"But they are not particularly Christians," says he.

"I should think not," says I; "and the Churches that sent them here ought to know how they are going on."

"But the Churches did not send that gentleman. It was the Queen."

"Exactly," said I; "and isn't she the head of the Church. No, no, cousin, you can't make excuses for them."

"But their mission is political," says he.

"Of course," says I. Church and State--I understood."

A whole lot of candles, white as snow, were burning over the wide doors.

That opened into another long room where a great picture, worked with a needle, years and years ago, hung on the wall, and crowds of people were moving about. Then came a storm of music, and I saw one of the ministers teetering off with a lady as if he were going to dance again.

"I declare I won't look on," says I to Dempster; "take me somewhere else."

He did take me into a little room full of books, and there--standing round a table on which a great giant of a china bowl stood, filled to the brim with punch, on which slices of lemon floated temptingly--we found some more of them ministers, each one with a full gla.s.s in his hand.

Sisters, I stood there like a monument, and saw them drink that punch with my own eyes--more than one gla.s.s apiece, too. Ministers, indeed!

While we stood watching them in one door, they went out by another, and then Dempster took us in.

E. E. sat down on a sofa; so did I. Dempster went up to the great bowl, and began to dip out the punch with a big silver ladle as if it had been soup. He filled two gla.s.ses. A slice of lemon floated on each one; they looked deliciously cool, and I was thirsty. Sisters, I took that gla.s.s, and I drank of the punch. After that I began to feel more charitable toward the foreign ministers. In fact, I rather think a sweeter and more benevolent feeling came over me in all respects, for a soft mistiness settled on the crowd, and the dancers were peculiarly mazy. I felt myself smiling blandly, and, in fact, glided into a state of dreamy enjoyment that was pleasant.

The music stopped; the dancers locked arms, and moved toward an open door through which a fresh flood of light was pouring. We followed into a great tent, hung all round with damask linen. Two long tables, loaded down with great vases full of fruit and flowers; steeples, and towers, and baskets, made out of candy, and running over with sugar things; peaches, and grapes, and all sorts of fruit, natural as life, but candy to the core--all delicious and gorgeous and--well, I haven't language to express it; but the whole thing was sumptuous.

All down and around these two long tables great wreaths of flowers and leaves, half buried in moss, made a border of bloom, and over them the light came pouring, while the music sounded nearer and nearer, and the crowd poured in.

Really, sisters, I can say no more. That whole scene was more than I can describe. It just sent me home dizzy with bewilderment.

LVIII.

DOWN THE POTOMAC.

Dear sisters:--The Father of our Country was a great man--no doubt on that subject. He conducted a war on small means and with few men, which gave us a country that will be a crowning glory of all ages, if we don't melt down and go to nothing under the hot sunshine of our own prosperity. He was a great man and a good boy, not because he cut down the cherry-tree and wouldn't lie about it, for good boys and great men are not made out of one action, but a harmonious character which produces many good actions.

Then again, I am not so certain that the action was what it is cracked up to be, anyway. In the first place, good little boys don't cut down their father's fruit-trees. Generally, they like to climb them a great deal better, especially when the cherries are ripe. I know that--being a girl, who could have borrowed a hatchet and made myself immortal by chopping instead of climbing to pick half-green cherries, which I did, and tore my frock, besides getting a pain in the--well, heart, which two things betrayed me just as the little hatchet betrayed George.

Now, when my mother asked me what the mischief I'd been about, I didn't think of saying I couldn't lie, because I could, and longed to do it; but I knew that New England women would find me out and give me double "jessie" if I piled a whopper on top of the green cherries and torn frock, so I told her I didn't know, being conservative--took my whipping like a man and a trooper, scorning to cover up two sins under one pious truth.

I didn't follow George Washington's example, for two reasons. First, I had never heard of the hatchet; and again, the story don't wash to a degree that is expected of high-priced morality. When the youthful boy, Father of our Country, said he _couldn't_ lie, he was a-doing it that very minute. What boy ever lived that couldn't lie? Lying is born in 'em, and they take to it as naturally as a kitten laps milk.

The fellow that wrote that story was a botch. Why didn't he make little George say, "Father, I won't tell a lie; so there--I cut down the cherry-tree with my little hatchet."

There would have been something heroic and above-board about that--a struggle against temptation foreshadowed, and a brave determination to stand up to the rack, fodder or no fodder, worthy of a boy that meant to be father of the man, who in his turn was the father of his country, thus doing up all his paternity in a wholesale way. But to say he couldn't was so sneakingly good that I don't believe it of him. In fact, I don't believe one word of the story.

Put that down on the records of your Society.

Of course, one never thinks of George Washington, that a nice boy, showing a hatchet, does not come in as the first picture.

The reason I happened to think of it was an invitation to go in a Government steamboat down to Mount Vernon, Washington's old homestead, and see the tomb where he was buried.

Of course I wanted to go. When the President of these United States gets out a Government steamboat on purpose to carry a distinguished New England female down to the tomb of her country's forefathers, it's an honor she's bound to accept.

I did accept it with enthusiasm, and at once invited Cousin Dempster and E. E. to go with me, for it always gives me pleasure to act as a sun to their moon.

The j.a.panese were invited to join me on the boat, and as many as two hundred other people were allowed to go down, which I was rather glad of--they being amongst the best--and my nature being social, as you know.

Well, between nine and ten in the morning, we drove up to the Navy Yard--a place where the Government builds the ships that are always being altered, and mended, and made worse than they were before. It's like a village on the water, is this Navy Yard, with a high wall around it, and a gate big enough for our carriage to go through, which it did, taking us down to the water in fine style.

"Do you want to go on board the 'Tallapoosa'?" says a man on the wharf.

"The 'Tallapoosa'!" says I to Dempster. "What outlandish thing is that?"

"The steamboat," says he.

"Well, why don't they call it a steamboat?" says I; "such airs!"

With that, I jumped out of the carriage, taking a neat dancing step as I touched the ground, and spread my parasol.

Just then another carriage drove up, choke full of little dark men.

"It is the j.a.panese," says Dempster.

"The j.a.panese! How can you say so?" says I. "Where are their punch-bowl hats and stiff veils?"

"Oh," says Dempster, "they have given those things up, and dress just as we do now."

"Dear me!" says I, a-looking into the carriage from under a slope of my parasol. "How funny they look with stovepipe hats, and boots, too--oh my!"

The j.a.panese were getting out of their carriage, but they seemed as if afraid of straining too hard on their clothes, and stepped on the ground as if it was paved with eggs.

Bang!

"Oh, goodness gracious!"

It was I that screamed out these words, and I hopped up at least half a yard from the ground, for somewhere, close by, a great gun went off--roaring over the water, like thunder.

"What does that mean? Does anybody want to murder us?" says I, shaking like a poplar-leaf.

"No, no," says he, "they are only saluting us."

"Saluting _me_?" says I. "How dare they? Of course they knew I should jump and scream. So loud, too! No young girl would stand it."