Jericho, and the two of Capernaum, and the one of Bethsaida, and the one of Jerusalem, the centurion's servant of Capernaum, the palsied cripple of the same city, the daughter of Jairus, the daughter of the Canaanitish woman, the deaf and dumb man of Decapolis, the woman cured of an eighteen years' infirmity, and the one cured of an issue of blood, the boy of Tabor cured of the possession of a devil, Peter's motherin-law relieved of a fever, Malthus with his ear healed, all these, and many others, were they present with the reader, could testify, in language fervent with gratitude, that Christ was omnipotent. One word from Christ, while upon earth, would have been enough to cripple the wings of the morning light, and pall the world in eternal gloom-enough to arrest the chariot of the sun, and unwheel every orb that rolls around the cycles of the universe-enough to make the world, his august temple, tremble with throes unutterable, and reduce it to a mass of conglomerate cinder-enough to make the teeming hosts, and powers, and principalities of the air bend in servile submission to his nodenough to drive all the forces they could rally together before him like motes upon the whirlwind. One word from him could have raised a gust of terror strong enough to blot from existence every being that inhabits heaven, earth, and hell-could have whirled the universe from its axis into irremediable ruin-could have made mountains dwindle down to the insignificance of an iota, and oceans to dry up to barren deserts could have compelled ages and generations to cease to roll, and Time to bring all sublunary things to a crisis. One word from him, then, instead of restoring reason to the throne of men's minds, could have reduced their intellects to senseless idiocy, confounded their thoughts in unintelligible madness, and rendered them objects of pity to heaven and earth. But enough of this. Christ was omnipotent. Do you doubt it? Can you doubt it? Dare you doubt it? If so, turn but a moment to the relation of the "wonderful works" he wrought, while upon earth, given in such sweet, plain, and convincing language by the inspired historians. If the annals of any historian can reveal any greater exhi bitions of power, on the part of the heroes whose names are emblazoned upon their pages if the biography of any distinguished personage can produce instances in which the elements, in obedience to his dictum, crouched before his feet-if any man can be named, whose word, whose bare word, was enough to produce results far more astounding than those that followed the words of Christ, then we are willing to brand him as an impostor; to call the Bible a tissue of falsehoods, from Genesis to Revelations; to call back all that we have said upon the omnipotence of Christ, and trust, for our personal salvation, to some means other than those which he originated and executed. We are persuaded, however, that the task above assigned to any who may be sceptical upon the doctrine, here but imperfectly alluded to, is beyond their abili ties, and hence, with the purchase of the lever of our faith in Christ increased by the contemplation of his divine power—with our heart, more than ever, willing to concentrate its affections upon his cross-with our hopes attracted to him more irresistibly than ever, if this could be so, we rely upon Him to snatch us eventually from the flames. of that hell, from which no one less than an omnipotent being could possibly save us. THE BETTER LAND.-Our relatives in eternity outnumber our relatives in time. The catalogue of the living we love becomes. less, and in anticipation we see the perpetually lengthening train of the departed; aud by their flight our affections grow gradually less glued to earth, and more allied to heaven. It is not in vain that the images of our departed children, and near and dear ones, are laid up in memory, as in a picture gallery, from which the ceaseless surge of this world's cares cannot obliterate them. They wait there for the light of the resurrection day, to stand forth holy, beautiful, and happy-our fellow-worshippers forever. As the door turneth upon its hinges, so doth the slothful upon his bed. A PILGRIMAGE TO WASHINGTON'S dashing through the placid waters of the a The boat was crowded with gay belles and mustached beaux, mothers and children, negroes and dogs, and a New York Fire Company, thrown in for good measure, with its band of music to drown the noise of babies and steam pipes. At 10 o'clock the bell rang, the paddle-wheels splashed, and the boat moved down the river with its cargo of humanity. In a short time we were at Alexandria, eight miles below Washington, and as the boat touched at the wharf to exchange passengers, I obtained glimpse of that venerable old city. I had seen it years before; when but a boy I visited it as the great mart of the fishtrade. The impression then left upon my mind was a confused picture of dirty streets, filthy wharves, piles of fish, squads of greasy women cleaning them, and crowds of swearing, blustering wagoners, and boatmen buying and selling the indispensable scaly tribe. I confess I never afterward envied the citizens of that port the felicity of their situation. But how altered its appearance now! Handsome residences peered out along the narrow streets in the upper parts of the town; the wharves seemed cleaner, the atmosphere purer, the porters and sailors less profane, and the whole place not unworthy of its position as the second commercial city of the Old Dominion. And here lay the secret, it was now an integral part of that ancient commonwealth; it was formerly an appendage to the Federal Capital, located in the District of Columbia, with none of the advantages of Washington and all its disadvantages, pining away in its anomalous situation, and only kept from absolute death by the annual resuscitation of trade during the fish season. But enough of Alexandria. I was bound for Mount Vernon, and had but little time to think of anything else. The boat was soon Potomac on its way to the Tomb of Washington. The scenery was delightful. The river was dotted over with sloops, schooners, and fishing craft, whose snowy sails, swelled by the morning breeze, was reflected from the unruffled waters, and seemed like whiteplumaged birds gliding through aerial space. On one side were the shores of the "Mother of States" rising abruptly from the strand, and crowned with alternate farm and grove. On the other side the gently-swelling fields of Prince George's County stretched away in the distance, terminating in a low ridge of uplands. Behind us lay the capital of the Union, with its numerous public edifices glittering in the morning sunbeams, and its picturesque and village-like clusters of houses gradually disappearing from our receding vision. Before us the glassy surface of waters, with its panorama of swanlike sailboats, appeared to contract in the distance to a brilliant point on the horizon. Our country's flag drooped gracefully at the boat's stern, and awakened thoughts warm and patriotic in my heart as we neared the spot where repose the ashes of him whose name is linked with every stripe and star of that noble banner. About 11 o'clock we arrived alongside the sacred spot whither we were tending. Half concealed among the trees upon the elevated bank of the river, I saw a stately oldfashioned edifice, with colonnade and cu pola. And this was Mount Vernon mansion, where Washington lived and died. Could it be possible that I was gazing upon that hallowed place, around which cluster so many thrilling associations, embalming it in every true American heart! It was even so. Solemn thoughts rushed on my soul, deep and holy emotions welled up within me, and I needed but the solitude and stillness favorable for meditation, to have become absorbed in devoutly patriotic musings. But the confusion incident to the disembarkation of several hundred passengers effectually precluded me from enjoying any such ecstasy of silent contemplation. We were landed on a rude wharf at the entrance of an irregular ravine, down which a limpid stream gurgled, and up which a narrow footpath wound. I was obliged "to fall into ranks," and proceed with the long line of visitors up this path, made by placing two boards side by side lengthwise, and fastening strips across to keep the feet from slipping, after the manner of Paddy's inclined plane for carrying brick and mortar to the top of a building. The space between the boards is wide enough to admit the foot of a lady though she be not a Chinese, and more than one in our procession by an incautious step gave a painful wrench to a delicate ankle. At the head of the ravine we came suddenly upon the spot dearest of all others to the pilgrim American. We found ourselves standing at the TOMB OF WASHINGTON! But who can describe the emotions of that moment? For I had emotions there in spite of the senseless gossip around me, in spite of the bad music of the screeching band in attendance, in spite of the jostling, noisy, unfeeling crowd. I felt, and felt deeply. I felt the holy inspiration of the place, I felt the insignificance of earthly grandeur and fame, the comparative littleness of factitious merit, contrasted with true greatness;-I felt that I stood by the ashes of no ordinary mortal; and I almost felt, that homage at such a tomb would be no sin. I was convinced, at least, that no more favorable sanctuary for patriotic thanksgiving could be found than the ground on which I stood. There, surrounded by the scenery upon which the eye of Washington loved to dwell,-treading the soil oft trod by his feet, -embowered in shrubbery that had screened his venerable form against the burning sunbeams, I felt like bowing beside his venerated remains,-pouring forth from my burdened soul a thanksgiving in behalf of America, for God's noble gift to her,-imploring his forgiveness for national ingratitude and sin, and praising his name that "I too am an American." Willingly would I have worshipped at such a shrine,-worshipped Heaven for the blessings brought to remembrance at that shrine, and not the inanimate dust reposing there, but how could I do aught but think amid such confusion? Could I do otherwise than stroll onward with the crowd, and wait a more favorable opportunity to perform my pilgrim rites? | How I longed for a chapel, secluded among that waving foliage, where I might pray and meditate then, while the warm gush of feel. ing was upon me,—but no chapel was there. Would it not be a happy offering to the memory of Freedom's Chieftain to erect such a sanctum at his grave? But a word or two about that grave. Originally, it was an ordinary cave-vault, in the brow of the hill, sloping upward from the Potomac. In this, the body of Washington formerly reposed. Some years ago, a marble sarcophagus was presented for the purpose of holding his remains; and it was found that the vault would be too damp for the polished surface of the marble. An enclosure was accordingly erected immediately in front of the vault,-appearing like a continuation of it, and shut in with high iron gates. Within these gates, and in full view of visitors, resting upon the gravelly floor, stands the sarcophagus containing the ashes of our country's Father. "Here lie the remains of Washington," with date of birth and death, is all the inscription it bears; but this is amply sufficient; for who needs be told who Washington was, and who wants a better epitaph for him than the history of our nation? Beside his, is another sarcophagus, precisely similar, containing the remains of Lady Washington. Opposite to the entrance of the tomb stand two monumental columns, about forty feet high, one of which is inscribed to the Great Chieftain, and the other to one of his brothers. Such is the tomb of the world's greatest MAN,simple, unostentatious, and neat,—but dearer to freemen than the gorgeous mausoleums of kings and conquerors. I passed on with the crowd, along a winding continuation of the footpath already described. A short distance from the tomb we passed an old dilapidated vault, on an eminence to the left, which, I was informed, was the original family vault, where the remains of the great hero were at first deposited. I determined at once to examine it more closely; hoping, at the same time, to detach myself from the jostling procession. I succeeded, after a dint of effort, in scaling the precipitous bank and a half-decayed post-fence standing on its brink. I now found myself on an elevated lawn, extending quite up to the venerable mansion; and what was more agreeable to my feelings, I was separated from the unthinking, gossiping crowd. Near me was the vault before men. tioned. I approached it with a deep consciousness of treading hallowed ground. It was a crumbling ruin, doorless, and partly filled with fragments of decaying brick and mortar. As I drew nearer, its sepulchral entrance caused me a thrill of peculiar sensations, a mingling of solemnity, reverence, and terror. I almost feared to descend into it, yet I felt a strong desire to do so. Never shall I forget that moment's experience, as I hesitated at the entrance of the gray old ruin. Deep silence seemed here to have found a congenial resting-place, and every object around appeared anxious to contribute to the sacred stillness. The spring birds on the neighboring boughs seemed to hush their twittering, as if they too had caught the inspiration of the place. The tall old elms hard by, stood up green, beautiful, and noiseless, like sentinels watching at the tomb of human greatness, which Time's corroding tooth had spared for centuries longer than usual to perform their solemn duty. The sunbeams struggling through their motionless branches, fell upon the greensward that covered the crumbling vault, and gave to the secluded spot a tinge of lustre, like the reflection of Washington's glory from the spirit land. I paused but a moment, and then descending into the dilapidated cave, I stood where the immortal statesman had lain, where first "He drew his grave-clothes round him, But what were my sensations as I stood in that precinct of the dead? Never did I feel a nearer approach to the confines of the shadowy land. I was ready to fancy myself at the entrance of the mystic world of spirits, and could easily have persuaded my excited imagination that I heard voices ringing in that sepulchral spot, telling of scenes and regions far away. But I confined my thoughts to the safer territory of reality. I thought of the mighty dead that had found a primal resting-place there, after a well-spent life of noble deeds and heroic sufferings. I thought of Washington and all his name inspires; how he rose like a morning-star of glory upon the darkening horizon of the world's hope, ushering in freedom's day of happiness and peace; how he fought and planned and prayed, joining the valor of Achilles with the prudence of Fabius, till victory dropped her verdant wreath upon his noble brow, and crowned him Liberty's Defender. I thought of him as a chieftain-I thought of him as a statesman-I thought of him as a man-I thought of him as a Christian- and I thought of him as a glorified spirit, basking now in the pure and holy atmosphere of heavenly felicity. Then I came forth from that consecrated place, bearing a relic from its walls, with noiseless tread, fearful of disturbing the slumbering echoes, or producing a discordant note in the mysterious requiem which unbroken silence seems to be ever chanting to the memory of true greatness. The remains of Washington rested in this vault for more than thirty-five years. About twenty years ago they were removed to the new vault, in which they lay eight years, when they were placed in the marble sarcophagus in the outer inclosure before mentioned. A From the old vault I proceeded to the mansion. Here were signs of life. colored cook or two were seen about the kitchen, which is distant several yards from the main building, and connected with it by a covered piazza. Some poultry appeared about the yard, and stray pieces of linen were observed sunning themselves in conspicuous places. From these indications I surmised that a family lived there, but of its members I saw none. Two rooms of the house are usually opened to visitors, both on the right of the main hall: the one appears to have been a breakfast room, the other a private parlor. In these the identical furniture remains which Washington used, and which descended to his heirs. The carpet is faded and ancient, the curtains are dimmed by age, the ceiling is cracked and warped. A few chairs, a sofa, and a table or two, all antique and timeworn, constitute the main furniture of these apartments. Pictures of relatives and friends, with a few of an historical nature, adorn the walls, and a small cabinet of minerals and curiosities occupies a side-table. A ledger for visitors' names lies on a centre-table, and contains the autographs of thousands who have at different periods trod these venerable precincts. In a glass case suspended in the passage an object of more than ordinary interest attracted my attention. This was the great iron key of the French Bastile, or Royal Prison, covered with the rust of ages, and speaking in silent eloquence of the triumphs of liberty over despotism. It was presented to Washington by Lafayette. And to whom else should it have been given? Where could have been found a safer custodian for the instrument of oppression than at Mount Vernon? Who knows how far the influence that went forth from that home of liberty may have contributed to unlocking the Bastile? Thoughts such as these came quick and fast upon me, as I gazed upon that massive key, and left it hanging there at the pilgrim's shrine, to tell its silent story to future generations. I passed next into the grounds back of the mansion. These bear traces of their former tasteful owner, and manifest the neglect of their present proprietor. Here are the remains of a race-course for trying the speed of horses, walks for promenading, seats for resting, shrubbery for shade, and flowers for ornament, all in graceful irregularity and neglect. The flower-garden was closed against visitors, the negro servants having the monopoly of that part of the estate. They generously offered me a small bouquet of uninteresting flowers, and demanded a "quarter" as I turned to depart. I was obliged to succumb to the modest request with the best grace possible, as the flowers were already in the hands of a lady friend. While lingering and meditating among the verdant beauties of this rural and lovely place, I was startled to consciousness by the bell of the steamboat ringing out clearly and distinctly its call to the passengers to prepare for their return. Being told that it was only the "first bell," I sauntered leisurely back through the mansion and towards the boat. The building is a plain, unassuming one, built of wood, after the fashion of Virginia planters in colonial times. A piazza, supported by Doric columns, extends along the whole front, reaching to the roof. The length of the main edifice is about ninety or one hundred feet, with a proportionate depth. A small cupola surmounts the roof, and gives the building the appearance of a country academy. It is still in a pretty good state of repair, but is evidently suffering from the wear and tear of time. Its present occupant a descendant of one of Washington's brothers-is willing, I believe, to sell the whole estate to Congress, but to no one else. The subject has been frequently discussed whether Congress should appropriate money from the national treasury to purchase it. Constitutional scruples have been raised; but who would not be as willing to see the public money spent in this way as in the thousand projects that are every year draining the nation's purse? I think every true American has but one opinion on this subject—it is mine, at least: let the property be purchased, kept from decay, the proper arrangements made for the reception and entertainment of visitors, and let it stand forever as the Mecca of our country, where thousands may yearly retire from the heat and hurry of politics and business, to cool their unholy zeal, and fire anew their smouldering patriotism. Especially let would-be statesmen visit the spot, and learn there what true statesmanship is, and be reminded of the only road to true and lasting fame. Let them chasten their aspirations at Washington's tomb, and invoke there the baptism of Washington's spirit. I left Mount Vernon about two o'clock, and after touching at Fort Washington and Alexandria, arrived at Washington early in the afternoon. And am I a better or a happier man since my visit than I was before? Yea, verily! I sat in the chair where Washington once sat, and planned, and thought, and wrote-I breathed the air which he used to breathe, as he longed, and hoped, and feared-I trod the ground consecrated by his footsteps, gazed upon the trees he planted, the scenery he loved, and bowed at the tomb where his ashes repose! And can it be that I do not love my country |