The Vermont transcript. [volume] (St. Albans, Vt.) 1864-1870, 1864-10-14
The Arlington Mansion.

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The following passages are from a
letter Of i. f. Taylor in the Chicago
Jounai:-
Lees old Arlington mansion is
reached at last and you stand in the
lofty portico, with its eight massive
columns of marble There is nothing
light and elegant about it. but all is
grand-almost severe, the walls are
finished in stucco, and patches of it
have fallen off here and there; the
panels once filed with figures in relief
are empty and defaced; an hundred
swallows nests bead the cornices, as
with mourning necklace, and the
plant of young birds and the flutter
of wings ell the silence like a speech. p"
! The wooden shutters are fast closed.
The broad doors, that once stood wide,
leading to the front hospitable, al
most human smile, are sealed like
the lips of the dead. feel as I did
when standing before the bolted door
of tomb on Georgetown Heights,
bearing name forever fallen out of
common speech.
Did ever loyelier landscape greet the
eye from portico before? The rolls of
green washing up the richest foliage,
lapse away to the Potomac with its
silver flow At your left, the old gar
den, that like deserted Eden lacks
many hands to 'lop the wanton
growth, yet makes a gorgeous show
of flowers. Your eye catches the tele-
graph wire spun along from tree to
tree, and through a creyice in the win
dow; a paralyze nerve of the old
Headquarters established here. What
tidings from the field have flashed
along that wire; what syllables Of tri-
umph and defeat
Before you lies Washington; exactly
in your front, lifts the monument a
mighty milestone ''to count the ages
goneby.' Straight out beyond, the dome
of the Capitol, splendid bubble, as
if an angels breath had blown it. And
he who once stood here turned from
the scene a traitor | push open the
reluctant door and enter the deserted
hall; the floors are covered with dust;
the frescoes on the walls are dim with
cobwebs; the arches are stained and
battered A rusty cham bangles from
the ceiling, suspending a fragment of
a lamp, its light put out forever. The
antlered heads of old Virginia deer,
trophies of some forgotten held-day,
to the merry music Of the hounds and
the dashing leaps of bloody hun
tiers, yet cling to the walls like sculp
lures Paintings are here, too, that
have gone into history: staring enough
now, and as literal as a Scotchman, but
yet time has done for them what it |
does for friends and books and wine.
/ open a door and am in the dining
room; there stands the table yet; the
cloth removed for its old host forever;
the table with its lions claws, leaving |
foot prints in the dust as you move it,
as if the mansion were indeed haunt
for the beasts OF the wilderness. Here |
Lafayette sat a guest; here sparkled
Jest and wine; here rose the song,
died out so long in signing; here wo-
mans smiles shone round the board
now faded out in dying. A SCARED
side-board of some ancient fashion is
against the WALL not so did it look in
the old days, flashing in the glory OF
cut glass, ruby and amber. Do you
mark the doors are double opening
here. and the narrow space between
the walls Wine is a truth teller. they
say, and so no syllable over the third
bottle could stray beyond this room to
ears intent. catch myself in this
dim and shattered place of banquets
alas, Funeral baked meats" all they
seem now-trying to think how they
looked when they thronsd it; who sat
here and there and yonder, but the
picture is faded and my hand cannot
restore it.