politically and socially, reminded me so of Washington that I used to call Rome Washington inadvertently. As I was driving with Mrs. Story to the Pincian Hill, I would say, "Is he in Washington?" meaning Rome. She said I was not the first one who had felt it. Rome, like Washington, is small enough, quiet enough, for strong personal intimacies; Rome, like Washington, has its democratic court and its entourage of diplomatic circle; Rome, like Washington, gives you plenty of time and plenty of sunlight. In New York we have annihilated both.
So my early Washington recollections became crystallized. Cameo-like, they stand out clear and distinct. I see again that great straggling outline so little filled up, a collection of houses here and there, and then great empty spaces. I see, in my mind's eye, the Capitol and the White House, and the distant view of Arlington and Georgetown, almost a distant city. For a picnic on a June afternoon we would drive through deserted lanes to Kalorama, now, I believe, in the middle of the city. Then we had always a delightful treat in visiting Brentwood, at that time kept up with true Southern hospitality; Silver Springs, most beautiful; and to Mrs. Gales's pretty cottage. My visits to the Custis and Lee families at Arlington were frequent and delightful. It was a consecrated place then, as now; but then there was not between us and General Washington the unhappy blood-red gash of civil war. I regret that it was made a graveyard, that beautiful home.
