The monument was commenced years ago, by a certain “Association” which collected large sums of money for the purpose; and for a short time the work went on so actively that had it thus continued till now, the grand column of stone would have pierced the clouds, and there would have been no way of getting at the top except by means of a balloon. It stopped short, however, at the height mentioned; and its square blunt-looking top is covered with boards, to keep the rain off; the poorly protected walls are cracking; and the stray swine are rooting and wallowing about in the mud at its base. Not seventy years have elapsed since George Washington, without whom we would probably never have been an independent nation, passed from earth, and now, alas! it seems that his memory has also passed from the hearts of his unworthy countrymen. Take John Smith’s word for it, reader, a nation that can thus soon forget its father and founder, the very author of its being, must, at no very distant day, lose sight of itself. Byron says: “There is the moral of all human tales;   Tis but the same rehearsal of the past;  First freedom, and then glory—when that fails,   Wealth, vice, corruption, barbarism at last.” In the Revolutionary war we gained our freedom, in the war of 1812 we perpetuated it; in the Mexican war we gained glory; then followed wealth, in the acquisition of California, Texas and other territory: in the recent civil war, we almost reached the vice, corruption and barbarism. Next day I rode out to Georgetown, in a street-car and then hired a riding-horse, to visit Camp Pierpont, Virginia, several miles from the Chain Bridge, where I had spent my first winter in the army. The proprietor of the livery stable, as he led the horse out, saddled and bridled, said: “You can ride a horse, eh?” “With ease,” I replied. “How will you manage to get on?” he asked. “This way,” I replied; and I placed one hand on the saddle and the other on my crutch, and sprung up with ease. He opened his eyes with astonishment. “Whew! You get on a horse easier than I can. But don’t get thrown off.” “I won’t,” I replied. “Get up, old hoss!” And touching the animal with a spur I had put on—I only wear one, on ordinary occasions—darted away toward the river at a brisk gallop.