As you gaze at the vast stretch of
marshy country, with stone roads, marked by milestones, you
begin to appreciate the wonderful genius of the artist. You can
readily see that evening has come and you seem to feel its
message quite as much as when gazing upon the "End of Day" by
Corot.
Our day here recalled our visit to the Luxembourg gallery and
the Louvre. How much better it is to see part of these
magnificent palaces dedicated to art than to be used by
worthless rulers.
One can never forget the impression made upon him as he gazes at
the halls which are filled with the grandest works of antiquity.
Any of these standing alone would challenge the admiration of
all who see them, but the "Venus de Milo" and the "Winged
Victory" stand out in memory among the innumerable works of art
as the Alps tower above the vales of Switzerland. That
magnificent piece of sculpture, Venus de Milo, was found by a
peasant in the island of Milo in 1820. "It belongs to the fourth
century before Christ and represents that flowery period of
Greek sculpture when Praxiteles was at its head."
Here we may also enjoy the "St. John" and "Madonna and Child" by
Raphael, many works by Leonardo Da Vinci, Corregio, Rubens,
Mttrillo, and Titian.
Before leaving the city we climbed to the top of Washington
monument. This monument is an imposing mass of white marble,
rising to a height of five hundred fifty-five and one-half feet.
No visitor to Washington should fail to make the ascent for no
finer view of the city, the surrounding hills and the Potomac
can be had than from the observation point, at a height of five
hundred four feet. As we looked down on the lovely avenues,
gardens and statues of this well-planned city we compared it
with our view of Paris from the Arch of Triumph and Eiffel
Tower. While Eiffel Tower is nearly twice as high as Washington
Monument it revealed no lovelier view than we beheld in this
magnificent city.
We shall never forget the spell cast over us as we said goodbye
to the City of Magnificent Distances and sped along the road
that led to the Nation's shrine. What memories hallowed by art
and song came thronging round us as we made our pilgrimage to
the pleasantly situated estate of Mount Vernon.
The old estate bears the name given it by Major Lawrence
Washington in honor of his commander, Admiral Edward Vernon, of
the British navy. Imagine our feelings upon arriving at this -
one of the most sacred spots in America - when we found the very
undesirable custom of charging a fee to view a scene that above
all others should be free to the public. This place to all true
Americans belongs in the same class as sublime mountain views,
indescribable sunsets, whereon to place a price would be
sacrilege, for they are priceless.
As soon as we entered the gates of this hallowed spot we passed
through the lovely flower garden. The air was fragrant, almost
heavy, with the perfume of box bushes which had been trimmed in
fantastic designs of rare beauty. How slowly we walked down the
paths whose sides were enameled with brilliant hued flowers,
artistically arranged. There was something almost sacred in the
solitude here. We seemed to see the stately form of the master,
as he gazed in admiration at this charming spot or stooped to
pluck a few rare blossoms for his companion. What hours of calm
and unsullied enjoyment he must have spent here. What grand
thoughts those lovely flowers must have suggested. How often he
stood here or wandered slowly along these same paths at
twilight, while the mocking-bird's song harmonized with his
evening reveries.
Pausing to admire the beauty of the royal spikes of purple
foxglove we were thrilled with a familiar yet much loved song,
for in accord with the train of our thoughts, a mocking bird
sprang into the air with the most extraordinary turns and
gyrations and at last settled down on the chimney of the store
room as if overcome by his own ecstatic singing - this was our
welcome to Mount Vernon. With brilliant bewildering staccato
phrases he started singing in one place, then mounted to the
air, spread his wings and floating down to the tops of a cedar,
never missing a note. It was purely a song of joy expressing
exuberance of life and whole-souled enjoyment. He mimicked
thirty different American birds, but their songs were hurried
without the proper pauses and phrasing. It was what piano player
music is to hand-played melodies, lacking the beauty and soul of
the original artists.
How delightful it was to linger here. You could spend days and
weeks in forgetting the maddening strife and cares gazing out
over the majestic Potomac, lulled to rest by this matchless
songster.
Here one can readily see that Washington was fond of trees and
shrubs, and many were the excursions he made to the woods to
select specimens to be transplanted to the grounds around his
home. Just outside the garden are the tulip trees he planted
over one hundred and thirty years ago. The master of these
stately trees has long since gone, yet his spirit seems to
linger there. These glorious tulips are tall and straight as the
man whose hands first broke the sod and pressed the ground
tenderly about their roots. They still aspire and shed delicious
perfume on the balmy summer air and their verdure is perennial
like the memory of a grateful nation.
Bartram, an eminent botanist of Philadelphia, was a close friend
of Washington. In the rear of the mansion is a fine lawn
comprising a number of acres, around which winds a carriage
drive bordered by grand old trees.
