The damp discomfort of the journey is present with menow. The sun did not shine all day long; the raw air piercedto the bones; the baby was cross; my mother was not well,and my sister and myself were cramped by long sitting uponthe back seat. Our horses were strong, but mud-holes weredeep, the red clay was adhesive, and the corduroycauseways jarred us to soreness. It was late in the daywhen we turned from the highway toward the gate of theMontrose plantation. We were seen from the house, and acolored lad of fifteen or thereabouts ran fleetly down theavenue to open the great outer gate. He flung it wide witha hospitable intent that knocked poor Selim - the off-horse- flat into the mud. Once down, he did not offer toarise from the ruddy ooze that embedded one side. He hadsnapped the harness in falling, but that made no differenceto the fagged-out beast. The accident was visible from theporch of the house, an eighth of a mile away, and four menhastened to the rescue.
IN the summer of 1851, my grandmother had bought andgiven to her only child the house which was to be our homeas long as we remained a resident family in Richmond. Ofthis house I shall have a story to tell in the next chapter. Itstands upon Leigh Street (named for the distinguishedlawyer of whom we have heard in these pages as taking apart in the Clay campaign), and the locality was thenquietly, but eminently, aristocratic. There were few newhouses, and the old had a rural, rather than an urban, air.Each had its garden, stocked with shrubbery and flowers.Some had encompassing lawns and outlying copses ofvirgin native growth.
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