DURING a protracted sojourn in the Old Dominion, immediately subsequent to the year 1820, I once took a leisurely tour to Mount Vernon, and then to the birth-place and other scenes of the early life of Washington, for the purpose, not only of gratifying my feelings by viewing places hallowed by the memory of a man whose name and deeds had, from my childhood, occupied so much space in my mind, but also to see what new incidents connected with his private character might yet be gleaned among the old inhabitants who had personally known him. And it was in this ramble, made interesting and pleasant from the nature of its object, and the attentions of the most hospitable people on earth, that I fell in with a venerable and highly intelligent relative of Washington, whom I soon found to be, from having lived much in the General's family, and acted for some years as his private secretary, a rich depository of what I was anxious to learn; and from him I obtained, among many others that less interested me, the following reminiscences, which, I believe, have never been published, but which may nevertheless be relied on as minutely correct.

"On one of Washington's return visits to Mount Vernon, while commander-in-chief of the revolutionary armies," said my informant, whom I shall call Capt. L., " he came to Fredericksburgh to pay his respects to his aged mother. And when about to take his leave of her, he brought in a small bag of silver dollars, and placing them on the table before her, said :

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666 Here, mother, not knowing when may be permitted to visit you again, I have brought you these, to be used by you as your conforts shall require, or as your pleasure shall dictate. And I hope you will be free to accept and use them.'

"You was always good and dutiful to me, George,' replied she with emotion; and I have often taxed myself, in your absence of late years, with being backward in making suitable acknowledgments to you, and resolved within

myself, that when I next saw you, I would have a more familiar talk with you, and tell you how much I think of your kind-very kind attentions. But it has always happened, that when I again found myself in your presence, the thought of your elevation by your countrymen, or something else, which I cannot define, has prevented me from talking to you, as I should to my other children.'

"Washington attempted some playful reply, but could not succeed in disarming even his mother of the awe which his presence never failed to inspire in the bosoms of all who approached him.

"Washington, while in the army, was known to be exceedingly careful of human lives; and he applied the principle to the brute creation, by abstaining from the destruction of all animals, however inferior, whenever it could be done consistently with the safety and absolute wants of man, with unusual serupulousness. As I was once walking with him over the grounds of Mount Vernon, a small snake of a harmless species, appeared in our path. I instinctively lifted my heel to crush it; when he instantly caught my arm, and in a tone of earnest expostulation, exclaimed:

"Stay, sir! Is there not room enough in the world for you and that harmless little reptile? Remember, that life is all-everything to the creature, and cannot be unnecessarily taken without indirectly impugning its Creator, who bestowed it to be enjoyed, with its appropriate pleasures, through its natural term of existence.'

"The same system and order which was exhibited by Washington in all his public transactions, was seen in all his private acts and domestic arrangements; even his charities, which were not stinted, were nicely systematized. It was his custom, in years of plenty, to hoard up grain against times of scarcity. And when such times arrived he threw open his store-house to the poor; and however irresponsible they might be, he always made it a point to supply them in preference to others with all the

grain they needed at the old or ordinary prices, for which he regularly took their bonds or notes, but never demanded payment.

"Some writers, in treating of the private character of Gen. Washington, intimate that he was a man of warm temper, which would often have exhibited itself but for his great selfcommand. His self-command was undoubtedly great, but I do not think he had often to exercise it to prevent any outbreaks of passion. On the contrary I believe him to have been mild, and not easily ruffled; certainly quite as much so as men in general. I never saw him angry but once in my life. And this was considered so remarkable a thing by myself, as well as his family, that although we knew he had good cause to be provoked, or such at least as would have provoked most other men to anger, we were yet greatly surprised, and looked upon it as quite an anomaly in the General's life. It happened while he was President and travelling in his carriage, with a small retinue of outriders, from Mount Vernon to Philadelphia. It was during the first day of our journey, and we were passing through the barrens of Maryland, where, at intervals of a few miles, the solitude of the road was relieved at that time by a set of low taverns or groggeries, at which we did not think of stopping. But we had a thoughtless young man in our train, who by favor had been admitted into the family as a sort of gentleman attendant, and who seemed much more inclined to patronize these places. The General, by his request, had permitted him to ride a favorite young mare which he had raised on his plantation, and of which he was exceedingly careful, the animal being almost as slight in proportions as a roebuck, and very high-spirited. But the young fellow, notwithstanding the intimations he had received at starting to deal gently with her, appeared bent on testing her speed and other qualities, and that too in a manner little likely to meet with favor in a man of Washington's high sense of propriety. He would leave the train, and riding up to one of these liquoring establishments, there remain till we were out of sight; when he would come up upon the run, ride with us awhile, and gallop on forward to the next. This he repeated three times, the last of which brought the VOL. XIII.-NO. LXVI.

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mettlesome creature to a foam and evidently much fretted her. At the first transgression thus committed against the General's orders respecting the mare, as well as against his known sense of propriety, he seemed surprised, looking as if he wondered at the young man's temerity, and contented himself with throwing after him a glance of displeasure. At the second, he appeared highly incensed, although he said nothing, and repressed his indignation, acting as if he thought this must be the last offence, for the punishment of which he chose a private occasion. But as the offender rode up the third time, Washington hastily threw open the carriage window, and asking the driver to halt, sharply ordered the former alongside; when with uplifted cane, and a tone and emphasis which startled us all, and made the culprit shrink and tremble like a leaf, he exclaimed, 'Look you, sir! Your conduct is insufferable! Fall in behind there, sir; and as sure as you leave us again, I will break every bone in your skin!'

"It is needless, I presume, to say, that the offence was not repeated, or that the young gallant needed any more taming.

"Here," said Capt. L., now taking from a drawer and handing me for inspection a deed of Washington's drafting, so singularly brief as to be all embraced in seven or eight lines written in a bold hand across a half-sheet of short foolscap, yet constituting, though not one word could have been spared, a conveyance of real estate to the grantee and heirs, which, as far as could be perceived, was perfectly legal; "Here is a deed of a plantation from General Washington to me, which I show you, not only as a curiosity of itself, but for the sake of introducing the pleasant little incident dut of which it originated. Soon after leaving the General's employment, I chanced to be riding through the interior of Virginia, when I came across a deserted plantation, the situation and general appearance of which, though overrun with weeds and bushes, yet pleased me so much, that I took the first opportunity to make some inquiries concerning its ownership, &c., and was told that it was supposed to belong to General Washington. The night after I reached home, I went to sleep thinking of this plantation, and

wondering that I, who supposed I knew all Washington's lands, never heard of it before; when I happened, I know not why, to dream that the General made a present of it to me. The next day, as it further happened, I rode over to Mount Vernon, the General being then at home. After attending to the more immediate object of my visit, I asked him if he owned such a plantation as the one I had seen, now describing it to him. At first he replied in the negative, but soon rising and going to consult a book in which he kept a record of all his deeds, he said he did own this tract of land, but though of value, he had entirely overlooked it for some years.

"Well, General,' said I banteringly, "I dreamed last night that you gave me that plantation.'

"Washington, contrary to his usual habit, laughed outright, and observed,

"You did not dream Mount Vernon away from me, did you, sir?'

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O no, I was not so grasping as that, though I honestly had the dream,' I replied in the same vein of pleasantry; when nothing more being said, the affair on my part passed from my mind as a joke, and was forgotten. It seemed, however, that my dream was not so vain a one as I had supposed: for the next morning, as I was taking my leave, the General dropped a folded paper into my hat, carelessly remarking that I could examine it at some leisure opportunity. I did so, and to my agreeable surprise, found it to be this very deed, made out, probably, after I had retired the night before, and conveying, as you perceive, for the consideration of natural affection, the valuable plantation I had discovered." D. P. T.

Montpelier, Vt., Oct., 1843.

Ir is a great revolution in social and domestic life-and no less so in the life of the secluded student-this almost universal exchange of the open fire-place for the cheerless and ungenial stove. On such a morning as now lowers around our old grey parsonage, I miss the bright face of my ancient friend, who was wont to dance upon the hearth, and play the part of a more familiar sunshine. It is sad to turn from the clouded sky and sombre landscape from yonder hill, with its crown of rusty, black pines, the foliage of which is so dismal in the absence of the sun; that bleak pasture-land, and the broken surface of the potato field, with the brown clods partly concealed by the snow-fall of last night; the swollen and sluggish river, with iceencrusted borders, dragging its blueish grey stream along the verge of our orchard, like a snake half torpid with the cold-it is sad to turn from an outward scene of so little comfort, and find the same sullen influences brooding within the precincts of my study. Where is that brilliant guest-that quick and subtle spirit whom Prometheus lured from Heaven to civilize mankind, and cheer them in their wintry desolation-that comfortable inmate, whose smile, during eight months of the year, was our sufficient consolation for summer's lingering advance and early flight? Alas! blindly inhospitable, grudging the food that kept him cheery and mercurial, we have thrust him into an iron prison, and compel him to smoulder away his life on a daily pittance which once would have been too scanty for his breakfast! Without a metaphor, we now make our fire in an air-tight stove, and supply it with some half-a-dozen sticks of wood between dawn and nightfall.

I never shall be reconciled to this enormity. Truly may it be said, that the world looks darker for it. In one way or another, here and there, and all around us, the inventions of mankind are fast blotting the picturesque, the poetic, and the beautiful out of human life. The domestic fire was a type of all these attributes, and seemed to

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bring might and majesty, and wild Nature, and a spiritual essence, into our inmost home, and yet to dwell with us in such friendliness, that its mysteries and marvels excited no disınay. same mild companion, that smiled so placidly in our faces, was he that comes roaring out of Ætna, and rushes madly up the sky, like a fiend breaking loose from torment, and fighting for a place among the upper angels. He it is, too, that leaps from cloud to cloud amid the crashing thunder-storm. It was he whom the Gheber worshipped, with no unnatural idolatry; and it was he who devoured London and Moscow, and many another famous city, and who loves to riot through our own dark forests, and sweep across our prairies, and to whose ravenous maw, it is said, the universe shall one day be given as a final feast. Meanwhile he is the great artizan and laborer by whose aid men are enabled to build a world within a world, or, at least, to smoothe down the rough creation which Nature flung to us. He forges the mighty anchor, and every lesser instrument. He drives the steamboat and drags the railcar. And it was he-this creature of terrible might, and so many-sided utility, and all-comprehensive destructiveness-that used to be the cheerful, homely friend of our wintry days, and whom we have made the prisoner of this iron cage!

How kindly he was, and, though the tremendous agent of change, yet bearing himself with such gentleness, so rendering himself a part of all life-long and age-coeval associations, that it seemed as if he were the great conservative of Nature! While a man was true to the fireside, so long would he be true to country and law-to the God whom his fathers worshipped-to the wife of his youth-and to all things else which instinct or religion have taught us to consider sacred. With how sweet humility did this elemental spirit perform all needful offices for the household in which he was domesticated! He was equal to the concoction of a grand dinner, yet scorned not to roast a potato, or toast a bit of

cheese. How humanely did he cherish the schoolboy's icy fingers, and thaw the old man's joints with a genial warmth, which almost equalled the glow of youth! And how carefully did he dry the cow-hide boots that had trudged through mud and snow, and the shaggy outside garment, stiff with frozen sleet; taking heed, likewise, to the comfort of the faithful dog who had followed his master through the storm! When did he refuse a coal to light a pipe, or even a part of his own substance to kindle a neighbor's fire? And then, at twilight, when laborer or scholar, or mortal of whatever age, sex, or degree, drew a chair beside him, and looked into his glowing face, how acute, how profound, how comprehensive was his sympathy with the mood of each and all! He pictured forth their very thoughts. To the youthful, he showed the scenes of the adventurous life before them; to the aged, the shadows of departed love and hope; and, if all earthly things had grown distasteful, he could gladden the fireside muser with golden glimpses of a better world. And, amid this varied communion with the human soul, how busily would the sympathizer, the deep moralist, the painter of magic pictures, be causing the teakettle to boil!

Nor did it lessen the charm of his soft, familiar courtesy and helpfulness, that the mighty spirit, were opportunity offered him, would run riot through the peaceful house, wrap its inmates in his terrible embrace, and leave nothing of them save their whitened bones. This possibility of mad destruction only made his domestic kindness the more beautiful and touching. It was so sweet of him, being endowed with such power, to dwell, day after day, and one long, lonesome night after another, on the dusty hearth, only now and then betraying his wild nature, by thrusting his red tongue out of the chimney-top! True, he had done much mischief in the world, and was pretty certain to do more; but his warm heart atoned for all. He was kindly to the race of man; and they pardoned his characteristic imperfections.

The good old clergyman, my predecessor in this mansion, was well acquainted with the comforts of the fireside. His yearly allowance of wood, according to the terms of his settle

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ment, was no less than sixty cords. Almost an annual forest was verted from sound oak logs into ashes, in the kitchen, the parlor, and this little study, where now an unworthy successor-not in the pastoral office, but merely in his earthly abode-sits scribbling beside an air-tight stove. I love to fancy one of those fireside days, while the good man, a contemporary of the Revolution, was in his early prime, some five-and-sixty years ago. Before sunrise, doubtless, the blaze hovered upon the grey skirts of night, and dissolved the frost-work that had gathered like a curtain over the small windowpanes. There is something peculiar in the aspect of the morning fireside; a fresher, brisker glare; the absence of that mellowness, which can be produced only by half-consumed logs, and shapeless brands with the white ashes on them, and mighty coals, the remnant of tree-trunks that the hungry element has gnawed for hours. The morning hearth, too, is newly swept, and the brazen andirons well brightened, so that the cheerful fire may see its face in them. Surely it was happiness, when the pastor, fortified with a substantial breakfast, sat down in his armchair and slippers, and opened the Whole Body of Divinity, or the Commentary on Job, or whichever of his old folios or quartos might fall within the range of his weekly sermons. It must have been his own fault, if the warmth and glow of this abundant hearth did not permeate the discourse, and keep his audience comfortable, in spite of the bitterest northern blast that ever wrestled with the church-steeple. He reads, while the heat warps the stiff covers of the volume; he writes, without numbness either in his heart or fingers; and, with unstinted hand, he throws fresh sticks of wood upon the fire.

A parishioner comes in. With what warmth of benevolence-how should he be otherwise than warm, in any of his attributes ?—does the minister bid him welcome, and set a chair for him in so close proximity to the hearth, that soon the guest finds it needful to rub his scorched shins with his great red hands. The melted snow drips from his steaming boots, and bubbles upon the hearth. His puckered forehead unravels its entanglement of crisscross wrinkles. We lose much of the enjoyment of fireside heat, without