are sweeter still."

Going to Washington I accompanied an excursion down the Potomac to Mount
Vernon, that sacred spot whose mention sends a thrill of patriotic pride
through every American heart, hallowed as it is by memories of George
Washington. So I became one of the zealous pilgrim throng who wended their
way to this our Mecca, dear to us as that sacred place in the old world to
the most devout worshiper of the Prophet Mahomet.

Reaching our destination we first repaired to the tomb, and with bowed and
uncovered heads all reverently gazed upon the mausoleum of departed
greatness, and turned to the mansion, each department of which had its own
peculiar charm.

Prominent among other relics were his war-equipments, the paraphernalia of
Revolutionary times; and as we ever associate him with his character as
general, these were especially significant from the sword so often wielded
with masterly power, to the little canteen, from which, after long and
weary marches, he refreshed his parched lips.

In his bed-chamber, with its antique air and quaint garniture, there stood
a bedstead, the fac-simile of the one upon which he died. Here we lingered
long and lovingly, and turned to another department, in one corner of
which stood a harpsichord, once belonging to his niece, Miss Lewis. In
fancy I could see her fairy fingers as they swept in "waves of grace" over
its strings, and with the "concord of sweet sounds" ministered to a circle
of distinguished listeners. I could not resist the impulse to pass my
hands over the long neglected strings, and recalled the sentiment of the
old song,

"As a sweet lute that lingers
In silence alone;
Unswept by light fingers.
Scarce murmurs a tone;
My own heart resembles,
This lute, light and free,
'Til o'er its chord trembles
Sweet memories of thee."

The garden still remained as arranged by his taste and dictation, and at
one corner of the house the magnolia tree, planted by his own hand, still
bloomed in fragrant beauty.

In the yard was the old well, with "its moss-covered, iron-bound bucket,"
and at the door the gray-haired negro, the inevitable servant of "Massa
Washington," who will doubtless, like a wandering Jew, out live all time,
and for centuries to come remain an attache of our country's father.

Several gentlemen present evinced and expressed great surprise that a
blind woman should go to _see_ Mount Vernon, yet I very much dou