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"Your songs have her favor obtained,

She comes to reply to your prayer;
And now what the fates have ordained,
Minerva herself shall declare."

In the person of the most beautiful young lady of the Washingtonian age, the goddess suddenly moves forward in a dazzling glory, encircled with a rainbow of emerald, and sings

"In the golden balance weighed,
Have I seen Columbia's fate;

All her griefs shall be repaid,
By a future happy state;
She, like the glorious sun,
Her resplendent course shall run-
And future days

Columbia's praise

Shall spread from east to west.

The gods decree

That she shall be

A nation great, confessed."

The genius of America then advanced and replied in triumphant song

"Let earth's inhabitants, heaven's pleasure know,

And fame her loud uplifted trumpet blow;

Let the celestial nine in tuneful choirs,

Touch their immortal harps with golden wires.”

After one of the most magnificent banquets of melody the eighteenth century ever saw, in which some of the most glorious "prophecies in sound" were uttered, the three genii joined in the following friendly chorus, and closed the scene:

"Now the dreadful conflicts' o'er,
Now the cannons cease to roar;

Spread the joyful tidings round,

Spread the joyful tidings round,

He comes, he comes, with conquest crowned.

Hail Columbia's godlike son!

Hail the glorious Washington.

"Fill the golden trump of fame,
Through the world his worth proclaim,
Let rocks, and hills, and vales resound,
Let rocks, and hills, and vales resound,

He comes, he comes, with conquest crowned;
Hail Columbia's godlike son!

Hail the glorious Washington."

The sweet tones of liberty uttered in the "Temple of Minerva" in '81, had not ceased to ring in the American heart in '89; but finding in '87, a record in the eternal flint of words, they swept along the banqueting places of earth down to the year of '98.

"Several people about the theatre have attempted it, but come to the conclusion it cannot be done," said Mr. Fox, when in '98 he desired some patriotic verses written to the tune of the President's March. But had not this task been almost accomplished in the preceding chorus, sung by the three genii, seventeen years before?

Do not "Hail Columbia," the "trump of fame," and the measure of the chorus, appear to carry Fayles back from '89 to '81, for his music, and Hopkinson from '98 to the same scene, and the same year, for his words? Who can say but our own immortal "Hail Columbia" had its real origin in the "Temple of Minerva," or in the surrender of Cornwallis, when "Magog among the nations" arose from his lair at Yorktown, and "shook, in the fury of his power, the insurgent world beneath him?" May not Fayles have touched a key in the "Temple of Minerva" in '81, and revived the sound in '89? May not the eye of Hopkinson in '98 have fallen upon the "Columbian Parnassiad" of '87, when the "Temple of Minerva" first entered the great highway of history? But none the less glory for Mr. Hopkinson.

If the war cloud of '98 brought no other refreshing shower to this thirsty earth, it cheered, refreshed and beautified the rising tree of liberty with "Hail Columbia." In the remote future of this happy land, when divisions and war shall rock our glorious form of free government, and our noble ship of state shall reel and stagger in the awful squall, Hail Columbia will live to let in the day-light of past ages on the scene. No battles will be successfully fought, no victories will be permanently won, without its thrilling melody and the glowing inspiration of its numbers.

60

Sounds which are but passing breath, being once uttered, may never cease to be repeated, and the universal song of the boys of '98, will be the song of the boys of unnumbered centuries to come. Other songs, like the owls and the bats, have fluttered for a season in the doubtful perspicuity of twilight, but Hail Columbia, like the eagle, has soared away to the sun.

There is not in existence a single line of verse by Chaldean, Babylonian or Phoenician bard, for

"They had no poet, and they died."

"They could embalm bodies, but hieroglyphics themselves failed to embalm ideas," but the bard of Philadelphia, by a few letters, as ships passing through the sea of time, has connected Hail Columbia with the remotest generations of the world. As, without song, the nations of the star-led magi, and the sun-worshipping Parsee, have died, even so, with Hail Columbia the free republic of Washington shall live! and because Washington still lives, Hail Columbia lives also, and will soar on wings of immortality, and gladden the nations of the earth till the last wave of history shall have been broken on the shores of time.

CHAPTER V.

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The Peach Party-"Fairfax Pompey"—"Mefodis Meetin' -"1 hates you bofe"-Christopher, the body-servant-"Large white eyes”— The First President-His Journey through Kent County"Fish Day"—Fish Pot-Fish Dinner-The Colt and DogsAunt Peggy-Little Lizzie-Hail Columbia—"You scrouges me"-"Mortal Patriots"-"You lies"-Fairfax Pompey outwitted-The Turkey Driver.

IT was "late peach time" in '98 before Hail Columbia was sung by the choir of Mount Vernon. Miss Nelly had gone through some hard practice of the new national song on the harpsichord; and every time she played and sang it, curious eyes and ears, both inside and outside the mansion, were turned to see and listen, and convey every sound and every word into the recesses of brains that knew no forgetfulness. In the latter part of the month, when the large white "October peaches" were fully ripe, and gathering time was at hand, a "peach party" assembled in and around the neat white cottage of Mr. and Mrs. Cully, Jr., to enjoy the first fruit of the late peach season, and sing Hail Columbia in honor of the chief who once again stood the rock on which the storm from the French war cloud must beat.

The best peaches that grew at the cottage doors of Mount Vernon on trees planted and reared by grey-haired servants long years gone by, were gathered and served in plates to the musical guests of the party then and there assembled. Sweet was the flavor of this delicious fruit, and frequent were the references to the pious memory of aged patriarchs of the Mount, now gone to rest, who planted the trees now yielding cheerful fruit for their children.

Large was the gathering under the spreading oaks before Cully Jr's door this evening, and cheerfully burned the large fire kindled in the grove to warm the chilling breezes of a night in autumn. Some grave thoughts however, intruded, for the last song of the "Caty-Did" was dying away in the distance, and the last serenade in

open air for the season was now at hand. But Cully Jr's hospitality on this occasion knew no bounds, and never did the smoke from his rude wood and clay chimney, curl more hospitably; his vocabulary failed to furnish words sufficiently kind for the entertainment of his guests, and never was Myrtilla, once the "loquacious damsel," but now the refined, lady-like Mrs. Cully, Jr., more busy in preparing the grove for the accommodation of her guests. Seats of all kinds were in great demand—chairs, stools, and boards temporarily erected, were displayed over twenty square yards of the grove, and a conspicuous stand erected for "Little Jack" the leader, who was about to give his best "base, perpendicular, and hypotenuse" on Hail Columbia.

At this party appeared a very eccentric and witty negro, called "Fairfax Pompey," who was the slave of a merchant in Alexandria. He had recently been introduced into the society of Mount Vernon, and was quite a beau among the belles of the different plantations. His master bestowed upon him a large amount of the profits of his dray, which kept him in change, and enabled him to dress "out of sight" of the common people of his color, and ape the dandy with the most consummate skill and perfection. He had a good master, yet he did not like him too well, for the dandy was not a pro-slavery man, but thought all men were created free and equal, and that his master should therefore set him free.

At the peach party Pompey amused the company by the following anecdote of himself, which he told in all companies he visited, for years, before and after the present.

"What you spose I did las Sunday ?” inquired he.

"I gibs dat up,” replied Peter, the superintendent of the stables. "What was it?"

"I went up Huntin' Creek to Mefodis meetin'."

"Well, what 'o dat, sar?" inquired Peter.

"I jes sot down on a stone, dats' all," replied Pompey.

"You sot down on a stone!" exclaimed Peter. "What you do dat for ?"

"Nuffin 'tall, sar, but jes listen what de preacher gwine to say." "Well, what did de preacher say?"

"He say you cant sarve two marsers." “Well, what you think o' dat ?”

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