The Sun.
London, England, 1860-10-23 00:00:00

THE SUN, LONDON, TUESDAY EVENING, OCTOBER 23, 1860.

TILE PRINCE'S VISIT TO THE UNITED
STATES.

(From the Special Correspondent of the Times.)
WASHINGTON, OCT. 6.
His Royal Highness saw as much of Washington
in his three days' visit as any one can ever see who
stays there three weeks, three months, or even three
years, with the one exception, that he took away a
very favourable impression, which those who dwell
much longer seldom do.
- -

Washington consists of a few magnificent public
buildings ; the town per se has, if I may so speak,
nothing whatever to do with the place beyond that
its shabby wretched little dilapidated houses act
as a foil to the marble palaces of the Government,
making them seem like jewels badly set: Even in
these very public buildings, however, Washing:-on
is unfinished. There is not one which is entirely
completed—some scarcely well begun. In short,
the only structures which are complete are the
houses of the city, and those are the ones which
should all be pulled down at once. When you have
visited the capital and Mount Vernon, admired the
Treasury, Patent and Post-offices, called at the
, White House, suffered under a bad hotel, and con-
tinually mistaking the Washington Monument for a
lighthouse, all of which, especially the two latter,
you do easily in three days, you may quit the ad-
ministrative capital of America with perfect ease
of mind as to your having seen as much of the
place as if you had lived there all your life. His
Royal Highness has gone through all this, except
the bad hotel business, and no matter what else he
has hurried through, he has at least seen Washing-
ton, and knows all that visitors can ever know about

it. He made a long visit to the Capitol with the
President and chief members of his suite. This is
one of the noblest buildings in America. Its site
is unusually fine, its proportions are massive and
noble, and its severe, grand simplicity of architec-
ture well becomes the Administrative halls of a great
Republic so young and primitive as this. Of course,
it is not finished, and it is likely to be very many
years before it ii. It would not be difficult to say to
what particular order of architecture it belonged.
Its noble columns are Corinthian. Yet there is a
huge cupola at the top which is at variance with
the rest, 'which is too elongated for a dome, though
the diameter of its base, if I am not much mistaken,
in appearance, is very nearly as great as that of St.
Peter's
at Rome. It is Bacon who says that "iu
the truly beautiful there is always something
strange," and the force of the remark is exemplified
in the Capitol of Washington, which, though not in
perfect harmony with itself, either inside or out, is,
nevertheless, one of the grandest and most imposing
structures I have seen here. It is all built of pure
white marble—as, indeed, all the other public build-
ings, and many even of the houses of Washington
are also. The main entrance to the interior is by
a noble and lofty flight of steps—those daises of
architecture which always add so much to the grand
and imposing effect of lofty facades. At the top of
the steps at either side are two allegorical groups of
statuary; one a very fine one representing the in-
fluence of civilization on the savage Indians ; the
other a poor, clumsy, and badly-executed figure of
Columbus. Passing under a fine colonnade, you
enter the Rotunda beneath the dome, a fine and
spacious circular hall, with some good and some very
badly executed pictures on the walls which form the
outer circle, the inner magic ring towards the centre
being composed of wide-mouthed highly-decorative
iron spittoons. Nothing more: forcibly repudiates
the vulgar notion as to the expectorating accuracy
of Americans than the appearance of the marble
round these noisome receptacles. These spittoons
are the first things you see on entering, and from
this moment you never lose sight of them as long
as you remain in the building. No matter where
you wander—into the Senate Chamber, the House
of Representatives, the Speaker's Room, the gor-
geous room of the President, the yawning dirty
nuisance haunts you everywhere. You tumble over
them in quiet corners of rich frescoed halls ; they
flank the tribune and the Speaker's chair, like
quaint supporters, and stand in hideous rows and
semicircles round the halls—recognised institutions
of the place ; the little altars on which every one
asserts his nauseous liberty of spitting, no matter
who is present or what the occasion. A long and
for the proportions of the building a very low and
narrow corridor leads to the Hall of Representa-
tives, a large and very low square chamber, with
the Speaker's seat and tribune facing the entrance,
and a large semicircle of seats and desks (each with
the never absent spittoon, of course) ranged round
the floor. The visitor who enters the Capitol for
the first time with his mind still impressed with
the chaste, simple grandeur of the exterior, looks
forward to seeing in the Hall of Representatives
another illustration of quiet dignity, becoming in a
young republic, which claims to carry ,its simplicity
almost to sternness, which in its love fer plainness
affects to think even a court dress a backsliding
into gorgeousness not to be tolerated in its Mini-
sters abroad. But alas for the disappointment
which awaits him with these ideas ! He sees before
him the Hall of Representatives, a chamber like a
disused show-room, which has all windows in its
ceiling, and yet has no light; which is large with-
out being spacious, low in height without looking
comfortable, covered with gilt and scarlet without
being decorated, gaudy without effect, costly yet
mean and even dirty in its appearance, with a
tawdry vulgarity of splendour that disgusts
every man of taste, and with its enormities
of gilt and paint sufficiently darkling and
obscure to fail to impress the masses. There is
a kind of mixture of a grand Californian bar-room
and a second-rate Paris cafe—an air of a rather well
worn half-business place of entertainment, which is
inexpressibly disappointing to one's anticipations,
and which even the recollection of the exciting—in-
deed, violently exciting, debates it has witnessed
quite fails to remove. Of what use are recollections
or imaginations when it only requires the presence
of a dingy waiter to assure you that, in spite of
everything you must have made a wrong turn, and
wandered by mistake into the ill-decorated salle-a-
manger of the House ? This impression is by no
means lessened when one passes through the large
barbers' saloon, just off a corner of the chamber,
where in the light garrulity of the tonsors the mem-
bers find relief from a debate of unusual calm and
dulness. With a few alterations, such as moving
back the side walls some 20 feet, heightening the
roof at least 30, whitewashing the gilt, extinguish-
ing the red, and entirely remodelling the whole
interior, the Chamber might be made something of,
but any change which does not carry out all these
improvements had better be left alone. It is a com-
fort to pass from this to the old Senate Chamber—
the first that was ever used in Weshington—the
Chamber which has echoed the eloquent and mostly
anti-English denunciations of Webster, Clay, Cal-
houn, and other of the greatest American states-
men, the chamber in which all the measures have
been discussed and passed to laws which have
brought this vast empire to its present eminence.
It is higher, but in all other respects much like in
size its modern successor, except that its decora-
tions are cold and plain almost to severity. The
Senate Chamber now in use is precisely the same
in size and form with that of the House of Repre-
sentatives. It is very plain, however, and would
almost be handsome looking, but for its mean pro-
portions. The Democrats, or slaveholding party, sit
on the left as you enter, the Republicans, or anti-
slavery, on the right. From the Capitol the Prince
visited the Patent-office, a noble building, such a one
as our own indefatigable Patent-chief BennetWood-
croftwould wish to raise in London. Here the Prince
saw a suit of uniform belonging to Washington, and
the clumsy old printing-press ofFranklin. When will
the English get, a National Museum for such germs
of the great inventive genius of her people?
Beyond this visit, and a short drive round the
city, nothing of note was done, and in the afternoon
the party returned to the White House. This Pre-
sidential mansion is not imposing though handsome,
plain, and simple, painted white to conceal the
traces of the conflagration when it was burnt by
the English in the war of 1812. In one of the
rooms still hangs the great portrait of Washington,
cut from the frame by Mrs. Maddison while the
English were actually entering the city. It is a
very handsomely furnished building, though not at
all better if as well as many of the houses of the
merchants of New York. In front of it is a little
enclosure, and at almost the corner of the avenue a
chestnut tree with a deep scared bark. At the foot
of this Sickles murdered Mr. Key, and some of the
bullets were cut from the tree and produced in court.
The very plain, arnedsidelinkcee most other
Sicklesst
houses ois nuosesthe
in
te Washington, poor
side of the square with a hideous statue of
oGpepnoesrial Jackson always bowing to it. What did
poor General j ackson do that he should be over-
whelmed with such posthumous opprobrium as this
dreadful figure perpetuates ? George 111, saluting
thecom cpaabr se tda n in
t od
it,
andth
more
Haymarketth than
ni a w
this
s lor
cannotk of genius
say.
On the evening of Thursday, the 4th, there was a
gw.r ahni
tde
u displayou s
House,
of
onfi
which,
ehwi. oc
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private,
ae small partyneea n
oatt
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ther dwell.
xpedition was made to Mount
On the Sth an 0

Vernon—the house, the home, and tomb of Wash-
ington.
A large party went early in the morning down
to the dockyard, where the Government steamer,
called after the niece of the President—the Harriet
Lane—was waiting. Under a double salute for the
Prince and President, the party embarked, and
went away down the broad and glittering waters of
the Potomac. Washington is not impressive from
this noble river. The intended dome of the Capitol,
half finished as it is, looks like an extinguisher, and
the Washington Monument more like a lighthouse
than ever. The city, too, lies low and straggling,
and its whole aspect is flat and poor. It may and
must be grand hereafter, but with that I have no-
thing now to do, but only speak of it as it is. Far
down the river the little town of Alexandria nestles
in a green bank. Some ten miles below this the
shores on either side are higher and more grand.
The Harriet Lane steered for the most conspicuous
of these, and anchored, and the large party went
ashore in cutters, the Prince steering the one in
which the President sat. You step from the boat
upon Virginian territory, and are at the foot of
Mount Vernon, a steep wooded headland, which
rises abrupt from the shore of the Potomac, and on
which the clustering trees and thick rough under-
wood stand out in startling contrast from the red
bricky earth, the characteristic colour of all Vir-
ginian soil. A winding irregular footway leads up
here, broken away in gaps, over which a few clumsy
planks supply the place of the crumbling earth.
Bits of bricks and stone, with now and then dead
boughs, lie in the ways always nalrew and difficult
and crowded in upon by branches, while around as
far as one can see through the neglected shrubbery
is rank and uncultivated, with an unmistakeable
aspect of desertion, of slow, and long decay in
every wild straggling deep-tangled thicket. Even
the trees are mildewed over with a sickly moss,
and look damp and ruinous, the ground between '
the briars is littered ankle deep with fallen leaves,
while broken boughs, all white and brittle, are
scattered everywhere, and peer out starkly through
the matted weeds. Is this Mount Vernon, the
Home of Washington; is this the property pur-
chased by a grateful nation to save it from decay
and demolition ? Alas ! Republics are ungrateful
masters, and have been so from all time. Still
toiling up through the steep, neglected wilderness,
you come out at last upon a sloping open grass plot,
more like a rough meadow now, though once a well-
kept lawn. Small groups of trees are planted here
and there, and underneath a few are wide-armed
garden seats, bleached white with long exposure to
the weather, and fast falling to pieces. In the centre
of the lawn is a long, straggling, old-fashioned
wooden country house, three stories high, with
very tall, square wooden pillars, supporting a
broad balcony, which shades over the whole front.
Beneath this, in an irregular square stone pave-
ment, is a long, angular, wooden seat, white and
almost decayed, placed close by the side of a nar-
row double-leafed door, from which the yellow
paint is worn and the panels are shrunk and cracked.
Above the balcony, with its wooden lattice balus-
trade, ruined and broken like torn lace, is a sloping
irregular tiled roof, green with the moss and damp
of many years. Four pointed little gable windows
peep timidly from under the eaves of this, while in
the centre of the ridge rises a little glass lantern,
like a belfry, with a huge rusty weather-cock, and
and an iron lightning-conductor of great thickness.
At either side of the house, curving backwards, are
the blanched remains of little vaulted arcades, lead-
ing to dilapidated farm-buildings in the rear, while
on the left, another large tiled outhouse, in better
preservation, though still in keeping with the rest
in swift decay, completes the scene. Such is the
first appearance presented by the remains of this
world-famous building; such, and no more, are the
plain simple features of the house in which George
Washington lived and died. Every window in its
quaint white wooden front has an interest now ;
every little peculiarity is scrutinised as you stand
amid the silence that belongs to decay, and note its
every aspect for memory to treasure up and dwell
upon hereafter. The old faded green blinds are
closed over the sitting room, as if the house was
mourning ; the others are open, but dim, hollow,
and vacant, looking like eyes from which the light
has fled for ever. The closed windows speak only
of death, but there is something in those sightless
glaring panes, stained black with dust, and tapes-
tried with webs; there is a mute appealing mourn-
fulness in their decay—in the sad efforts which
they seem to make to keep the daylight from en-
trance in the gloomy rooms beyond that is almost
touching; that speaks of one not only dead, but
dead and long forgotten. The gaunt white columns
are riven with unseemly gaps and crumbling to de-
cay ; the bell wires outside the house are worn to
threads and parted, leaving a mouldering rusty
stain along the wooden walls. The upper windows
seem to have grown decayed and lost their light, as
if from long neglect of use, for years have come and
gone since these were wanted—since any faces
looked for light from them. The very walk under
the arcade has a faint cold echo of the past ; the
solitary tap, tap from drops of water breaks on the
stillness with a sound which here is noise ; the old
green-tiled roof droops in slow bends, as if, its duty
done, it, too, was slumbering to decay with all the
rest. There is a loneliness about the place, about
its solitary quiet and forlornness, that more than
clings to tombs ; it is the echoing loneliness of the
forsaken-mansion of one greatest in world's history,
left desolate, and never to be used again. The
stacks of chimneys stand in sharp outline against
a cold October sky, dumb and smokeless, breathing
no signs of hospitality or token of life within those
mute white walls. There are no swallows near the
building, no people round the place ; even the vane
above the lantern is rusted into quiet never broken
here save by the falling leaves or wind, or drip,
drip, drip of water; Even the glass belfry on the
roof has a ghastly look, as all white and empty, its
iron bell rusted and dead, and its dim shadowy-
looking windows just permitting the light of a cold
October sun to be seen through its little panes.
The most bigoted stranger that ever trod within
these sacred precincts cannot look around without
emotion, cannot free his mind from a feeling of
sorrow that this touching relic of one of earth's
noblest dead should be now in such a state and left
to such decay. Those who wish to see the interior
of the house must search to the left, where, down
in a cellar, a negro woman and her family almost
lurk—a slave herself, though the only cicerone to
the deserted mansion of the man who gave freedom
and independence to this continent. This woman
has the key of the house, and, passing sulkily
under the arcade, points out with a monotonous
drawl of habit the old armchair in which Washing-
ton used to sit near the door, with its little desk
fastened to one side on which he wrote and an-
swered the despatches placed in a drawer beneath.
The ramcc wag honourod by haying tha chair
brought out for him to sit in—a chair which future
ages will regard with as much veneration as the
thrones of state on which the whole dynasties were
crowned. But the slave is tired of pointing it out,
and hurries on to the door, fumbling in her
pocket for the key, while she apologises in sham-
bling terms for the ruinous decay to which the
house is falling. Oh, vanitas, vanitatum ! a dirty
negress shows the home of Washington for cents,
and drops her maudlin pity on its sad forlorn
neglect.
Inside the door is an old-fashioned wooden hall,
wide and low, with heavy, lumbering porticos
carved above the doors on either side, and a wide,
thick-stepped staircase climbing up from the corner.
The boards creak as you tread on them with a loud
noise, which echoes gloomily through the house.;
the doors and shutters are decayed and shrunken,
and let through flaunting, sharp-edged gleams of
light, which find no resting place in the gloom
beyond, but, filled with dusky, eddying motes in
clouds, seem struggling back again. Over one por-
tico are a few rough stones—fossils which Wash-
ington picked up and placed there, which might
almost have become fossils since he gathered them,
so bygone seems all belonging to him, here in his
very home. In a little case in the left nangs a
rough massive key of iron, which once closed on
crimes and mysteries the world can only dimly
guess at now, which is as typical of shattered
power and despotism overthrown, as if the fleur-de-
lis sceptre of the Bourbons was hung up broken
there. That old misshapen key represents the
crimes of a great dynasty and their tremendous
punishment : it is the first-fruits of the French
Revolution—the key of the Bastille. By its side
hangs a little black profile and portrait of La-
fayette, who presented it to Washington.
Instinctively one looks to the opposite wall for
some token of the freedom which Washington gave
to our descendants ; but the cracked neglected
panels are blank and dumb and make no sign save
of decay. There is no token on the wall, but you
are told that his most enduring record is to be found
in the memories of a grateful nation. Well, let us
see ! An apartment off the corner of the hall was his
sitting room. It is empty, cold, and vacant, with
one of those dim lightless windows, just letting in
sufficient murky day to add to its cheerless gloom.
In the corner is a little fire-place, from which the
grate has been torn out, leaving a black gaping
aperture as mournful as a grave. Oyer it,

framed in the wainscot, is a painting which
once represented a bright summer day; but the
winter of adversity and cold neglect has overtaken
its warm hues, and dim and faded in its dirt as a
November morn it looks even more wretched than
the room itself with its colours blurred out and holes
and tatters in its decaying canvas: In a corner of
the apartment is its only article of furniture—a large
terrestrial globe, with its zodiac half eaten through
with rust—its compass broken, and the globe itself
a dirty brown ball with scarce an outline distin-
guishable on its surface from damp and long neglect.
Turn it round, and there seems something retribu-
tive in the fact that the United States—the very
land he gave its freedom to, whose destinies he
studied on this very globe—is a mere black stain,
utterly unrecognisable under the mouldy decay to
which this relic has been abandoned. It is written,
" Put not your trust in Princes," but you may say
" Put not trust in peoples either," for their captious
love is hard to win and easily lost, and when once
gone can never be revived.
The room leading from this was the dining and
state-room—large, dim, and empty except that in
one corner stands the General's piano—an old-
fashioned yellow jangling harpischord. In the cen-
tre, on a quaint enamelled plate, like a watch dial,
are the names of "Longman and Broderip, musical
instrument-makers, Cheapside, London," but no
date.

In one corner is a dirty heap of leather and old
rags. What do they here ? Has not this building
fallen low enough but it must be a storehouse for
old lunir? "Lumber!" says our guide; I suceo
they're the General's saddle- bags and holsters.' And
such, indeed, these mouldy fragments turn out to be
—the old embroidered holsters, fall of holes, and
shreds of ruin ; the saddle-bags, moth-eaten and fall-
ing to pieces strewing the floor, a mere unsightly-
litter. In this room is the beautiful marble mantel-
piece presented to Washington by his devoted friend
and admirer, Lafayette Ha rich and elaborate
structure—the only object in the whole house which
retains its pristine cleanliness and form—shining
out like a flower in a ruin. The room in which
Washington died is upstairs, but none are
allowed to enter it ; perhaps this sanctuary is too
decayed to be safe for visitors. There is no more
to see, and if there is you do not wish to see it. Let
the dust settle again upon the rooms in which Wash-
ington lived and thought and worked for his coun-
try. They echvith a hollow feeble effort, as if
sickening to their decay, unwonted noises pained
them. Close the blinds, and let them wither in
silence. This house will not cumber the earth for
long. How true is that eternal moral, " The evil
that men do lives after them ; the good is often in-
terred with their bones." The key of the Bastille
will survive as the type of a tremendous despotism
when the sanctuary of liberty in which it now hangs
shall have passed away like a tale that is told.
Away from the house is a rough, broken footpath
which leads through mazy wilds—a mingled debris
of ruined woods and buildings. Down this the
Prince and President and all the Royal party
passed, a gay assemblage of some 100 visitors,
going to Washington's tomb. It is a needless itera-
tion to point out how utterly waste and neglected
is this road, which seems to wind through the coarse,
wild underwood, like an abandoned cattle-track.
At last, through the trees, you come upon what
seems to be the ruins of a cemetery, where, in front
of a red brick wall, a few white marble columns,
hemmed in by rusty iron railings, stand like sentries
of the dead. Move round to the front of this wall
and before you is a hollow arched gateway shut in
by double iron gates. Within this gloomy recess
are two white marble coffin-shaped sarcophagi,
which reflect a wan and ghastly light over the
little vault. That to the left bears the inscription,
" Martha, consort of Washington ;" on the other is
simply cut in massive heavy letters the one word,
" Washington." Beyond this there is nothing ;
and nothing else is needed, for the history of a world
is carved in those 10 deep letters. There is no
pomp of woe about the spot. I almost wish there
were, for now the tomb has the plainness that
springs from neglect, and from neglect a vast decay
will rise in time. The old red walls are scored
with vulgar names, bricks have been broken out,
and the very stone tablet overhead which tells that
" Within this enclosure rest the remains of General
George Washington" is debased with the offensive
scrawls of travellers, not ashamed to leave these
records of their vulgar infamy behind. Over tho
bricks creep wild and tangled shrubs,—weeds, rub-
bish, and mortar are littered in front, while all
around it is a dirty thriftless waste, like the remains
of a shrubbery in which a building once stood. No
pious care seems to have ever tended this neglected
grave, none by to shield it from the desecrations of
idle profanity. It is here alone in its glory, uncared
for, unvisited, unwatched, with the night wind for
its only mourner sighing through the waste of trees,
and strewing the dead brown leaves like ashes before
the tomb. such is the grave of Washington !
" Where may the wearied eye repose
While gazing on the Great,
Where neither guilty glory glows
Nor despicable state?
Yet one, the greatest, last, and best,
The Cincinnatus of the West,
Whom envy dared not hate,
Bequeathed the name of Washington,
To make men blush there was but one."

Before this humble tomb the Prince, the Presi-
dent, and all the party stood uncovered. It is easy
moralising on this visit, for there is something
grandly suggestive of historical retribution in the
reverential awe of the Prince of Wales, the great
grandson of George lll.,standing bareheaded at the
foot of the coffin of Washington. What may not
history bring forth ? The descendants of a regene-
rated line of Hapsburgs may yet do honour at the
tomb of Garibaldi. Fora few moments the party stood
mute and motionless, and the Prince then proceeded
to plant a chestnut by the side of the tomb. It
seemed when the Royal youth closed in the earth
around the little germ that he was burying the last
faint trace of discord between us and our great
brethren in the West. May it be so, and may no
American in times hereafter think of the tomb of
Washington without remembering the friendly
visitor who planted the tree in whose grateful
shadow it reposes. May the act live in the memo-
ries of both nations green as the tree that records it,
and Britons recollect that in this graceful rite of
homage to the memory of one whom we must now
strive to claim as our descendant, the Prince did
honour to himself and his nation. The simple cere-
mony over, the party returned to the Harriet Lane,
and "danced away dull care." Alas, that I should
say so, but the whole visit to the shrine of Washing-
ton partook more of the nature of festivity than
homage. But the world is made up of inconsisten-
cies, and, as Thackeray says truly, we see tears
under bridal wreaths and hear jokes in mourning
coaches.

RICHMOND, VIRGINIA, OCT. 8.

. ,
The Prince has paid a flying visit of some 40
hours to this legislative capital of the old dominion,
as it is called, for Virginia was the first English
colony in North America. Here the first slaves
were imported in 1620, and to this hour Virginia
remains one of the most uncompromising supporters
of pro-slavery doctrines in all the Union. The Royal
party left the White House on the morning of the
President 6 th .
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col-
lected in the avenue leading up to the house, who
cheered the Prince most heartily as he drove off. At
the Arsenal a salute of 21 guns was fired as the
cortege entered, and a similar compliment was paid
from the Navy yard when his Royal Highness went
on board the little steam cutter Harriet Lane. The
instant the
oft',heßoyal party were on board the hawsers
were
watersandtheq of theuicklit ptleosttoemamac like a
erspeddboir
the broad quiet d.
Passing Mount Vernon the speed was slackened,
and the hell tnllpa- -an empty honour paid to the
poor, ruinous, neglected house of Washington by
il
every steamer or vessel of any kind that passes P
or down the stream.
At 2 o'clock the boat reached th
place at Acquia Creek, where the special
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varieties of
" strap road," one of the most unsafentry
of bad tram-
railway ever used, even in this country
which the
first part of the journey was ovetrowithicat
ways of all kinds. The scenery
Thetla land in Virginia
route lay was not attractive.
reckless farming.
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of
ted, and a few negro huts, the
s 1 ahl_bsrteaaetde i. n gsAfofremws
plantations
ttitohnes
tahses worst Irish cabins. The train
best worse than
wholewor were
of f
business
howeverblack,
p is termed a
tep ahtFhhoraeuensdniteeoori enni koukißhbe ininvorthegro.t,
over
onAr d
fttahsttthehoeiprgspr
of
was born, and here his mother is
city. Washington h
buried.
, pulled down, athe first stone of which was laid by
, president 'Jackson in great state nearly 30 years
saw thheer;li
But t
country, first
his mother,