 | THE
LADY OF MOUNT VERNON. Myrtis |  |
THE
LADY OF MOUNT VERNON.
So lofty, and so cold,
Be hers a lowlier majesty,
In yet a nobler mould.”
Grenville Mellen.
The state of society in Virginia, a century since,
was unique and imposing. The “Ancient Dominion”
retained stronger features of resemblance to
the father-land than any of its sisters. The manners
of the nobility of England had been transplanted,
with little external change, to the territory of
Powhatan. A kind of feudal magnificence, a high
and quick sense of honor, a generous and lordly hospitality,
early characterized a State which has given
to this western empire so many of its mightiest and
noblest names.
Traces of these lineaments still exist in that sunny
clime. Yet our severance from the parent country,
while it marred her likeness among all the colonies,
obscured it less palpably in the countenance of
her eldest-born. One of the first innovations was
the breaking down of that courtly and almost solemn
etiquette, which had marked the intercourse of the
higher classes. “I know your age by the edition of
your manners,” said a lady of discernment to a gentleman
distinguished for politeness. “I am certain
that you were educated before the Revolution.”
But the republicanism, which may have swept with
too full a tide over our national manners, had, at the
The levees of her royal governors, though stripped
of monarchical pomp, displayed a remnant of those
“stately steppings of chivalry” with which the titled
and the valiant of a former age were accustomed, in
European courts, to pay homage to rank and beauty.
In the winter of 1748, the levees of Governor
Gooch opened with unwonted splendor at Williamsburg.
Many of the members of the Assembly took
with them the élite of their families, and this session
was graced by the presence of several young and
high-born maidens, who had never before been presented
at court. One among them was evidently the
theme of general admiration. Some of the statelier
matrons criticised her as deficient in height. But,
though somewhat beneath the middle stature, she
possessed that rounded and exquisite symmetry
which the early historians have ascribed to the fascinating
Ann Boleyn, while her pure complexion and
clear eye were finely contrasted with dark, glossy,
and redundant hair. Still it was found difficult, by
common observers, to analyze her beauty; for it rested
not on any predominant gift, but on the consent
of the whole person in loveliness. Grace of movement
and melody of voice were among its more apparent
elements. The slight rose-leaf tinge upon
her cheek was heightened when she spoke, or, if the
subject imbodied feeling, deepened to a flush of carmine,
disappearing as rapidly as it came. But what
chiefly won old and young, was a bland cheerfulness,
smile, inspiring every beholder with confidence,
like a beam from the temple of Truth. Though
she had scarcely numbered twice eight summers,
there was about her a womanly dignity which chastened
the most forward admiration into respect.
Among those who paid their devoirs to this lovely
young creature was Colonel Custis, one of the most
accomplished cavaliers of his time. His tall and
elegant form was adapted to athletic exercises, to
the control of the spirited charger, or the show of
military evolution. Still he appeared to uncommon
advantage in the minuet, which was then executed
among the higher circles in the “Ancient Dominion”
with all the precision and grace by which it
was characterized at the court of Louis Fourteenth.
Yet it was observed that this favorite dance, when
shared with the lady whom he admired, was far less
prized than the conversations that followed; when,
with eyes intensely fixed, as if to read the soul, he
recorded each fragment of a word, or the slightest
suffusion of countenance in his heart of hearts.
The Honorable John Custis, of Arlington, held at
that period the office of king's counselor, and was
a man of wealth and distinction. His attendance at
Williamsburg during the present session had been
somewhat interrupted by ill health; and, while there,
the grave and absorbing duties of the statesman had
left him ignorant what reigning beauties had produced
sensation at court. Not long after the suspension
to their homes, the counselor requested an interview
in his private cabinet with his son, Colonel
Daniel Park Custis. There was a singular mixture
of gravity and condescension in his manner as he desired
him to be seated, and thus opened the discourse.
“I have for some time wished to see you on an
interesting subject. Though still young, I consider
you to have arrived at years of discretion.” The
colonel bowed.
“You know Colonel Byrd, of Westover, to be my
very particular friend. His daughter is one of the
most beautiful and accomplished ladies in Virginia.
It is my desire that you form with her a matrimonial
alliance.”
“My dear sir, I have not the vanity of supposing
that I could render myself acceptable to Miss Byrd.”
“No objection on that head. Her father and myself
have settled it. Indeed, I may as well tell you
that we have had numberless conversations on this
business, and that you have both been as good as
betrothed from the cradle. Think, my son, of the
advantages of such a connection, the contiguity of
estates, the amount of wealth and power that will
thus ultimately pass into your hands.”
“Affection, sir, seems to me the only bond that
can hallow so intimate a union. Not even my reverence
for the best of fathers, could induce me to
enter it from mercenary motives.”
“Mercenary, sir! mercenary! Who ever before
the counselor raised himself to his full height, and
fixed a kindling eye upon his son. Then, pacing the
apartment a few turns, he resumed his theme. “You
speak of the affection that should precede marriage.
Have the goodness to understand that the misplacing
of yours may materially affect your patrimonial inheritance.”
He waited for a reply, but in vain.
“May I inquire if you have thought fit thus early
to decide seriously on the preference of any young
lady as a companion for life?”
“I have, sir.”
“May I be favored with a knowledge of her
name?”
“Miss Martha Dandridge.”
The high-spirited gentlemen parted in mutual resentment.
But the reflection of a night restored
both to better feelings. The father began to excuse
the son by recalling the warmth of his own early attachment;
while the son referred the testiness of the
father to the sudden disappointment of a long-cherished
plan, and the querulousness of feeble health.
Still, as it usually happens with proud men, neither
would make the first advance to open his heart to
the other; and a slight, though clearly perceptible
shade of coldness gathered over their intercourse.
So this interview served as a stimulant to the progress
of matrimony. The temporary reserve of the
father, throwing something like gloom over the paternal
mansion, heightened the frequency and fervor
preference imagined no barrier to an alliance where
no obvious inequality was supposed to exist; and he
forbore to communicate what would only occasion
perplexity, and what, he trusted, would soon vanish
like the “baseless fabric of a vision.” According
to his happy prescience, the dignified counselor
gave his consent to the nuptials, and the flower of
the court of Williamsburg became a bride in the
blush of her seventeenth summer.
The residence of the new pair was a retired and romantic
mansion on the banks of the Pamumkey. It
reared its snowy walls amid a profusion of vines and
flowering trees. Broad plantations, and the wealth of
Virginian forests, variegated the scenery. Rural occupations,
and the delight of each other's society,
spread for them what they deemed a paradise. In
visits to their favored dwelling, the counselor learned
to appreciate the treasure of his new daughter. Her
excellence, in the responsible sphere to which she
was introduced, won his regard; and, with the ingenuousness
of an honorable mind, when convinced
of error, he sought every opportunity of distinguishing
that merit to which he had once done injustice.
When he saw the grace and courtesy with which
she maintained a generous hospitality; the judgment,
far beyond her years, displayed in the management
of her servants; the energy, the early rising,
the cheerful alacrity that regulated and beautified
the internal mechanism of her family; the
sought the good of others; but, above all, her untiring
devotion to her husband, and to the little ones
who sprang up around her, he gloried in the sentiment
of his son, that strong personal affection should
form the basis of matrimonial happiness.
But this scene of exquisite felicity was not long to
last. The death of the two oldest children prepared
the way for the deeper loss of the adored husband
and father. Yet in the trying situation of a young,
beautiful, and wealthy widow, she continued to evince
unvarying discretion, and faithfully to discharge every
important duty.
It was in the spring of 1758 that two gentlemen,
on horseback, attended by a servant, wound their
way slowly through the luxuriant scenery that diversifies
the county of New Kent. The conspicuous
personage of the group was tall, graceful, and
commanding, in a rich military undress, and apparently
about twenty-five years of age. He would
have been a model for the sculptor when Rome was
in her best days. His companion was an elderly
man in a plain garb, who, by the familiarity with
which he pointed out surrounding objects, would
seem to be taking his daily round upon his own
estate. As they approached the avenue to an antique
mansion, he placed his hand upon the rein of
his companion:
“Nay, Colonel Washington, let it never be said
that you passed the house of your father's friend
detaining you as my guest.”
“Thanks to you, my dear sir; but I ride in haste,
the bearer of dispatches to our governor in Williamsburg,
which may not brook delay.”
“Is this the noble steed which was given you by
the dying Braddock on the fatal field of Monongahela?
and this the servant he bequeathed you at the
same time?”
Washington answered in the affirmative.
“Then, my dear colonel, thus mounted and attended,
you may well dine with me, and by borrowing
somewhat of this fine moonlight, reach Williamsburg
ere his excellency shall have shaken off his
morning slumbers.”
“Do I understand that I may be excused immediately
after dinner?”
“Immediately, with all the promptness of military
discipline.”
“Then, sir, I accept your hospitality,” and gracefully
throwing himself from his spirited charger, he
resigned him to his English servant, giving, at the
same time, strict orders for the hour of departure on
their urgent journey.
“I am rejoiced, Colonel Washington,” said the
hospitable old gentleman, “thus fortunately to have
met you on my morning ride; and the more so, as I
have some guests who may make the repast pass
pleasantly, and will not fail to appreciate a young
and gallant soldier.”
Washington bowed his thanks, and was introduced
to the company. Virginia's far-famed hospitality was
well set forth in that spacious baronial hall. The
social feast was closed precisely at the time the host
had predicted. The servant also was punctual. He
knew the habits of his master. At the appointed
moment he stood with the horses caparisoned at the
gate. Yet long did the proud steed champ his bit,
and curve his arching neck, and paw the broken turf.
And much did the menial marvel, as, listening to
every footstep that paced down the avenue, he saw
the sun sink in the west, and yet no master appear.
When was he ever before known to fail in punctuality?
The evening air breathed cool and damp,
and soothed the impatience of the chafing courser.
At length orders came that the horses should be put
up for the night. Wonder upon wonder! when his
business with the governor was so urgent! The sun
rode high in the heavens the next day ere Washington
mounted for his journey. No explanation was
given. But it was rumored that among the guests
was a beautiful and youthful widow, to whose charms
the hero had responded. This was farther confirmed
by his tarrying but a brief space at Williamsburg,
and retracing his route with unusual celerity, and
becoming a frequent visitor at the house of the late
Colonel Custis in that vicinity, where, the following
year, his nuptials were celebrated. “And rare and
high,” says G. W. P. Custis, Esq., the descendant
and biographer of the lady, “rare and high was the
for many were gathered to that marriage of the good,
the great, the gifted, and the gay; while Virginia,
with joyful acclamations, hailed in the prosperous
and happy bridegroom her favorite chief.”
Henceforth the life of the Lady of Mount Vernon
is a part of the history of her country. In that hallowed
retreat she was found entering into the plans
of Washington, sharing his confidence, and making
his household happy. There her only daughter,
Martha Custis, died in the bloom of youth; and a
few years after, when the troubles of the country
drew her husband to the post of commander-in-chief
of her armies, she accompanied him to Boston, and
witnessed its siege and evacuation. For eight years
he returned no more to enjoy his beloved residence
on the banks of the Potomac. During his absence
she made the most strenuous efforts to sustain her
added responsibilities, and to endure, with changeless
trust in Heaven, continual anxiety for the safety
of her husband and the fate of the country. At the
close of each campaign she repaired, in compliance
with his wishes, to headquarters, where the ladies of
the general officers joined her in forming such a society
as diffused a cheering influence over even the
gloom of such winters as those at Valley Forge and
Morristown. The opening of every campaign was
the signal of the return of Lady Washington (as she
was called in the army) to her domestic cares at
Mount Vernon. “I heard,” said she, “the first and
which attended the surrender of Cornwallis
in the autumn of 1781 marked for her a season of
the deepest private sorrow. Her only remaining
child, Colonel John Custis, the aid-de-camp of
Washington, became, during his arduous duties at
the siege of Yorktown, the victim of an epidemic
fever, and died at the age of twenty-seven. He
was but a boy of live years at the time of her second
marriage, and had drawn forth strongly the affection
and regard of her illustrious husband, who shared her
affliction for his loss, and by the tenderest sympathy
sought its alleviation.
After the close of the war a few years were devoted
to the enjoyment and embellishment of their
beloved Mount Vernon. Returning peace and prosperity
to the land of their birth gave pure and bright
ingredients to their cup of happiness. Their mansion
was thronged with guests of distinction, all of
whom remarked with admiration the energy of the
Lady of Mount Vernon in the complicated duties of
a Virginian housekeeper, and the elegance and grace
with which she presided at her noble board.
The voice of a free nation, conferring on General
Washington the highest honor in its power to bestow,
was not obeyed without a sacrifice of feeling.
It was in the spring of 1789 that, with his lady, he
bade adieu to his tranquil abode, to assume the cares
of the first presidency. In his domestic establishment,
as in his political course, he mingled the simplicity
necessary to secure the respect of older governments.
The furniture of his house, the livery of his servants,
the entertainment of his guests, displayed elegance,
while they rejected ostentation. In all these arrangements
his beloved consort was a second self. Her
Friday evening levees, at which he was always present,
exhibited that perfect etiquette which should
mark the intercourse of the dignified and high-bred.
Commencing at seven, and closing at ten, they lent
no more sanction to late hours than to levity. The
first lady of the nation still preserved the habits of
early life. Indulging in no indolence, she left her
pillow at dawn, and after breakfast retired to her
chamber an hour for the study of the Scriptures and
devotion. This practice, it is said, during the period
of half a century, she never omitted. The duties of
the Sabbath were dear to her. The president and
herself attended public worship with regularity, and
in the evening he read to her in her chamber the
Scriptures and a sermon.
The spring of 1797 opened for them with the most
pleasing anticipations. The burdens of high office
were resigned, and they were about to retire for the
remainder of their days to the delightful shades of
Mount Vernon. The new turf, springing into greenness
wherever they trod, the vernal blossoms unfolding
to greet them, the warbled welcome of the birds
were never more dear, as they returned to their rural
retreat, hallowed by the recollections of earlier
years Washington was no more. The shock of his
death, after an illness of only twenty-four hours, fell
like a thunderbolt upon the beloved and bereaved
woman. That piety which had so long been her
strength, continued its support, but her heart drooped.
Cheerfulness did not utterly forsake her, yet
she discharged the habitual round of duties as one
who felt that the “glory had departed.”
How beautiful and characteristic was her reply
to the solicitations of the highest authority of the
nation, that the remains of her illustrious husband
might be removed to the seat of government, and a
monument erected to mark the spot of their repose.
“Taught by the great example which I have had
so long before me, never to oppose my private wishes
to the will of my country, I consent to the request
made by Congress; and, in doing this, I need not, I
can not say what a sacrifice of individual feeling I
make to a sense of public duty.”
The intention of the Congress of 1799 has not
been executed, nor the proposed monument erected.
The enthusiasm of the time passed away, and the
many and conflicting cares of a great nation turned
its thoughts from thus perpetuating his memory,
whose image, it trusted, would be embalmed by an
imperishable gratitude.
Scarcely were two years of her lonely widowhood
accomplished ere the Lady of Mount Vernon felt
the approach of death. Gathering her family around
which from youth she had trusted, and loved onward
to hoary hairs; then calmly resigning her soul into
the hands of Him who gave it, full of years and full
of honors, she was laid in the tomb of Washington.
In this outline of the lineaments of the Lady of
Mount Vernon, we perceive that it was neither the
beauty with which she was endowed, nor the high
station which she attained, that gave enduring lustre
to her character, but her Christian fidelity in those
duties which devolve upon her sex. These fitted
her to irradiate the home, to lighten the cares, to
cheer the anxieties, to sublimate the enjoyments of
him who, in the expressive language of Chief-justice
Marshall, was “so favored of Heaven as to depart
without exhibiting the weakness of humanity.”
Though this slight sketch can boast no element of
attraction for the lover of romance, yet the symmetry
of her character whom it aims to portray, and her
identification with him whom all delight to honor,
should claim a place in the lasting remembrance and
love of the American people.
| THE
LADY OF MOUNT VERNON. Myrtis | |