Nought broke the stillness of his last moments, but the suppressed sobs of the affectionate servants collected on the stair-case; the tick of the large clock in the hall, as it measured off, with painful distinctness, the last fleeting moments of his existence, and the low moan of the winter wind, as it swept through the leafless snow-covered trees; the labouring and wearied spirit drew nearer and nearer to its goal; the blood languidly coursed slower and more slowly through its channels—the noble heart stopped—struggled—stopt—fluttered—the right hand slowly slid from the wrist, upon which its finger had been placed—it fell at the side—and the manly effigy of Washington was all that remained, extended upon the death couch. We left that room, as those who leave a sick room: a suppressed whisper alone escaped us, as, with a sort of instinctive silence and awe, we drew the door slowly and firmly to its place behind us. We again descended the antique stair-case, and emerged upon the lawn, in front of the mansion. Passing through several coppices of trees, we approached the sepulchre, where rest the remains of his earthly semblance. In the open arch of a vault composed of brick, secured and firmly protected by gates of open iron work, were two large sarcophagi of white marble, in one of which, carved in high relief, with the arms of the republic, were deposited the remains of him, “who was first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen.” A marble slab, set into the brick wall of the exterior, bearing in black letters simply this inscription— “The remains of Gen’l George Washington.” There rested all that was mortal of the man, whose justice—whose virtue—whose patriotism—meet with no parallel in human history. There, within the smoke of his own hearth-stone, mouldered the remains of that towering form, whose spirit, whether in the battle, or in the council-hall, in the fierce dissensions of public discord, or in the quiet relations of social life, shone with the same stern and spotless purity. The Potomac glittered like silver, between the trees in the noon-day sun at our feet; the soft mild breeze gently moved the leaves upon the tree tops—the chirp of the wren—the drowsy hum of the locust—the quick note of the thrush, as she hopped from twig to twig, were all that showed signs of life,—and those huge sarcophagi lay still—motionless—far, far from voiceless. Oh! my countrymen, never since he left us, hath it so behoved us to listen,—“While our Father’s grave doth utter forth a voice.”