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 doubt if any eyes really saw more than my own.  When we reached the boat, each gentleman carried in his hand a cane cut from the woods of Mount Vernon, and one and all returned to Washington with the consciousness of having spent a pleasant and profitable day.

We soon left for Lynchburg, Virginia, after which we visited the towns en route to Knoxville, Tennessee.  At the latter place we had a very enjoyable visit to the home of Parson Brownlow.  He was absent in attendance upon the Legislature, but his daughter gracefully and cordially dispensed the hospitalities of their home, and did everything within the bounds of her warm, sympathetic intelligence to heighten the pleasure and interest of our visit.