Burning of the house at the Flats—Madame’s removal—Journey
of the author.
IT was at this time, when she was in the very acme of her reputation,
and her name never mentioned without some added epithet of respect or
affection, that her house, so long the receptacle of all that was good
or intelligent, and the asylum of all that was helpless and unfortunate,
was entirely consumed before her eyes.
In the summer of this year, as General Bradstreet was riding by the
Flats one day, and proposing to call on madame, he saw her sitting in a
great chair, under the little avenue of cherry-trees that led from her
house to the road. All the way as he approached, he saw smoke, and at
last flames, bursting out from the top of her house. He was afraid to
alarm her suddenly; but when he told her, she heard it with the utmost
composure; pointed out the likeliest means to check the fire; and
ordered the neighbours to be summoned, and the most valuable goods first
removed, without ever attempting to go over the house herself, when she
knew she could be of no service; but with the most admirable presence of
mind, she sat still with a placid countenance, regulating and ordering
every thing in the most judicious manner, and with as much composure as
if she had nothing to lose. When evening came, of that once happy
mansion not a single beam was left, and the scorched brick walls were
all that remained to mark where it had stood.
Madame could not be said to be left without a dwelling, having a house
in Albany rather larger than the one thus destroyed. But she was fondly
attached to the spot which had been the scene of so much felicity, and
rendered more dear to her by retaining within its bounds the remains of
her beloved partner. She removed to Pedrom’s house for the night. The
news of what had happened spread every where; and she had the comfort of
knowing, in consequence of this misfortune, better than she could by any
other means, how great a degree of public esteem and private gratitude
she had excited. The next day people came from all quarters to condole,
and ask her directions where and how she would choose to have another
house built: and in a few days the ground was covered with bricks,
timber, and other materials, brought there by her friends in voluntary
kindness. It is to be observed, that the people in the interior of
New-York, were so exceedingly skilful in the use, not only of the axe,
but all ordinary tools used in planing and joining timber, that, with
the aid of a regular carpenter or two to carry on the nicer parts of the
work, a man could build an ordinary house, if it were a wooden one, with
very little more than his own domestics. It can scarce be credited that
this house, begun in August, was ready for aunt’s reception against
winter, which here begins very early. But General Bradstreet had sent
some of the king’s workmen, considering them as employed for the public
service, while carrying on this building. The most unpleasant
circumstance about this new dwelling was, the melancholy hiatus which
appeared in front, where the former large house had stood, and where the
deep and spacious cellars still yawned in gloomy desolation. Madame, who
no longer studied appearances, but merely thought of a temporary
accommodation for a life which neither she nor any one expected to be a
long one, ordered a broad wooden bridge, like those we see over rivers.
This bridge was furnished with seats like a portico, and this, with the
high walls of the burnt house, which were a kind of screen before the
new one, gave the whole the appearance of some ancient ruin.
Madame did not find the winter pass comfortably. That road, now that
matters were regularly settled, was no longer the constant resort of her
military friends. Her favourite nieces were too engaging, and too much
admired, to leave room to expect they should remain with her. She found
her house comparatively cold and inconvenient, and the winter long and
comfortless. She could not now easily go the distance to church. Pedrom,
that affectionate and respected brother, was now, by increasing
deafness, disqualified from being a companion; and sister Susan, infirm
and cheerless, was now, for the most part, confined to her chamber.
Under these circumstances, she was at length prevailed on to remove to
Albany. The Flats she gave in lease to Pedrom’s son Stephen. The house
and surrounding grounds were let to an Irish gentleman, who came over to
America to begin a new course of life, after spending his fortune in
fashionable dissipation. On coming to America, he found that there was
an intermediate state of hardship and self-denial to be encountered,
before he could enter on that fancied Arcadia which he thought was to be
found in every wood. He settled his family in this temporary dwelling,
while he went to traverse the provinces in search of some unforfeited
Eden, where the rose had no thorn, and the course of ceaseless labour
had not begun to operate. Madame found reason to be highly satisfied
with the change. She had mills which supplied her with bread; her slaves
cut and brought home fire-wood; she had a good garden and fruit, and
every other rural dainty came to her in the greatest abundance. All her
former protégés and friends, in different quarters, delighted to send
their tribute; and this was merely an interchange of kindness.
Soon after this removal, her eldest niece, a remarkably fine young
woman, was married to Mr. C. of C. manor, which was accounted one of the
best matches, or rather the very best in the province. She was
distinguished by a figure of uncommon grace and dignity, a noble and
expressive countenance, and a mind such as her appearance led one to
expect. This very respectable person is, I believe, still living, after
witnessing, among her dearest connections, scenes the most distressing,
and changes the most painful. She has ever conducted herself, so as to
do honour to the excellent examples of her mother and aunt, and to be a
pattern of steadfast truth and generous friendship, in exigencies the
most trying. Her younger sister, equally admired, though possessing a
different style of beauty, more soft and debonair, with the fairest
complexion, and most cheerful simplicity of aspect, was the peculiar
favourite of her aunt, above all that ever she took charge of; she, too,
was soon after married to that highly esteemed patriot, the late Isaac
L., revered through the whole continent for his sound good sense and
genuine public spirit. He was, indeed, “happily tempered, mild, and
firm;” and was finally the victim of steadfast loyalty.
It now remains to say how the writer of these pages became so well
acquainted with the subject of these memoirs.
My father was, at this time, a subaltern in the fifty-fifth regiment.
That body of men were then stationed at Oswego; but during the busy and
warlike period I have been describing, my mother and I were boarded, in
the country below Albany, with the most worthy people imaginable, with
whom we ever after kept up a cordial friendship. My father, wishing to
see his family, was indulged with permission, and at the same time
ordered to take the command of an additional company, who were to come
up, and to purchase for the regiment all the stores they should require
for the winter, which proved a most extensive commission. In the month
of October he set out on this journey, or voyage rather, in which it was
settled that my mother and I should accompany him. We were, I believe,
the first females, above the very lowest ranks, who had ever penetrated
so far into this remote wilderness. Certainly never was joy greater than
that which lulled my childish mind on setting out on this journey. I had
before seen little of my father, and the most I knew of him was from the
solicitude I had heard expressed on his account, and the fear of his
death after every battle. I was, indeed, a little ashamed of having a
military father, brought up, as I had mostly been, in a Dutch family,
and speaking that language as fluently as my own; yet, on the other
hand, I had felt so awkward at seeing all my companions have fathers to
talk and complain to, while I had none, that I thought, upon the whole,
it was a very good thing to have a father of any kind. The scarlet coat,
which I had been taught to consider as the symbol of wickedness,
disgusted me in some degree; but then, to my great comfort, I found my
father did not swear; and again, to my unspeakable delight, that he
prayed. A soldier pray! was it possible? and should I really see my
father in heaven! How transporting! By a sudden revolution of opinion, I
now thought my father the most charming of all beings; and the
overflowings of my good will reached to the whole company, because they
wore the same colour, and seemed to respect and obey him. I dearly loved
idleness, too, and the more, because my mother, who delighted in
needle-work, confined me too much to it. What joys were mine! to be idle
for a fortnight, seeing new woods, rivers, and animals, every day; even
then the love of nature was, in my young bosom, a passion productive of
incessant delight. I had, too, a primer, two hymns, and a ballad, and
these I read over and over with great diligence. At intervals, my
attention was agreeably engaged by the details the soldiers gave my
father of their manner of living and fighting in the woods, &c. and with
these the praises of madame were often mingled. I thought of her
continually; every great thing I heard about her, even her size, had its
impression. She became the heroine of my childish imagination; and I
thought of her as something both awful and admirable. We had the surgeon
of the regiment, and another officer with us; they talked, too, of
madame, of Indians, of battles, and of ancient history. Sitting from
morning to night musing in the boat, contemplating my father, who
appeared to me a hero and a saint, and thinking of aunt Schuyler, who
filled up my whole mind with the grandeur with which my fancy had
invested her; and then having my imagination continually amused with the
variety of noble wild scenes which the beautiful banks of the Mohawk
afforded, I am convinced I thought more in that fortnight, that is to
say, acquired more ideas, and took more lasting impressions, than ever I
did, in the same space of time, in my life. This, however foreign it may
appear to my subject, I mention, as so far connecting with it, that it
accounts, in some measure, for that development of thought which led me
to take such ready and strong impressions from aunt’s conversation, when
afterwards I knew her.
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