spoke without the greatest reverence and enthusiasm. He died when I was
very young, so that I never saw him; but I have visited his tomb, and
his residence at Mount Vernon, and have also seen portraits of him that
were pronounced to be life-like by those who were intimately acquainted
with him.

Aunt Henshaw had actually entertained La Fayette at her house for a
whole night, and she showed me the very room he slept in; while Cousin
Statia produced an album in which he had written his name. I always
experienced a burning desire to possess some memento of the
distinguished men whose names are woven in the annals of our country;
and seating myself at the table with the album before me, I spent
several hours in trying to copy the illustrious autograph. But all my
efforts were vain; I could produce nothing like it, and was obliged to
return the book to its favored owner.

I delighted to spell out the album quilt until I knew almost every line
by heart; while the curious medley which these different scraps of
poetry presented reminded me very much of a play, in which one person
repeats a line, to which another must find a rhyme. When Aunt Henshaw
died, which was just about the time that I was grown up, she left the
quilt to me in her will; because, as she said. I had always been so
fond of it. I still have it carefully packed away, and regard it as
quite a treasure.

But very often, during a voyage of discoveries through rooms that were
seldom used, I passed various boxes, and awkward-looking little trunks,
and curious baskets, that struck me as being particularly interesting in
appearance. But Aunt Henshaw always said: "Those are Statia's--we must
not touch them," and passed quickly on, without in the least indulging