When Washington was in its infancy, and the patriots of that early day bethought themselves of the propriety of building a residence for the President, it was with some difficulty that they could decide what it should be called. In truth, this seemed a more serious question than location, expense, or architecture. Anything that suggested monarchies or kingdoms, such as the word “palace,” could not be entertained; not a trace of the effete despotisms of the Old World should be tolerated, even in our nomenclature. At last “Executive Mansion” was settled upon as a proper title. Any gentleman, provided it was sufficiently pretentious, might style his house a “mansion,” and the chosen executor of laws for the nation was not therefore set apart and above his fellow countrymen, when installed as chief magistrate. In the course of a few years, when only its blackened walls were left standing as mute witnesses that our British cousins still loved us, so much paint was required to efface the marks of the destroyer, when it was restored, that it gleamed white as snow in the distance, and naturally, nay almost inevitably, came to be called the “White House” by popular consent. And by this pretty, simple name the home of the Presidents will doubtless continue to be known as long as republican institutions endure. It is as different as possible in external appearance from the habitations of royalty in European cities; no iron-barred windows, better fitted for a fortress than ordinary outlook, no gloomy, gray walls, chilly and forbidding, frowning down upon you, no squalid tenements thronged with degraded specimens of humanity press upon its outskirts to accentuate the beauties of the one and the miseries of the other. Instead of this, the White House rises fair and inviting from an elevation which seems just sufficient to bring it into relief as a conspicuous feature of the landscape. Its north front looks toward Pennsylvania Avenue, commanding a view of Lafayette Square—itself a most interesting spot, containing the celebrated equestrian statue of Jackson, by Clark Mills, and grouped about it the cannon captured at the battle of New Orleans—while around it stand some of the many historic residences of the capitol. To the east and west of the President’s grounds, respectively, may be seen the Treasury, and the War, State and Navy Departments; the southern aspect is the most charming of all; flowers, trees and emerald lawn, with the music of falling water make up a picture as bewildering in loveliness as it is arcadian in simplicity, its boundary line being the Potomac, shining in the distance like a bit of blue sea, but disfigured by no great iron hulks or other sea monsters; only a modest little excursion steamer, now and then a tall three-masted schooner lazily rocking and glancing skyward, impatient to set sail.