I Go to a Famous Gathering at the Patroon's Manor House.
We come to a soft, clear night in the Indian summer-time of 1774--a night
not to be forgotten while memory remains to me.
There was a grand gathering and ball at the Manor House of the Patroons,
and to it I was invited. Cadwallader Golden, the octogenarian
lieutenant-governor, and chief representative of the Crown now that Tryon
was away in England, had come up to Albany in state, upon some business
which I now forget, and he was to be entertained at the Van Rensselaer
mansion, and with him the rank, beauty, and worth of all the country
roundabout. I had heard that a considerable number of invitations had been
despatched to the Tory families in my old neighborhood, and that, despite
the great distance, sundry of them had been accepted. Sir William Johnson
had now been dead some months, and it was fitting that his successor, Sir
John, newly master of all the vast estates, should embrace this
opportunity to make his first appearance as baronet in public. In fact, he
had arrived in town with Lady Johnson, and it was said that they came in
company with others. I could not help wondering, as I attired myself, with
more than ordinary care, in my best maroon coat and smallclothes and
flowered saffron waistcoat, who it was that accompanied the Johnsons. Was
I at last to meet Daisy?
Succeeding generations have discovered many tricks of embellishment and
decoration of which we old ones never dreamed. But I doubt if even the
most favored of progressive moderns has laid eyes upon any sight more
beautiful than that which I recall now, as the events of this evening
return to me.
You may still see for yourselves how noble, one might say palatial, was
the home which young Stephen Van Rensselaer built for himself, there on
the lowlands at the end of Broadway, across the Kissing Bridge. But no
power of fancy can restore for _you_--sober-clad, pre-occupied, democratic
people that you are--the flashing glories of that spectacle: the broad,
fine front of the Manor House, with all its windows blazing in welcome;
the tall trees in front aglow with swinging lanterns and colored lights,
hung cunningly in their shadowy branches after some Italian device; the
stately carriages sweeping up the gravelled avenue, and discharging their
passengers at the block; the gay procession up the wide stone steps--rich
velvets and costly satins, powdered wigs and alabaster throats, bright
eyes, and gems on sword-hilts or at fair breasts--all radiant in the
hospitable flood of light streaming from the open door; the throng of
gaping slaves with torches, and smartly dressed servants holding the
horses or helping with my lady's train and cloak; the resplendent body of
color, and light, and sparkling beauty, which the eye caught in the
spacious hall within, beyond the figures of the widowed hostess and her
son, the eight-year-old Patroon, who stood forth to greet their guests.
No! the scene belongs to its own dead century and fading generation. You
shall strive in vain to reproduce it, even in fancy.
The full harvest-moon, which hung in the lambent heavens above all,
pictures itself to my memory as far fairer and more luminous than is the
best of nowaday moons. Alas! my old eyes read no romance in the silvery
beams now, but suspect rheumatism instead.
This round, lustrous orb, pendant over the Hudson, was not plainer to
every sight that evening than was to every consciousness the fact that
this gathering was a sort of ceremonial salute before a duel. The storm
was soon to break; we all felt it in the air. There was a subdued, almost
stiff, politeness in the tone and manner when Dutchman met Englishman,
when Whig met Tory, which spoke more eloquently than words. Beneath the
formal courtesy, and careful avoidance of debatable topics, one could see
sidelong glances cast, and hear muttered sneers. We bowed low to one
another, but with anxious faces, knowing that we stood upon the thin crust
over the crater, likely at any moment to crash through it.
It was my fortune to be well known to Madame Van Rensselaer, our hostess.
She was a Livingston, and a patriot, and she knew me for one as well. "The
Tories are here in great muster," she whispered to me, when I bowed before
her; "I doubt not it is the last time you will ever see them under my
roof. The Colonel has news from Philadelphia to-day. There is
trouble brewing."
I could see Colonel Schuyler standing beside one of the doors to the left,
but to reach him was not easy. First I must pause to exchange a few words
with Dominie Westerlo, the learned and good pastor of the Dutch church, of
whose intended marriage with the widow, our hostess, there were even then
rumors. And afterward there was the mayor, Abraham Cuyler, whom we all
liked personally, despite his weak leaning toward the English, and it
would not do to pass him by unheeded.
While I still stood with him, talking of I know not what, the arrival of
the lieutenant-governor was announced. A buzz of whispering ran round the
hall. In the succeeding silence that dignitary walked toward us, a space
clearing about him as he did so. The mayor advanced to meet him, and I
perforce followed.
I knew much about this remarkable Mr. Colden. Almost my first English book
had been his account of the Indian tribes, and in later years I had been
equally instructed by his writings on astronomy and scientific subjects.
Even in my boyhood I had heard of him as a very old man, and here he was
now, eighty-six years of age, the highest representative in the Colony of
English authority. I could feel none of the hostility I ought from his
office to have felt, when I presently made my obeisance, and he offered
me his hand.
It was a pleasant face and a kindly eye which met my look. Despite his
great age, he seemed scarcely older in countenance and bearing than had
Mr. Stewart when last I saw him. He was simply clad, and I saw from his
long, waving, untied hair why he was called "Old Silver Locks." His few
words to me were amiable commonplaces, and I passed to make room for
others, and found my way now to where Schuyler stood.
"The old fox!" he said, smilingly nodding toward Colden. "One may not but
like him, for all his tricks. If England had had the wit to keep that rude
boor of a Tryon at home, and make Colden governor, and listen to him,
matters would have gone better. Who is that behind him? Oh, yes,
De Lancey."
Oliver de Lancey was chiefly notable on account of his late brother James,
who had been chief justice and lieutenant-governor, and the most
brilliant, unscrupulous, masterful politician of his time. Oliver was
himself a man of much energy and ambition. I observed him curiously, for
his mother had been a Van Cortlandt, and I had some of that blood in my
veins as well. So far as it had contributed to shape his face, I was not
proud of it, for he had a selfish and arrogant mien.
It was more satisfactory to watch my companion, as he told me the names of
the Tories who followed in Colden's wake, and commented on their
characters. I do not recall them, but I remember every line of Philip
Schuyler's face, and every inflection of his voice. He was then not quite
forty years of age, almost of my stature--that is to say, a tall man. He
held himself very erect, giving strangers the impression of a haughty air,
which his dark face and eyes, and black lines of hair peeping from under
the powder, helped to confirm. But no one could speak in amity with him
without finding him to be the most affable and sweet-natured of men. If he
had had more of the personal vanity and self-love which his bearing seemed
to indicate, it would have served him well, perhaps, when New England
jealousy assailed and overbore him. But he was too proud to fight for
himself, and too patriotic not to fight for his country, whether the just
reward came or was withheld.
Colonel Schuyler had been chosen as one of the five delegates of the
Colony to attend the first Continental Congress, now sitting at
Philadelphia, but ill-health had compelled him to decline the journey. He
had since been to New York, however, where he had learned much of the
situation, and now was in receipt of tidings from the Congress itself. By
a compromise in the New York Assembly, both parties had been represented
in our delegation, the Whigs sending Philip Livingston and Isaac Low, the
Tories James Duane and John Jay, and the fifth man, one Alsopp, being a
neutral-tinted individual to whom neither side could object. The
information which Schuyler had received was to the effect that all five,
under the tremendous and enthusiastic pressure they had encountered in
Philadelphia, had now resolved to act together in all things for the
Colonies and against the Crown.
"That means," said he, "that we shall all adopt Massachusetts's cause as
our own. After Virginia led the way with Patrick Henry's speech, there was
no other course possible for even Jay and Duane. I should like to hear
that man Henry. He must be wonderful."
The space about Mr. Colden had shifted across the room, so that we were
now upon its edge, and Schuyler went to him with outstretched hand. The
two men exchanged a glance, and each knew what the other was thinking of.
"Your excellency has heard from Philadelphia," said the Colonel, more as a
statement of fact than as an inquiry.
"Sad, sad!" exclaimed the aged politician, in a low tone. "It is a grief
instead of a joy to have lived so long, if my life must end amid
contention and strife."
"He is really sincere in deploring the trouble," said Schuyler, when he
had rejoined me. "He knows in his heart that the Ministry are pig-headedly
wrong, and that we are in the right. He would do justice if he could, but
he is as powerless as I am so far as influencing London goes, and here he
is in the hands of the De Lanceys. To give the devil his due, I believe
Sir William Johnson was on our side, too, at heart."
We had talked of this before, and out of deference to my sentiments of
liking and gratitude to Sir William, he always tried to say amiable things
about the late baronet to me. But they did not come easily, for there was
an old-time feud between the two families. The dislike dated back to the
beginning of young Johnson's career, when, by taking sides shrewdly in a
political struggle between Clinton and De Lancey, he had ousted John
Schuyler, Philip's grandfather, from the Indian commissionership and
secured it for himself. In later years, since the Colonel had come to
manhood, he had been forced into rivalry, almost amounting to antagonism
at times, with the baronet, in Colonial and Indian affairs; and even now,
after the baronet's death, it was hard for him to acknowledge the
existence of all the virtues which my boyish liking had found in Sir
William. But still he did try, if only to please me.
As we spoke, Sir John Johnson passed us, in company with several younger
men, pushing toward the room to the right, where the punch-bowl
was placed.
"At least, _he_ is no friend of yours?" said Schuyler, indicating the
red-faced young baronet.
"No man less so," I replied, promptly. Two years ago I doubt I should have
been so certain of my entire enmity toward Sir John. But in the interim
all my accumulating political fervor had unconsciously stretched back to
include the Johnstown Tories; I found myself now honestly hating them all
alike for their former coolness to me and their present odious attitude
toward my people. And it was not difficult, recalling all my boyish
dislike for John Johnson and his steadily contemptuous treatment of me, to
make him the chief object of my aversion.
We talked of him now, and of his wife, a beautiful, sweet-faced girl of
twenty, who had been Polly Watts of New York. My companion pointed her out
to me, as one of a circle beyond the fire-place. He had only soft words
and pity for her--as if foreseeing the anguish and travail soon to be
brought upon her by her husband's misdeeds--but he spoke very slightingly
and angrily of Sir John. To Schuyler's mind there was no good in him.
"I have known him more or less since he was a boy and followed his father
in the Lake George campaign. The officers then could not abide him, though
some were submissive to him because of his father's position. So now,
fifteen years afterward, although he has many toadies and flatterers, I
doubt his having any real friends. Through all these score of years, I
have yet to learn of any gracious or manly thing he has done."
"At least he did gallop from the Fort to the Hall at news of his father's
death, and kill his horse by the pace," I said.
"Heirs can afford to ride swiftly," replied the Colonel, in a dry tone.
"No: he has neither the honesty to respect the rights of others, nor the
wit to enforce those which he arrogates to himself. Look at his management
in the Mohawk Valley. Scarce two months after the old baronet's
death--before he was barely warm in his father's bed--all the Dutch and
Palatines and Cherry Valley Scotch were up in arms against him and his
friends. I call that the work of a fool. Why, Tryon County ought, by all
the rules, to be the Tories' strongest citadel. There, of all other
places, they should be able to hold their own. Old Sir William would have
contrived matters better, believe me. But this sulky, slave-driving cub
must needs force the quarrel from the start. Already they have their
committee in the Palatine district, with men like Frey and Yates and Paris
on it, and their resolutions are as strong as any we have heard."
Others came up at this, and I moved away, thinking to pay my respects to
friends in the rooms on the left. The fine hall was almost overcrowded.
One's knee struck a sword, or one's foot touched a satin train, at every
step. There were many whom I knew, chiefly Albanians, and my progress was
thus rendered slow. At the door I met my kinsman, Dr. Teunis Van Hoorn.
"Ha! well met, Cousin Sobriety!" he cried. "Let us cross the hall, and get
near the punch-bowl."
"It is my idea that you have had enough," I answered.
"'Too much is enough,' as the Indian said. He was nearer the truth than
you are," replied Teunis, taking my arm.
"No, not now! First let me see who is here."
"Who is here? Everybody--from Hendrik Hudson and Killian the First down.
Old Centenarian Colden is telling them about William the Silent, whom he
remembers very well."
"I have never heard any one speak of Teunis the Silent."
"Nor ever will! It is not my _metier_, as the French students used to say.
Well, then, I will turn back with you; but the punch will all be gone,
mark my words. I saw Johnson and Watts and their party headed for the bowl
five-and-twenty minutes ago. We shall get not so much as a lemon-seed. But
I sacrifice myself."
We entered the room, and my eyes were drawn, as by the force of a million
magnets, to the place where Daisy sat.
For the moment she was unattended. She was very beautifully attired, and
jewels glistened from her hair and throat. Her eyes were downcast--looking
upon the waxed floor as if in meditation. Even to this sudden, momentary
glance, her fair face looked thinner and paler than I remembered it--and
ah, how well did I remember it! With some muttered word of explanation I
broke away from my companion, and went straight to her.
She had not noted my presence or approach, and only looked up when I stood
before her. There was not in her face the look of surprise which I had
expected. She smiled in a wan way, and gave me her hand.
"I knew you were here," she said, in a soft voice which I scarcely
recognized, so changed, I might say saddened, was it by the introduction
of some plaintive, minor element. "Philip told me. I thought that sooner
or later I should see you."
"And I have thought of little else but the chance of seeing you," I
replied, speaking what was in my heart, with no reflection save that this
was our Daisy, come into my life again.
She was silent for a moment, her eyes seeking the floor and a faint glow
coming upon her cheeks. Then she raised them to my face, with something of
the old sparkle in their glance.
"Well, then," she said, drawing aside her skirts, "sit here, and see me."