No richly cultivated land, no ornamented grounds, no towering forest, no mouldering ruins, marked the spot. The estate of Wakefield, the home of his forefathers, had been sold to strangers! Oh how could a descendant of Washington part with this consecrated spot! Laugh as ye will at the pride of ancestry, it is an ennobling pride-cherished by the purest and tenderest sensibilities of our nature, and he who can without necessity give up the home of his fathers, is wanting in those qualities which most endear man to man.

When I looked on the new and mean buildings which formed the present homestead, I felt as if this location were almost sacrilege-a profanation of holy ground. But fortunately the calculations of the new comer had induced him to choose a spot remote from that on which the paternal dwelling of Washington had stood. It was not even visible from the farmer's house. The high swelling of the ground concealed it from our view. We ascended the hill and thence discerned the object of our pilgrimage.

From the top of this hill we saw a wide and gently sloping piece of ground, running far out into the Potomac, and terminating in a long narrow point of land. This beautiful peninsula on one side was bounded by Pope's creek, a romantic stream which in other countries than America would be called a river, with high and wooded banks, among whose verdant shades it gleamed like molten silver in the beams of the setting sun. On the other side, farther than the eye could reach, spread the bright blue waters of the Potomac ; its opposite banks appearing like dark clouds on the horizon. On the southern side of this hill, was the spot where the house had stood. Garden flowers grown wild were still to be seen. Some veteran trees of an orchard planted by Washington in his boyhood, were scattered over the ground in all the decay and venerableness of age. Covered with gray moss, scathed by lightning and broken by the winds, they shewed they had long battled with storms and neglect as well as with time.

Two fig trees were pointed out to us, which, from the tradition of the old family slaves, were said to have been planted and cultivated by his own hands; these being rare and foreign plants probably fixed this circumstance in their memory. After a general survey of the scene, I descended into the ruins of the foundation; for above ground not a stone remained. Much of the wall had fallen in, and lay in heaps in what had once

been the cellar of the house. The stones were overgrown with moss, and half-hidden by the plants which grew among them.

The bramble, the dock, and the thistle, those savages of the waste, now usurped the place where roses and jessamines had been trained by a careful and loving hand. There is nothing that more forcibly carries to my heart the feeling of desolation, than this growth of weeds in the dwelling place of flowers. They tell of neglect, of absence and of death. But here, not all these combined could entirely destroy the rose-faithful as it is beautiful. It had insinuated its roots among the stones, and still flourishes in a degree of security within the walls it could not have found on the surface of the ground. The original rose had probably been planted beneath some window, or beside some door. He might have pruned its branches and gathered its blossoms—at least I love to think so. With great difficulty I succeeded in extricating a fine root from among the rubbish, which, with some of its native soil, I carried to my faroff home, where I delight in cherishing it, as a memento of the Father of my country. Beside my Wakefield Rose have I placed plants brought from the ground of Monticello, favorite plants of Jefferson. These great and good men were fellowlaborers in the field of their country's glory, and should never be separated in the hearts of their countrymen.

With an indescribable and tender interest did I explore every foot of ground in the immediate vicinity of the ruin. The two fig-trees had been planted on the south side of the garden wall, and thus served as land-marks to guide me in tracing the boundaries of the garden. Scarce a vestige remained of the care that had been bestowed on this favorite home-spot. But imagination pictured forth the scene, and I saw him in his infancy led by a mother's hands through its grassy walks and flowery borders. While my young companions, in all the elasticity of youth, were bounding over the green hillocks and along the banks of the romantic stream, I took a solitary seat on the ruined wall and communed with the spirit of the place.

"Strange," thought I, "that those trees, yea, even those fragile flowers, should have outlived the hand that planted them— that they should thus inherit from nature a longer life than man. What a transient thing is human existence! Well, be it so,since human virtue is undying. O thou mighty river, that hast poured thy flood along the margin of this land since its first creation, where are the nations that once dwelt on thy shores,

the successive generations of men, which like thy waves have touched this ground and passed away? They are as completely lost to our knowledge as thy primeval waters are to our sight. What, has not one name been borne to us on the stream of time, and haply saved from the gulf of oblivion? Not one. But now, proud stream, shalt thou carry with thee, into ages yet unborn, a name as everlasting as thy waters-a name that shall not perish from earth, until earth itself shall perish and thy stream cease to flow."

Then there came over my fancy the contrasted scenes of his public and his private life, the rage of battle and the endearments of the domestic hearth, the anxieties of the mother's heart, and the daring enthusiasm of the young soldier. The drama of his life closed by victory and glory, by public confidence and domestic peace. These things, which are now things of history, are difficult to realize, but at that moment I felt their reality. "On this spot, this very spot," thought I, "he stood; this tree, this very tree was planted by his hands!" What a thrill did the conviction send through my heart, what an indelible impression did it make on my mind!

The slanting beams of the setting sun were gleaming on the waters, the shadows of evening were gathering over the woods, before I could tear myself from the consecrated spot.

On our return, we passed through a part of the grounds, at least a mile distant from the former homestead, to view the old burial place of the family. It is the old and still prevailing custom of the Virginian and other southern planters to bury their dead on their own estates. Sometimes a remote and solitary place-sometimes the garden or orchard is chosen for this purpose. Whether the burial place of the Washingtons was originally in a piece of woodland or untilled ground, I know not-but now it is in the midst of a cultivated field, and the spot itself is enclosed by a rude fence-the original wall having long fallen into decay. It has passed into the possession of strangers, and bears the marks of forgetfulness and neglect. To foreigners and travellers, to pilgrims like myself, it still has a deep and enduring interest. Some years ago it was found that these curious and enthusiastic visiters sometimes carried away the bones of the ancestors of Washington--a pious sacrilege, if such a contradiction in terms may be allowed, which roused the slumbering sensibilities of his descendants, some of whom have secured these venerable remains from farther

disturbance, by covering the whole area with cedar and pine boughs heaped thickly over the mouldering bones. Among these has sprung up an impenetrable thicket of briars and trees of all descriptions, so that the spot is wholly inaccessible. Perhaps this monument of nature's workmanship may be more enduring than one of marble or of brass, but certainly it is less venerable and imposing. But "Washington's monument is in the heart of his countrymen," and there it can never be destroyed.*

THE GRAVE OF JEFFERSON.

Visited in August, 1828.

We reached the foot of the mountain-that mountain on whose summit was the home of the Patriot and Sage, whose grave we now came to visit.

We climbed the steep ascent, and trod the very paths he daily trod. We walked under the shade of trees, beneath which he, from his youth to his old age, had walked; every object on which we cast our eyes had long been familiar to his. He had listened to the whispering of the leaves that were now murmuring around us. Those leaves whose budding verdure he had looked upon with delight, were still green-but he was mouldering back to dust! Silently and mournfully we pursued our way up the mountain side. How still and solitary were those forest walks! But that stillness spoke to our hearts of him, who had once guided us through their labyrinths. Not a word was spoken to dissolve the illusion.

At last we gained the summit where stood the mansion in which he had dwelt.

How often, while wandering through its deserted halls,— while lingering in the library, with its walls now naked, or in the apartment where his private hours were passed in the midst of his beloved family,-or while going over the grounds where at every step we met with some memorial of his recent existence, fruit-trees, shrubs, flowers; simple objects of delight to this great and good man, which his own hand had planted and

* The contiguous plantation of Haywood, Blenheim and Wakefield, in the county of Westmoreland, and lying on the Potomac, were originally one estate belonging to the father of Washington.

his watchful cares had reared, or when we sat upon some seat where he had often sat, how often did I repeat the words of the Psalmist," the places that knew him shall know him. no more."

Alas, no more at early morn his revered form was seen, standing on the mountain's top-his countenance beaming with a holier light than that of the rising sun which shone upon it— his gray locks waving in the morning breeze-his soft, mild voice discoursing of the beauties of the scene, while, with his out-stretched hand, he pointed to the most interesting objects that appeared in the vast landscape that lay between Monticello and the distant Alleghany. No more was he seen followed by a sportive train of lovely children, or seated on the grass while they played around, and half smothered him with their caresses. Yet a little while ago and these places were gladdened by his presence, and echoed back his voice. "But the places that knew him, shall know him no more.' He is not here. Where, then, is he? Follow me, and I will lead you to the lonely spot, where rests our beloved Jefferson.

Lonely indeed is the spot where his grave is made! On the side of the mountain, in the midst of the forest, under a tall and venerable oak, is his humble and turf-covered grave. Under that oak, upon whose roots he used to sit and rest from his long rambles in the mountains--where he loved to meet his dear and bosom friend, Dabney Carr, and pass whole hours in converse high, and in that communion of souls which pure and perfect friendship only can afford.

Yes, it is beneath this aged tree, that, by his own desire, he is laid. This spot had been thus appropriated early in life.

One day, while he and Dabney Carr were sitting under this favorite tree, he suggested the idea of making that spot their last resting place, and obtained from his friend a promise to that effect.

He was far distant when his friend died, and on his return home, he found that this design had not been executed. True to the promise they had given each other, he caused his friend's body to be disinterred and brought to Monticello. It was buried in this chosen spot. Afterwards Mr. Jefferson's wife died also, and was laid near him, leaving a sufficient space between, for the grave of the truest of friends and the tenderest of husbands.