After a three weeks' stay at Washington, we left it at night, always a dreary time of exit. It was necessary to do so to catch the steamer which was to waft us down the Potomac. There were Plenty of fine Rembrandtesque night-effects to be noted. Amid the general bustle, and in the motley groups hurrying on board, you could dimly see the man at the tiller, in a small cabin amidships. The idea—at first entertained—of sleeping on board proved illusory. A lusty negro rang the bell announcing supper, consisting of oyster soup. Another deck-hand invited “gentlemen to take de tickets”—clapper going again; then another summons to have luggage labelled. Someone stated we were near the “Dismal Swamp;” this seemed to chime in with our lowered spirits, deafened as we were by tintinabulary sounds.

With dawn these revived, and the sun lifted the misty veil. The eyes, jaded by the somewhat bleak scenery of Washington and its neighbourhood at this season of the year, were refreshed by vistas of green leafage. I sketched the distant outline of Washington's home, Mount Vernon. We tried to spot the “New Castlewood,” which was raised on the beautiful banks of the Potomac. The delightful season alluded to in the same passage, called the Indian summer, though belonging to late autumn, seemed to have its counterpart in March, for the heat of the day was considerable as we neared Richmond, after changing from steamboat into cars once more.