o'clock A.M. when I, accompanied by Cicely and the boy, sot sail from Washington, D.C., to pe

pared. 2 linen handkerchiefs and a large cotton one reposed in the pocket o

apitol risin' white and fair like a dream, the glitterin' snow of the monument, and the

y children. And in one corner, off kinder by themselves, sot that band of dusky singers, whose

to torture and to death. The wimmen denied the first right of womanhood, to keep themselves pure. The men denied the first right of manhood, to protect the ones the

ands. Hands that hold the destinies of mighty empires have clasped theirs in frankest friendship, and crowned heads have bowed low before 'em to hide the tears their sweet v

he still waters, their voices riz up in one of their inspired songs. They sung about thei

et as sop. But I didn't care. I knew that George had rather not be mourned for on dry handkerchiefs, than that I should stent myself in emotions in such a time as this. He love

s of great singers, whose trained voices are a hundred-fold more melodious: but these simple strains m

sways us to and fro, that blows upon us, as we listen to their voices? The Spirit that come down to cheer them broken hearts, lift them up in their captiv

a sweet sort of a mournful note; and we jest stood ri

ons (but little or no breath); stood before the iron bars tha

y tomb could hold him. That peaceful, tree-covered hill couldn't hold his tomb. Why, it wuz lifted

r rolls, George Washington shall float on it, he and his faithful Marth

ldn't kill him. For he shall walk through the long centuries to come. He shall bear to the high chamber of prince and ruler, memories that shall blos

n: the calm blue eyes closed so many years ago, are still lookin' into souls. Those hands lift the low wal

d heroism. How the calm blue eyes look down into the boy's impassioned soul, how the shadowy hands beckon him upward, up the rocky heights of noble endeavor,

re deeds of courage and daring? The weary body may rest; but to do this, is surely not to die; no, it is t

landscape, the peaceful waters, this band of dark singers stood with reveren

ose, he rose f

, and hanted me, walked right round inside my heart and soul, and inspir

umph in the end; how you can't bury 'em deep enough, or roll a stun big enough and hard enough before the door, but what, in some calm mornin', t

ught in the long, toilsome, weary hours before the dawn

e for it; I thought how, durin' the dreary time when they was captives in a strange land, chained, scourged, and torture

arms that was their own, to labor and protect, and they sung together of Freedom and Right, how though they wuz buried de

that entomb the dead,-the graves where lay the livin' dead. Dead souls bound to still breathin' bodies, dead hopes, ambitions, dead dreams of usefulness and respecta

rd old fingers of blind habit, to chains of iron, chains linked about, and eatin' into, no

; whose walls are painted with hideous pictures of murder, rapine, lust, starvation, woe, and despair, earthly and eternal ruin

rocky barriers that separate them from their hearts' love, their hearts' desire! How little starvin', naked children cower in their ghostly shadows through dar

ll of the hopeless cries of the entombed, praying for help, praying for some str

ad down by the footprints of the mourners who go about the streets. They pra

l gild the sky at last. The mornin' light is even now dawnin' in the east. It shall fall first upon your uplifted brows, your prayerful eyes. Most blessed of God, because you loved most, sorrowed most. To yo

ur fair land. And purified and enobled, it shall be the best beloved, the fairest land of God bene

hers and children shall join in one heavenly strain, song of freedom and of truth. An

myself,-Cicely was standin' with her brown eyes lookin' over the waters, holdin' the hand of the boy; and I see every thing that the song did or could mean, in the depths of

up the gradual hill to the old hom

rough the trees into the river. The water calm and sort o' golden, thr

reign land; the tree that carries us back in memory to his grave, where he rests quietly, who disturbed the sleep of empires and kingdoms; the furniture of Washington

Smith longed to see somethin

st-chambers, the halls, the grounds, the li

in her widowed dignity, with no other fire only the light of deathless love that lights palace or

' along under sun and moon, bearing on every wa

ne by; for though souls may soar, hearts will cling. And sometimes storms would vex the river's

r, on which her soul should sail away to meet her glorious dead; that river which whispers "Forever, forever;" that river wh