conform, or they will turn him out of the synagogue."

"And a still queerer sight would it be, to see you walking arm in arm with him,' said Edward, who had returned in time to hear the latter part of his speech, and who, walking up to him, very quietly disengaged his hand from Julia's.

"I beg pardon," said Sir Basil, bowing very low, "for the breach of courtesy of which I have involuntarily been guilty, for I make it a rule to abide by my code of politeness on every occasion, which forbids me to speak of the peculiarities of even the Roundheads in the presence of one. But whither are you leading me?" he inquired, stopping short, for they had now reached the head of

the staircase.

The sound of his voice attracted a number of idle fellows who were passing, and, with out ceremony, they entered at the open door. One or two struck into the song, while others vociferously applauded the performers. The hall and staircase had now become a scene of riot and confusion, while Lady Andros and Julia, momentarily becoming more alarmed, impatiently awaited the return of Sir Edmund's carriage; nor was Edward, who remained at their side, entirely without his fears, that when the inclination of the revellers for music had become satisfied, their tumultuous mirth would manifest itself in a manner still more offensive.

Just at this crisis, Percival Andros appeared at the outer door, who, having received some intimation of the intended proceedings, had hastened to town. He was accompanied by a number of persons, who, as he proceeded towards Province House, had clustered round him, eager to communicate the events of the day. The sight of young Andros, by awakening a sense of shame, operated, at once, to subdue the self-complacent mirth of Sir Basil, and he stopped abruptly in the middle of one of the lines of his parody, on the stanza he had at first sung; for he had forgotten the resolution he had formed through deference to Lady Andros. Those who were listening to him, loudly called on him to resume his parody, but the voice of Andros, speaking in a peremptory and decided manner for them to quit the house, when they perceived that there was a sufficient number present to enforce his commands, was not, as they wisely imagined, to be disregarded with impunity.

Shortly after their departure, the carriage, for which they had been so long waiting. drew up to the door. Lady Andros, Julia, and Edward, had already taken their seats in it, when a person, dressed in the same manner as the one who followed him and his sister on the night when they were returning from the prison, suddenly making his way through those who surrounded the carriage, made a thrust at him with a large claspknife. Edward, who saw him pluck the knife from his bosom, at the same instant becoming aware of his design, bent forward with the quickness of thought and an energy of action which proved equal to staying an arm nerved by madness, caught the assassin by the wrist, in such a manner as to deprive the hand of its muscular power, and caused the murderous weapon to drop to the ground. Eager to facilitate the entrance of Andros into the carriage, Edward released his prisoner, whom he, as well as Julia, recognized to be Warner. He immediately fled, the bystanders, wholly unprepared for so daring an act in the open face of day, making no attempt to detain him.

Julia was soon set down at Miss Turner's, where Mr. Northington and Lucy were already received as guests-Percival and Edward having promised to return in the evening.

As good is sometimes said to proceed from evil, this attempt of Warner, upon the life of young Andros, wrenched away the last lingering prepossessions which still clung to the heart of Mr. Northington, in his favour; for, as has already been suggested, awed by his fearful menace, Lucy had disclosed to no person, not even her parents, the fearful scene which had taken place in the glen. Nor was the unpleasant scene at the Province House, in which Sir Basil Bellamour took so prominent a part, without an auspicious result. When, from the lips of Lady Andros, Sir Edmund learnt what his conduct had been, especially when he heard in what free and disrespectful terms he had alluded to himself, he was as desirous to prevent a marriage between him and his niece, as before that he had been anxious to promote it.

A little more than a year from the time when occurred the last mentioned events, . Percival Andros and Edward Northington, each with his wife leaning on his arm, stood together on a spot of ground somewhat elevated, that overlooked the valley which embosomed the dwelling of Mr. Northington. At a short distance, a commodious and tasteful house was nearly completed, intended to be the summer residence of the young people. A look of serene happiness resting on the brow of each, showed that the man le of domestic love was gathered round them causing them to realize that quiet repose of the heart, which it never feels so fully as when it beats beneath that mantle's hallowed folds.

THE main portion of Washington's house was erected by his brother, Lawrence Washington, but the wings were added by himself. It is of wood, cut in imitation of freestone; is two stories in height, and ninety-six feet in length; having a portico running the whole extent on the side fronting the river. The roof is surmounted by a cupola. There are, on the ground-floor, six rooms, and a broad passage-way. In one room, in the northeast corner, is a marble chimney-piece, sent to General Washington from Italy; and, also, a fine organ, on which Mrs. Washington played with much skill. In another, at the south-east end, are busts of Necker, Paul Jones, and General Washington, and also a handsome library, the books of which were chiefly collected by Washington himself.

Mount Vernon received its name from Admiral Vernon, under whom Lawrence Washington once served. It is handsomely laid out in the vicinity of the house. In front is a lawn, containing five or six acres of ground, surrounded by a serpentine walk, fringed with shrubbery. On either side of this

VOL. I.

lawn is a garden, that on the right being devoted to flowers. In it are two green-housesone built by General Washington, the other by Judge Washington-a hot-house and a pinery. It is prettily laid out, being intersected with walks, with box-wood borders of peculiar beauty.

The hot and green-houses, which are contiguous, are sheltered from the northern winds by a long range of wooden buildings for the accommodation of servants. They contain every variety of the most beautiful and remarkable tropical plants. There are groves of orange, lemon, and coffee-trees, all in full bearing, and delighting the senses with their rich odour. Many bushels of lemons and oranges are annually produced; and the coffee-trees, also, yield an abundance of excellent fruit. Of the other plants, some of the most conspicuous are the night-blowing cereus, the guaon, aloes of a gigantic growth, the West Indian plantain, the sweet cassia, prickly pear, etc. The "pinery" is appropriated to the cultivation of the pineapple.

Z

The house fronts north-west, the rear looking to the river. About two hundred yards from it, in a southerly direction, stands a summer house, on the edge of the river bank, which is here lofty and sloping, and clothed with wood to the water's edge. The sum mer-house commands a fine prospect of the river and the Maryland Shore; also of the "White House," at a distance of five or six

pository of the ashes of the illustrious dead, as it was his retreat in life, it seems unfortunate that the national gratitude cannot be displayed, by the purchase of the spot by the General Government of the United States, so that it may be in the possession of the people -a fit monument of itself to his greatness and his deeds.

BER 1839.

The estate, as owned by Judge Washington, consisted of between three and four thousand acres, since divided among his nephews. It has been, thus far, an object with the relatives of General Washington, into whose possession the house and grounds have fallen, to preserve every thing, as much as possible, in the state in which he left it; but it is to be presumed that, in the natural course of things, those changes will, ere long, be suffered to occur, which will interfere with the hallowed and almost sacred associations which now form a link between the "Father of his country" who is gone, and his people who remain to revere his memory. At present, his bones lie in repose within the precincts of Mount Vernon, and render it consecrated.

It is well known that an effort was made by the General Government of the United States, a few years ago, to obtain the permission of his family to have them removed to the city of Washington, and placed under the Capitol at a time when it was necessary that they should be disturbed, to effect some repairs upon the tomb in which they had lain. This was refused, upon the very tenable ground, that the notoriety of such a transaction would have been unpleasant to his feelings in his life-and they considered themselves sacredly bound to regard his wishes, and the simplicity of his character. Mount Vernon, therefore, for the present, and perhaps for ever, will be his resting-place. Attempts have been made, at various times, in different parts of the country, to procure funds to erect a suitable monument to his memory; but without success. A movement was made in New York some years since, to this effect. Still later, an association at Washington have made collections for the same purpose. Only about thirty thousand dollars have been obtained, an insignificant amount for such a design. It is certainly a strange fact that, so indebted as America is to Washington, no stone records his greatSuch a want would be justifiable and laudable, were it the ground of the deficiency, that his sufficient monument is in the hearts of his countrymen-but this is not, we believe, paramount consideration.

ness.

In view of this position of the people, when it is considered that Mount Vernon is the re

We

A FEW minutes' ride south from Alexandria brought us into Virginia. After some few miles on the Fredericksburg road, we turned off to the left, into a by-way, to Visit Mount Vernon. Some fraction of an hour, perhaps more than this, was passed in reaching an old gateway, opening upon the road, which first gave us notice of Washington's seat. Two dilapidated cabins stood at its sides, which originally were probably intended as porters' lodges, but were now sadly out of repair, and appeared to be tenanted by the ordinary negroes of the plantation. opened the gate, and entered upon a narrow road winding through a wild, untrimmed, unbroken wood. It is not a difficult task for any one of ordinary sensibility to fill with interesting thought and feeling the minutes occupied in threading that winding avenue in the romantic woods of Mount Vernon. By this path, doubtless, Washington, after bidding adieu to the quiet and endearments and pleasures of home, passed out, when he went to fight his country's battles, to take part in her councils, and to execute her laws. And when, worn out by the toils of war, and crowned by the laurels of victory-when wearied with debate, or oppressed with the duties of office, or but just released from place and power, laden with the blessings of a grateful people, this was his path to honour. able reprose. However, there was but little necessity for dulling the edge of impatience by dwelling on such associations as these; a short ride soon brought us within sight of the old family residence.

I will not undertake a regular and minute description of the place, as this perhaps would be trite and burdensome; but will merely note such matters as interested us most. After tying our horses in front of a low range of cabins occupied by the gardener and other of the negroes, we entered, under the guidance of the wife of the former, a lawn fronting the dwelling. This is an oldfashioned frame building, which now would be thought very plain and simple in its architecture, but which in olden time was considered a house for anie laird, I ween. South of the house and lawn were a number of small buildings, whose several destinations were detailed by our negro guide. The fish-house, salt-house, bath-house, carriage-house, &c. I remember among the list she enumerated;

-a list, which sufficiently evidenced that the father of his country stood prepared to make such provision for those of his daughter's children who might choose to visit him, as would render such a visit any thing but an act of self-denied devotion to their grandfather. All the out-door arrangements, however, are exceedingly plain, and, in some instances, even exhibit traces of the pinched frugality of the olden time. The bath house is really a bijou of simplicity. Diogenes could scarcely have found fault with it; a mere bee-hive shed boarded in, a little hencoop of a place, which stands in striking contrast with the airy lavacra* of a younger date. And yet this humble box, (if, indeed, it be of no more recent construction than I am led to suppose,) often sheltered one who has no fellow now. Doubtless he has often left it the legacy of the dust and smoke of honourable war.

Before entering the dwelling, we went with the negro woman, who had undertaken to act as our guide, to visit the tomb. The vault, where the remains of the Washington family now lie, is within a small square enclosure, surrounded by a high brick wall. The entrance to this enclosure is by an iron gate fronting and parallel to the door of the vault. On the ground, in the open air, on one side of the short path connecting this door with the outer gate, lies the sarcophagus of Washington, and corresponding to it in situation on the other side, that of Mrs. Washington. In order to afford them some protection from the weather, they are both now covered round with rough board-work. Hence, all we saw of the sarcophagi, as we looked through the bars of the gate, was a small part of the white marble appearing through the openings between the boards. This is of course only a temporary arrangement. Small brick arches, meeting the vault on each side of the door, and open in front, are to be thrown over each coffin, so that the action of the weather may be guarded against, and yet they may be exposed to view in front.

We may mention that the sarcophagus which contains the remains of Washington, was presented by Mr. Strothers, a Philadelphia marble-cutter. The lid is a slab of fine inarble, ornamented with a most exquisite device in relief on its surface. A legend, doubtless the offspring of some creative imagination, which went the rounds of the public prints, detailed certain strange cir cumstances connected with the removal of the body. It was said that Mr. Strothers, when the old covering was taken from the coffin containing the remains, was permitted to unscrew the lid of this inmost receptacle, and to look upon the dead. The body, we were told, was in perfect preservation; the * Baths.

face, untouched by corruption or decay, was lighted up with a benignant smile, as, if unagitated by any pang or uneasiness of death, the soul had but a moment since plumed it for its distant flight, and the body but just settled to its long repose. This was no doubt a delicious morsel for the lovers of romance and sentiment, and, indeed, would be inte. resting to any one, if it possessed the interest of truth. But, unfortunately, here it is most essentially deficient. The coffin was opened in presence of a number of the members of the Washington family, and probably by their direction. An old family servant, who was allowed to be with them, assured me that the body was completely decayed. The hair and dust had fallen from the head, exposing the naked skull. It was a singular story; perhaps the figment of a mind revolting at the idea, that a frame, which courage had led to so many battle fields and crowned after so many victories, which wisdom had seated in supremacy over the councils of a nation of freemen, and wreathed with the laurels of civic honour, should be forced to bow to the vulgar doom and dismembering tyranny of death. But the worm acknowledges no forbidden prey;-decay knows no distinctions, the patriot and the traitor are alike her children.

are

A few rods from the place where the family remains are now deposited is the old vault. Its site was selected by General Washington himself; at his death he was buried within it, and it remained his grave until his body was removed by Mr. Strothers to its present resting-place. This old tomb is situated in a grove of fine trees, a short distance from the house. It is an exceedingly simple, even a rude piece of architecture, consisting merely of a small excavation in the earth, built around with stone, and covered with a mound, in which several small trees rooted. The entrance is by a door in the side. The whole structure is a monument of republican simplicity, and is calculated to affect the visitor with a strong desire that it might remain proof against the ravages of time, that future generations, advanced still farther in refinement and luxury than we, might see how distinct splendour is from worth,-how narrow and rude a bed greatness could spread for its long repose. But alas! its very simplicity will make it but a short-lived monument. The hand of time, unrepel ed by the care and attention of the living, is even now upon it, sapping the sup ports of the mound, mouldering the wall, and filling the empty cell. A future day will not know the place made sacred by the choice and burial of Washington.

On returning from the tombs, we entered the house, under the guidance of an old family servant. We were told that all the furniture belonging to General Washington

had been long since removed; there were, however, a few moveable relics of his original establishment remaining. The first thing to which our attention was directed on entering the hall, was a large and singularly formed iron key, hanging against the wall, enclosed in a small glass case. When Lafayette, at the head of the National Guards of France, took and destroyed the Bastile, he retained its key in his possession-and afterwards, when in America, gave it to Washington. Here it was hanging in the case. The sight of it less than a century ago would have made a Frenchman shudder--would have scared him with visions of darkness, and chains, and torture, and death. At Mount Vernon, it serves as a striking memorial of the value of those republican institutions which its owner gave us; an American should look upon it with feelings only of exultation and gratitude. On leaving the house, which is so far divested of its original furniture, and so altered in its internal arrangement by subsequent occupants, as to excite little interest, except as regards the general association, we entered the garden, under the guidance of the ebon functionary who presided over that department. It is surprising that this part of the establishment, which one would suppose would retain fewer traces of its original plan than the others, should have preserved so far its first arrangement. This is in a great measure owing to some edgings of box, that border and define the beds, and which, the negro man told us, were planted in Washington's time by a Dutch gardener in his employ.

At the side of the garden, and forming part of its enclosure, are the ruins of the green-house, which was burnt down a year or more ago. Many of the plants were saved from the fire, and no other green-house having been provided him, the old negro had been nursing them through the winter in another old building, which he had fitted up temporarily for the purpose. They were now standing out in the sun, in front of their winter quarters. Some of them looked exceedingly old and weather-beaten, as if they had been alive in the war-time, and had borne the common trouble and hardship of the revolution. The gardener pointed out to me an old orange-tree, and another plant, I think an aloe, which had been in the greenhouse in General Washington's time. The latter bore the marks of extreme age. Though it had been much injured by the fire, it was sprouting strongly again, and as it belongs to a very long-lived family of plants, it may doubtless be looked on as a representative of revolutionary times some twenty or thirty years to come. I was also indebted to the same worthy representative of the coloured race, for showing me an old decayed barkless trunk of a cherry-tree, for which he

claimed an exceedingly remote antiquity. He placed the youth of the tree I forget how far back. It may, for aught I know, have been a twig when the elder Washington was a boy. It had an exceedingly venerable appearance, aud, though sapless and branchless, it seemed to have been spared as a kind of family memorial.

The old cherry-tree aforementioned was about the ultimum visum of our visit. We mounted our horses and turned their heads to rethread the path winding through the woods to the outer gate of the plantation. One of the few unpleasant feelings that came over me, as we rode away, resulted from the air of decay, I will not be so uncharitable as to say of neglect, which was visible throughout the place. It really is a matter greatly to be deplored, that a spot so sacred-around which cluster so many associations connected with the suffering and sorrow, success and glory of our country, should ever be blighted and desolated by the hand of Time,

that objects which, by reviving the memory of greatness, are calculated to encourage the patriot's heart and palsy the traitor's arm, should ever be given over by neglect or by necessity to the ravages of decay, to moulder and be forgotten. I have often been impressed with the idea, whether reasonable or no may perhaps be doubted, that this subject is worthy the attention of the coun try. A few years ago, it will be remembered, the American government applied for permission to remove the remains of Washington to the capital. It was preferred that the honoured dead should lie entombed with his kindred. Now, to attain the same end then desired,-in order to cherish the memory of Washington, would it be impracticable for Government to purchase Mount Vernon? They might then restore, as far as possible, all its old arrangements, prop up its mouldering honours,-call back its waning beauty, and thus make it a worthy memorial of the dead, whose life it nourished and delighted, and whose sepulchre it embosoms.

TRAITS OF THE NEW ENGLANDERS; OTHERWISE, THE YANKEES.

By JOHN NEAL.

THE New-Englanders are, in sooth, a peculiar people, and somewhat over-zealous of good works. In the first place, notwithstanding all that others have said of them, and all that they have said of themselves, they have a decided character; and not only a decided, but a national character;-a character, which, though not well understood any where, is acknowledged every where; and is, in fact, such as to set them apart from every other people and kindred and tongue, on the face of the earth, not excepting the Jews-whom