A WEDDING IN 1780
Her gentle spirit,
Commits itself to yours to be directed,
As from her lord, her governor, her king. —Shakespeare.
To cheer thy sickness, watch thy health,
Partake, but never waste thy wealth,
Or stand with smile unmurmuring by,
And lighten half thy poverty. —Byron.
She is mine own;
And I as rich in having such a jewel,
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. —Shakespeare.
Expectation was more than realized when the ceremony actually came off.
All that was distinguished in rank, talent, wealth, beauty, fashion, or
social position in Philadelphia, assembled on the eventful evening at
the Aylesford mansion. The commander-in-chief, who happened to be in the
metropolis, conferring with the Congress, honored the occasion by his
presence, and gave away the bride; while the French ambassador, with a
large number of officers of his most Christian Majesty’s army, also
attended; in fact, it was universally conceded that so brilliant a
social assembly had never before been gathered together in Philadelphia.
That city, it must be remembered, was not only the political capital of
the country at that period, but was also the first in the nation in
respect to wealth, intelligence, scientific attainments, and social
influence. A few years before, John Adams, on coming up to Philadelphia
to attend the first Congress, had written home to his wife, in terms of
amazement at what he styled the princely luxury in which the richer
citizens lived, and to which, he declared, he had seen no parallel in
Boston. Since that period there had been no decline, but rather an
increase, in this splendid hospitality. There were fortunes, at that
day, which, considering the difference in the value of money, would put
even some of the colossal ones of a more modern period to the blush;
while the example of the mother country, and the characteristic
ostentation of the age, led to a far grander style of living than the
taste of the present generation favors. The pompous coach and four; the
crowd of liveried footmen; and the gold brocade dress, which a whole
year’s expenses of a modern toilet would scarcely purchase; these have
long been things of the past.
The front of the Aylesford mansion was a blaze of light, on the evening
in question. The uproar of carriages, arriving and depositing their
precious freights, was almost deafening at times. Between lanes of
servants the guests passed up to the imposing doorway, and entering the
carved and wainscoted hall, which was now fairly dazzling with light,
were shown up the wide staircase to the chambers set aside for dressing
rooms. It was a splendid spectacle to see the proud dames, attended by
their lovely daughters, come pouring down the ample, heavily balustraded
steps, and flock towards the drawing rooms like stately birds. The
rustle of stiff brocades, and the fluttering sound of fans, were mingled
with a rich, low murmur of animated conversations, carried on in
whispers, that was like a soft undertone to a gay piece of music. Nor
were the cavaliers less aristocratic looking than the swan-like
creatures, before whom they bowed, offering the tip of their gloved
fingers to their partners, in the ceremonious but lofty gallantry of the
time. The age of dark and sober hues had not yet wholly usurped that of
gay colors and silken fabrics for gentlemen’s wear; and the _petit
maitre_ of the day thought himself unfit for female society, if his
ruffles were not of the choicest lace, his coat and waistcoat
elaborately embroidered, and his white hands sparkling with jewels. All
was a blaze of light and grandeur, therefore. Swords jingled; diamond
shoe-buckles flashed; necklaces sparkled till they rivaled the fair
wearer’s eyes; and the air was fragrant everywhere with the exquisite
perfumes of the powder shaken from dozens of lovely heads whenever they
moved. From a military band, stationed close by in the garden, came
bursts of proud music continually, that made many a charming little foot
move impatiently, and stirred the blood even of the old.
It would be impossible for us to describe half the superb dresses that
made their _debut_ on that occasion; but our fair readers would never
forgive us if we omitted those of Mrs. Warren and the bride. The former
wore a petticoat of crimson satin, thick as a board, the very sight of
which would drive a modern belle crazy with envy. Over this was a skirt
of rich, gold-flowered brocade; the boddice being made of the same
material; and sleeves that, reaching to the elbow, were trimmed with
deep, yellow, old lace, of almost fabulous value. But the head dress of
Mrs. Warren was the crowning triumph of the good lady’s toilette. This
coiffure was, in fact, the masterpiece of the French artist, whom Mrs.
Warren had engaged three months before, and who had spent most of his
leisure moments since in studying out this grand achievement of his
genius. It rose nearly two feet in height, a perfect mass of interwoven
ribbons, curls and jewels, almost rivaling that, which, a few years
later, gave a European reputation to the celebrated Lemard, hair-dresser
to Marie Antoinette, because he had consumed in it upwards of fourteen
yards of gauze. It was, in short, a miniature tower of Babel, done in
hair, pomatum and powder. The dowager was as proud of this _chef
d’oeuvre_ as her artist, and had but one drawback indeed on her
satisfaction, which was that her cousin, Lord Alvanley, could not behold
this miracle of art, taste and beauty.
The bride’s dress followed the fashion of the hour less servilely,
having been made subservient to her own excellent taste. Her hair was
drawn back entirely from her face, as was the prevailing _mode_: a style
that eminently suited her regular features; but instead of being raised
into an enormous tower, it was simply combed over an ordinary cushion, a
long curl or two being allowed to fall behind each ear. It was slightly
powdered on this occasion, but with silver _mareschale_, which produced
an indescribably brilliant effect against her fair complexion; and
further ornamented by a wreath of delicate flowers placed on one side.
On her snowy, swan-like neck, she wore a superb necklace of diamonds,
which had belonged to her mother. Her petticoat was of rich white satin,
the bottom being trimmed with wreaths of flowers; while her gown was of
rose-colored brocade, wrought with silver flowers, and looped back from
the under skirt with bunches of ribbons and flowers. Her stomacher was
of costly lace, interspersed with diamonds. Her sleeves, like her
aunt’s, were tight to the elbow, where they were trimmed with a double
ruffle of lace, whose fabric of frost-work set off the taper and rounded
arm, heightening even its statuesque beauty. Her shoes were of white
satin, pointed at the toes, and with high, red heels, a fashion which
showed to the greatest advantage a lady’s instep. She carried a
Watteau fan, a gift from the French ambassador, worth almost its weight
in gold.
Such was our heroine’s costume, and amid all that splendid circle,
with its furbelows and flounces, its silken net work over fair bosoms,
its white shoulders, its powdered coiffures, its diamonds, and its
scores of beautiful forms, she was, beyond rivalry, the loveliest. Nor
was the bridegroom, who appeared simply in the uniform of his rank, less
conspicuous among the array of magnificently clad gentlemen, who, in
silk stockings, embroidered coats, broad-flapped vests descending to the
hips, and lace frills and ruffles, moved proudly about the rooms. His
air of command and of manly dignity had, indeed, but one rival there;
and that was in Washington himself, who then, as ever, “towered
pre-eminent.” The grand, yet simple dignity of that heroic form; the
quiet authority in the somewhat severe face; and the unaffected, yet
awe-inspiring manner: ah! what pen can describe these, which
contemporary painters confessed themselves unable to limn, and which the
tongues of his most gifted compatriots fell short of depicting. But,
though every eye turned first on the commander-in-chief, (even the eyes
of those suspected of secretly wishing well to the royal arms,) the next
object of admiration, at least among the ladies, was the bridegroom, as
that of the gentlemen was the bride. Even the graceful, high-bred, and
splendidly clad French noblemen, who were present, altogether failed of
attracting attention by the side of these.
The ceremony was impressively performed, the bridegroom making the
responses in a firm voice, and the bride in one a little fluttered.
After a proper interval had elapsed, the dancing began. But our fair
readers must not suppose that those high-bred dames permitted
themselves, as their descendants do, to be taken familiarly about the
waist by a comparative stranger, and whirled around the room in a
schottish, or other waltz, as if the giddy pair were human
spinning-tops. Nor must they imagine that the cavalier and his partner,
with arms a-kimbo and faces alternately turned towards each other and
averted, went stamping up and down the apartment, like wild Indians, in
a polka. They must not even think that the gentlemen was at liberty to
swing his partner till her wrists ached, whenever he approached her in a
quadrille, for that now comparatively obsolete dance had not then yet
come into fashion. The minuet was the only dance sufficiently courtly
for that high-bred age. It required something more than ordinary grace
also to elicit admiration in that princely pastime; for it was performed
in single couples, and with the eyes of the whole room watching for a
blunder, or even for the slightest display of awkwardness. When the
minuet, however, was danced to perfection, as it was more than once
during this evening, it elicited that complete satisfaction in the
beholder, which any finished work of art always produces. The gentleman,
leading out his fair partner as ceremoniously as if she was a queen,
bowed over her hand till he bent almost to her waist; while she curtsied
in return, with lashes drooping on her cheek, the color rising into her
face, and her damask-gown rustling as it sank to the floor; ah! this had
a grace, a stateliness, and an air of chivalrous worship, such as, alas!
we never see in a modern ball room. Then the exquisite ease with which
the partners subsequently moved through the aristocratic dance, gliding
to the slow, measured, stately music, the cavalier inclining his
powdered head profoundly, with his hand on his heart, whenever he
touched the hand of his companion, while she performed each evolution
with a lightness of step, a tender coyness, and a formal grace, which
seemed to be the poetical realization of that lordly and perhaps
pompous, yet knightly age! When the bride executed the minuet, she
carried off all plaudits, however, for notwithstanding others danced
well, she danced surprisingly so.
Amid this brilliant assembly there was one personage who attracted no
little attention. He was a man, apparently about sixty, dressed with
great simplicity, yet with perfect neatness, in the plain garb of what
was then called a yeoman. He was evidently unaccustomed to such
assemblies, and consequently deficient in the conventional usages proper
for the occasion; but no one could look upon his broad, square brow, or
kindly eye, or observe his native ease of manner, without being
satisfied that he was one of “nature’s noblemen.” The attention
exhibited towards him by the Aylesford family, had already made the
guests curious to know who he was; but when the commander-in-chief was
observed to be conversing with him, eager inquiries began to pass
around. When it was told that he had been an old field companion of the
bride’s father, and that he was the same person who had saved her life
in a moment of great extremity, the romantic story of which was well
known in town, everybody, especially the ladies, was crazy to be made
acquainted with him. Franklin, in his plain costume, was not a greater
favorite among the beauties of the French court, than was Uncle Lawrence
on this occasion. Indeed, if it had been at all allowable so to
distinguish any one but the bride, it is probable the enthusiasm of the
fair creatures would have crowned the veteran with a chaplet, after the
manner in which the ambassador and philosopher was honored about the
same time at Versailles.
The conversation of Washington with the old man lasted for a
considerable time. The unassuming character of Uncle Lawrence; his
plain, homely sense; his sincere, yet unaffected piety; and the bravery
which, as the General knew, had been proved at more than one crisis,
were exactly such qualities as the great hero could fully appreciate.
Few could so readily discern, and so thoroughly honor, true manhood, as
the Father of his Country. In the course of their conversation, the
General alluded to his companion’s passion for the chase, which he
declared he had once been as fond of as any man; asked several questions
about the mode of hunting practised about Sweetwater; and on parting
expressed his determination, if ever he visited that part of New Jersey,
and had the leisure to spare from the cares of his office, to track a
buck with the patriarch.
To say that Uncle Lawrence was not flattered by this mark of attention
from the commander-in-chief, would be to misrepresent human nature. Yet
he did not permit it to destroy his composure at the time, nor would his
manner, a minute after, have betrayed the fact to an observer. He had
too just an estimate of himself to be awed by the notice even of the
General, though he looked up, and almost reverenced Washington, as
possessor of a virtue nearly fabulous. He had also too strong a sense of
the common brotherhood and inborn equality of all men, to feel dwarfed
in the presence of any one, however high his rank or fortune.
“You have kept your promise. I am so glad,” said the bride,
beckoning Uncle Lawrence to her, as the General left him. “How are
they all at dear Sweetwater?”
“Very well, darling,” said the veteran, “or rather I should
say,” he added, with a sly twinkle of the eye, emphasizing the name,
“Mrs. Gordon.”
Kate blushed crimson. It was almost the first time she had been called
by her new title. She understood the little touch of pleasantary on the
part of the old man, however, and replied,
“No, call me darling still, I like it better from you. Though,” she
added, archly, “the other is a pretty name enough, at least ‘my lord
and master’ thinks so, I suppose.”
“He’ll have his hands full,” answered the old man, entering into
this gay spirit, “if you begin in that fashion. I’m telling your
bride, Major,” he said, as the bridegroom approached, “that you must
begin at once breaking her in, or she’ll get the bit in her teeth, and
runaway with you one of these days. When I was married, an old friend
told me that the best way was to smash all the chaney, break the looking
glass, and kick over the breakfast table, the very first day, and that
arter that my wife would be so skeered that she’d never dare to have a
will of her own.”
“But you didn’t do it,” answered Kate, laughingly, quick as ever
at repartee, “or else you wouldn’t be afraid to go into the best
room with your muddy boots on, which, you know, Uncle Lawrence,” she
added, saucily, “is your great cross in life.”
“It’s no use talking, when you’re by,” replied the veteran,
“you’ll have the last word always. If the Major here was to get druv
half crazy, and drown you, as they did scolds in the old times, you’d
snap your fingers at him, after your head was already under water.”
The bride turned fondly to her husband, and putting her hand on his arm,
looked at Uncle Lawrence, merrily challenging his misrepresentation. The
Major laughed, Kate blushed, and the veteran, shaking his head, said,
“Well, if I’m not called in till you quarrel, I reckon I’ll have
an easy time of it.”