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Marble will perish, and monuments of adamant will crumble to dust; but the memory of Washington will live as long as there is a heart to love, or a mind to cherish a recollection of goodness.

“He was a good old man,” said the negro, “and he has gone to his rest.”

“We are all going,” he continued, after a pause. I thought a tear stole down his wrinkled face; but he turned his back to me, and left me to my own reflections.

Deep silence was about us. We heard not even the notes of a bird. Not a zephyr moved the air, not a rustling leaf was there. In front, far below, lay the Potomac. Not a breath of wind moved the surface of its waters, but calmly, peacefully, undisturbed, the river moved on, as though conscious of the spot it was passing. On its glassy surface were reflected the branches that bent over and kissed it as it flowed, and the last rays of a declining sun tinted with their golden light the hills on the opposite shore.

I stood at the tomb of Washington: on my right stood a distinguished Indian chief; on my left, “Uncle Josh,” the old African, of three-score years and ten. We represented three races of the human family, and we each were there with the same feelings of love, honor, and respect to departed worth.

Night was hastening on. I clambered up the embankment, and plucked a few green leaves from a branch that hung over the tomb; gazed once more, and yet again, within the enclosure; then turned away, and hastened to overtake my companions, who were far in advance.

If our country is ever called to pass through another struggle, may God, in his wisdom, raise up for it another Washington!

The sun had passed the horizon, and the cool evening air, laden with the fragrance of shrubbery and flowers, gathered about us. A lively squirrel sprang across our path; a belated bird flew by; and, amid the pleasant, quiet scenes of rural life, we wended our way homeward.