huge sarcophagi lay still—motionless—far, far from

voiceless. Oh! my countrymen, never since he left us, hath it so behoved

us to listen,—“While our Father’s grave doth utter forth a voice.”

We were exceedingly struck and affected by the truthfulness of the “Sweet

Swan of Avon,” as we saw above the sarcophagi, (free passage to which

was open over the large iron gates,) the clayey nest of the martin, or

common house-swallow, built in the corner of the ceiling, where, in

perfect security and confidence she fed her chirping brood, directly over

the head of the departed hero. Pure, indeed, was the air, “nimbly and

sweetly” did it play upon our senses. Oh! bard of England, as standing

upon that hallowed spot, the spirit of the unfortunate Banquo whispered

again to our memories, his words to the murdered Duncan.

“This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air

Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself

Unto our gentle senses.”

_Banquo._——“This guest of summer,

The temple haunting martlet, does approve,

By his lov’d mansionry, that the heavens’ breath,

Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress,

Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made

His pendent bed, and procreant cradle: Where they

Most breed and haunt, I have observed, the air

Is delicate.”

We lingered long at the tomb, and with reluctance withdrew, as the

advancing day warned us of our homeward returning ride.

The setting sun, streaming in radiance through the trees, measured in

long shadows the persons of the two men dismounting at the cottage

door, from whence they had departed so buoyant and joyous in its

morning brightness. That setting sun, sinking beneath its gorgeous bed

of crimson, gold and purple, left those men more chastened, true, more

elevated, from their pilgrimage to the shrine of him whose name shall

forever be the watchword of human Liberty.

THE MEDICAL STUDENT.

I remained several weeks on my friend Tom’s plantation, enjoying

the course of life that he pursued, which was entirely consonant to

my tastes. His plantation consisted of about three hundred acres,

principally laid down in wheat, indian corn and tobacco, though some

of it still remained in meadow and woodland;—this, with a handsome

productive property in the neighbouring towns of Alexandria and

Washington, afforded him an abundant income to indulge his liberal,

though not extravagant tastes. He usually arose at five in the morning,

mounted his horse, and rode over the plantation, overseeing and giving

instructions to the labourers; and returning, was met by his smiling

wife and beautiful children at the breakfast table; after which, he

again applied himself to business until eleven, when he threw all care

aside, and devoted himself to pleasure or study, for the remainder of

the day. He thus avoided the two extremes to which country gentlemen are

liable,—over work on the one hand, or ennui on the other. His library—the

windows commanding a view of twenty miles down the Potomac—was crowded

with a varied store of general literature; among which, I observed

shining conspicuously, the emblazoned backs of Shakspeare, and the

worthy old Knight of La Mancha. History, Travels, the Classics—English,

French, Spanish, and Italian—and works on Natural History and general

science, were marshalled on their respective shelves. There was also,

a small, but very select Medical Library, for my friend had taken his

degree in that profession, and although relieved from the necessity of

practising for support, he was in the habit of attending gratuitously on

the poor in the neighbouring country.—Marble busts of Shakspeare, Milton

and Columbus, stood on pedestals in the corners of the room, and fine

old portraits of Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Dante, and Ben Jonson, besides

an exquisite gem of Ruysdaels hanging over the fire-place, adorned the

walls. On one side of the room, fronting the entrance, an effigy in

complete polished armour of the fifteenth century, stood erect and grim,

the mailed gauntlet grasping the upright spear; while, on a withered

branch above it, was perched with extended wings, a superb American

Eagle, in full preservation, his keen eye appearing to flash upon the

intruders at the entrance. In the centre, on the soft thick carpet, which

returned no sound of footsteps, was a circular table surmounted with

an Argand lamp and writing apparatus; on one side of which, was one of

the exquisitely comfortable lounging chairs, that admit of almost every

position of ease, and on the other, a crimson fauteuil stuffed with

down, which Tom laughingly said, was for the peculiar benefit of his

wife, when she saw fit to honour his sanctum sanctorum with her presence.

He tasked his invention to the utmost to make my time agreeable;—horses,

dogs, guns, books, every thing was at my disposal. Among other

excursions, he proposed, a few days after my arrival, that we should take

a run down the Potomac in his boat. Now this boat was none other than

a beautiful clipper-built schooner-rigged yacht, of about twenty tons

burden, with a very ample cabin in her centre, and from the gilt eagle on

her stern, and the gaudy pennant streaming at her masthead, to the taught

stay running out to the end of her mimic jib-boom, the most complete

thing of the kind that I ever laid eyes on. In so expressing myself when

I first saw her, I received an approbatory and very gracious nod from

“Old Kennedy,” a regular old salt, with one arm, for whom Tom had built a

cottage on his estate, and to whom she was beauty personified;—a beauty

which he could the more readily appreciate, from the fact, that the far

greater part of his time was devoted to her decoration. “Many a time,”

says Tom, “have I found him lying by himself on the banks, looking at her

in admiration with half-open eyes; and I much doubt whether my Mary looks

more beautiful to me, than does her namesake, as she floats yonder, to

old Kennedy.”

But to come to our story. We appointed the following day for our

excursion, and, having first ascertained that Walter Lee, an old friend,

whose plantation was a couple of miles below would join us, we early the

next morning got up our anchor, and under the influence of a smacking

breeze, were soon cutting our way down the river, the white canvass

stretching clean and taught out to the stays; our long pennant streaming

proudly behind us, and our little jack shaking most saucily from its

slender staff at the bowsprit, as we merrily curveted and jumped over

the waves. Running down to a point on Lee’s plantation, we got him on

board, and were soon under way again, the water bubbling and gurgling

into our scuppers, as we lay down to it in the stiff breeze. Occasionally

she would sweep, gunwale under, when a flaw would strike her; but old

Kennedy, wide awake, would bring her up with a long curving sweep,

as gracefully as a young lady sliding out of the waltz in a crowded

ball-room, till, stretching out again, she would course along, dancing

over the mimic waves, with a coquetry equal to those same fair damsels,

when they find an unfortunate wight secure in their chains. We were all

in fine spirits; Tom’s negro boy, seated at the heel of the foremast,

showing his white teeth, in a delighted grin, as old Kennedy, with his

grave face, played off nautical wit at his peculiar expense. We saw a

number of ducks, but they were so shy that we could with difficulty get

a shot at them; but we now and then succeeded in picking half a dozen

snipe out of a flock, as it rose from the shore, and flew across our

bows. We continued running down the river in this way, for three or

four hours, passing now and then a fisherman, or other craft, slowly

beating up; but towards noon the breeze slackened,—we gradually lost

our way—merely undulating, as the wind fanned by us in light airs, till

finally it entirely subsided; our long pennant hanging supinely on the

shrouds, and the water slopping pettishly against our bows, as we rested

tranquilly upon its surface. The after part of the yacht was covered with

an awning, which, although sufficiently high to prevent its obstructing

the view of the helmsman, afforded us a cover from the rays of the sun,

so that we lay contentedly, reclining upon the cushions, smoking our

cigars, enjoying our refreshments, and reviving old recollections and

associations, for it must be confessed that we three, in our student

days, had “rung the chimes at midnight.” I had not seen Lee for several

years;—he was a descendant of the celebrated partizan officer, who

commanded the dashing corps in the Revolution known as Lee’s Legion, and

inherited, in a marked degree, all the lofty courtesy and real chivalry

that characterized that officer. He was exceedingly well read in the

military history of the country, and indeed so thoroughly imbued with

military spirit, that should the signal of war ring through the country,

I know of no man whose hand would so soon be on the sword hilt and

foot in the stirrup. My introduction to his acquaintance was marked by

an incident so peculiarly painful and exciting in its character, that I

cannot refrain from relating it. Having been let loose from the care of

my guardians at a very early age, I made the first use of my liberty in

travelling in a good-for-nothing sort of way over Europe, determined to

see for myself, the grandeur of Old England; to climb the Alps; to hear

the romantic legends of Germany, in her own dark forests; to study the

painters and sculptors of Italy, on her classic soil; to say nothing of

visions of dark-eyed girls of Seville, of sylphs and fairies, floating

through the ballets and operas of Paris, and midnight adventures in

the gondolas of Venice. Arriving at London, I fell in with, and gladly

availed myself of the opportunity to take apartments in the same house

with my friend Tom and his fellow-student Lee, both Americans, and both

completing a course of medical education by attending the lectures of the

celebrated John Hunter.

It so happened, that on the very first evening that we came together, in

conversation upon the peculiar features of their profession, I expressed

a desire to visit a dissecting-room, never having been in one in my own

country. Lee immediately invited me to accompany them to the lecture on

that evening, which was to be delivered in the rotunda of the College,

and where, by going at an early hour, my curiosity could be satisfied,

besides the opportunity that I should have of hearing that eminent

surgeon. So pulling on our hats and taking our umbrellas in our hands, we

plunged into the dense fog, and groped our way over the greasy pavements

to the college. It was a large building, in a dark and retired court,

with something in its very exterior sepulchral and gloomy. Entering the

hall door, we ascended one pair of stairs, stopping for a moment as we

passed the second story, to look into the large rotunda of the lecture

room. The vacant chair of the professor was standing near the wall in

the rear of a circular table of such peculiar construction, as to admit

of elevation and depression in every part. This table was the one upon

which the subjects were laid when under the hands of the demonstrator.

Two skeletons, suspended by wires from the ceiling, hung directly over

it; the room was as yet unoccupied and silent. Ascending another flight

of stairs, we came to a third, secured at its entrance by a strong

oaken door;-this appeared to put a stop to our further ascent, but upon

a small bell being pulled, a sort of wicket in the upper part of the

door was cautiously drawn aside, discovering the features of a stern,

solemn-looking man, who, apparently satisfied of the right of the parties

to enter, drew one or two heavy bolts, and dropping a chain admitted us.

A small table was placed at the foot of the stairs, at which, by the

light of a lamp, this gloomy porter was perusing a book of devotion.

Ascending the stairs, it was not until three several attempts, that I

was enabled to surmount the effects of the effluvia sufficiently to enter

the green baize door that opened into the dissecting-room. As it swung

noiselessly to behind me, the first sensation produced by the sight, was

that of faintness; but it almost immediately subsided. There appeared a

sort of profanity in speaking aloud, and I found myself unconsciously

asking questions of my friends in a low whisper.