s volume never lost to the last this
home and family sentiment. He knew the kinships of every one, and
loved the old country-houses of the old Virginia families--plain and
honest people, attached, like himself, to the Virginia soil. We pass
to a brief description of the old house in which Lee was born.

Stratford, the old home of the Lees, but to-day the property of
others, stands on a picturesque bluff on the southern bank of the
Potomac, and is a house of very considerable size. It is built in the
form of the letter H. The walls are several feet in thickness; in the
centre is a saloon thirty feet in size; and surmounting each wing is a
pavilion with balustrades, above which rise clusters of chimneys. The
front door is reached by a broad flight of steps, and the grounds are
handsome, and variegated by the bright foliage of oaks, cedars, and
maple-trees. Here and there in the extensive lawn rises a slender and
ghostly old Lombardy poplar--a tree once a great favorite in Virginia,
but now seen only here and there, the relic of a past generation.

Within, the Stratford House is as antique as without, and, with its
halls, corridors, wainscoting, and ancient mouldings, takes the
visitor back to the era of powder and silk stockings. Such was the
mansion to which General Harry Lee came to live after the Revolution,
and the sight of the old home must have been dear to the soldier's
heart. Here had flourished three generations of Lees, dispensing a
profuse and open-handed hospitality. In each generation some one of
the family had distinguished himself, and attracted the "best company"
to Stratford; the old walls had rung with merriment; the great door
was wide open; everybody was welcome; and one could see there a good
illustration of a long-passed manner of living, which had at least the
merit of being hearty, open-handed, and picturesque. General Harry
Lee, the careless soldier, partook of the family tendency to
hospitality; he kept open house, entertained all comers, and hence,
doubtless, sprung the pecuniary embarrassments embittering an old age
which his eminent public services should have rendered serene and
happy.

Our notice of Stratford may appear unduly long to some readers, but it
is not without a distinct reference to the subject of this volume. In
this quiet old mansion--and in the very apartment where Richard Henry
and Francis Lightfoot Lee first saw the light--Robert E. Lee was born.
The eyes of the child fell