Early in February of 1783 we were married by the Rev. William White,
long after to be our good bishop. Christ Church was full of my old
friends, my Aunt Gainor in the front pew in a magnificent costume,
and Mrs. Peniston with Jack, very grave of face, beside her. As no De
Lanceys were to be had in our rebel town, Mr. James Wilson gave away
the precious gift of Darthea Peniston. We went in my aunt’s chariot to
Merion; and so ends the long tale of my adventures, which here, in the
same old country home, I have found it pleasant to set down for those
who will, I trust, live in it when I am dead.
In April, 1783, peace was proclaimed. In November of that year I heard
from Colonel Hamilton that our beloved general would, on December 4,
take leave of his officers, and that he was kind enough to desire that
all of his old staff who wished should be present. I was most pleased to
go.
In New York, at Fraunce’s Tavern, near Whitehall Ferry, I found the room
full of the men who had humbled the pride of England and brought our
great war to a close. His Excellency entered at noon, and seeing about
him these many companions in arms, was for a little so agitated that he
could not speak. Then with a solemn and kindly expression of face, such
as I had once before seen him wear, he filled a glass with wine, and,
seeming to steady himself, said:
“With a heart full of love and gratitude, I take my leave of you, most
devoutly wishing that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as
your former ones have been glorious and honourable.”
So saying, he drank his wine, and one after another went by him shaking
his hand. No word was said, and these worn veterans of the winter camps
and the summer battle-fields moved out, and saw their former general
pass down, between lines of infantry, to the shore. There he got into
a barge. As he was rowed away he stood up and lifted his hat. All of us
uncovered, and remained thus till he passed from sight, to be seen no
more by many of those who gazed sadly after his retreating form.
There is an old book my grandchildren love to hear me read to them. It
is the “Morte d’Arthur,” done into English by Sir Thomas Malory. Often
when I read therein of how Arthur the king bade farewell to the world
and to the last of the great company of his Knights of the Round Table,
this scene at Whitehall slip comes back to me, and I seem to see once
more those gallant soldiers, and far away the tall figure of surely the
knightliest gentleman our days have known.
My years go on in peace. We have enough--far more than enough--for all
the wants and even for the luxuries of life. It is late in the night,
and Christmas-time, in the great stone house at Merion. The noise of
little ones--and they are many--has ceased. I hear steps and laughter in
the hall. The elder ones troop in to say good-night. There are Darthea
and Gainor, mothers of the noisy brigade now in bed, and here is Hugh,
the youngest, and Jack, with the big build of his race. And soon all are
gone, and the house quiet.
I looked up where, under my dear Jack Warder’s face, which Stuart did
for me, hangs Knyphausen’s long blade, and across it Jack’s sword.
Below, my eye lights on the Hessian pistols, and the sword-knot the
gallant marquis gave me.
I watch the crumbling fire and seem to see once more the fierce struggle
in the market-place, the wild fight on the redoubt, and my cousin’s dark
face. The years have gone by, and for me and mine there is peace and
love, and naught a man in years may not think upon with joy.
Suddenly two hands from behind are over my eyes; ah, well I know their
tender touch! Says a dear voice I hope to hear till life is over--and
after that, I trust--“What are you thinking of, Hugh Wynne?”
“Of how sweet you have made my life to me, my darling.”
“Thank God!”