roads, so a large omnibus was engaged to carry the whole party, Mark and Bacchus going as outriders, and a man in a little sort of a carry-all having charge of all the eatables, dishes, plates, &c., which would be required.  The company were in good spirits, but they found traveling in the State of Virginia was not moving over beds of roses.  Where are such roads to be found?  Except in crossing a corduroy road in the West, where can one hope to be so thoroughly shaken up?  I answer, nowhere!  And have I not a right to insist, for my native State, upon all that truth will permit?  Am I not a daughter of the Old Dominion, a member of one of the F.F.V’s?  Did not my grandfather ride races with General Washington?  Did not my father wear crape on his hat at his funeral?  Let that man or woman inclined to deny me this privilege, go, as I have, in a four-horse omnibus to Mount Vernon.  Let him rock and twist over gullies and mud-holes; let him be tumbled and jostled about as I was, and I grant you he will give up the point.

Our party jogged along.  At last the old gates were in sight, and the ragged little negroes stood ready to open them.  Here we should begin to be patriotic, but do not fear being troubled with a dissertation on this worn-out subject.  I will not even observe that by the very gate that was opened for the Westons did the Father of his country enter; for it would be a reflection on the memory of that great and good man to suppose that he would have put his horse to the useless trouble of jumping the fence, when there was such a natural and easy way of accomplishing his entrance.  Ellen, however, declared “that she firmly believed those remarkable-looking children that opened the gates, were the same that opened them for Washington; at any rate, their clothes were cut after the same pattern, if they were not the identical suits themselves.”

There was a gentleman from the North on the premises when they arrived.  He joined the party, introduced himself, and gave information that he was taking, in plaster, the house, the tomb, and other objects of interest about the place, for the purpose of exhibiting them.  He made himself both useful and agreeable, as he knew it was the best way of getting along without trouble, and he was very talkative and goodnatured.  But some, as they approached the grave, observed that Mr. Weston, and one or two others, seemed to wish a certain quietness of deportment to evince respect for the hallowed spot, and the jest and noisy laugh were suddenly subdued.  Had it been a magnificent building, whose proportions they were to admire and discuss; had a gate of fair marble stood open to admit the visitor; had even the flag of his country waved where he slept, they could not have felt so solemnized—­but to stand before this simple building, that shelters his sarcophagus from the elements; to lean upon unadorned iron gates, which guarded the sacred spot from intrusion; to look up and count the little birds’ nests in the plastered roof, and the numberless hornets that have made their homes there too; to pluck the tendrils of the wild grapes that cluster here—­this simple grandeur affected each one.  He was again in life before them, steadily pursuing the great work for which he was sent, and now, reposing from his labor.