2. CHAPTER II.
FLOWERS OF THE COURT.
Paul was hastening, with his arm around Blossom, toward
the tree where his pony Shag was tied—the young gentleman's
design being to convey his sweetheart behind him
into Williamsburg—when suddenly both stopped, arrested
by the appearance of a brilliant cavalcade.
It consisted of three richly decorated chariots, each drawn
by six glossy horses, and followed by plainer vehicles. The
drivers and footmen who hung behind were white English
servants, as were the numerous outriders.
The first equipage contained three ladies—the rest seemed
occupied chiefly by gentlemen.
As the flock of children ran out to look upon the brilliant
spectacle, the head of a young lady was thrust from the
window of the foremost coach, and she seemed to be calling
the attention of her companions to the children.
It was a beautiful face, framed in bright curls, and looking
very sweet and good-humored.
“Isn't she pretty, Paul?” said Blossom, in a whisper.
“Uncommonly,” returned Paul, with the air of a connoisseur;
“but look, Blossom, she is beckoning to you!”
In fact, the pretty picture of the boy and girl, with their
arms around each other, had attracted the attention of the
young lady, and taking advantage of a momentary pause,
occasioned by a portion of the harness becoming out of
place, she had really beckoned to the girl.
Blossom approached the chariot, followed by Paul, and
looked with timid grace into the face of the young lady, who
smiled sweetly, and gave her hand to each.
“That is a school-house, is it not, my dear?” she said;
“every thing is bright here, and you and all look very
happy.”
“That's because Blossom is so good, ma'am,” said Paul
politely; “everybody's happy where she is.”
“Blossom,” said the lady smiling, “is that your name?”
“Yes, ma'am,” returned the child, “and his is Paul.”
“Paul! do you hear, Susan?” said the young lady, turning
one of her companions; “what pretty names they have
in Virginia—Blossom and Paul! and you know we stopped
last night at Roslyn Hall.”
Then turning to the children, the young lady added:
“I wish you would come and see me, Blossom—and you
too, Paul. My name is Augusta Murray, and we are going
to live in Williamsburg now.”
As she spoke, the footman again mounted behind, having
fixed the harness, and the young lady again gave her hand
to the children, with a pleased smile.
The cavalcade then resumed its way slowly.
The flock of children, Blossom and Paul leading, surrounded
and followed it, as a triumphal escort, and it went
thus attended toward the old capital.
For many hours the good town of Williamsburg has been
in commotion. An immense crowd has assembled, and
the waves of the multitude now extend from the college
of “William and Mary,” past the old magazine, and the
“Raleigh” tavern, quite onward to the steps of the capitol,
where, around the base of Lord Botetourt's statue, the restless
and variegated billows seem to break into foam and
spray.
All classes, all costumes are seen. Plain homespun clothes
and rich doublets, gentry and commoners, merchants and
factors, and yeomen, and negroes, and a great crowd of
students from the college of “William and Mary,” who
flock in gay groups along the thoroughfares, cracking jokes,
like their brethren in all ages.
“Duke-of-Gloucester-street” thus represents a jubilant
carnival: it is a conglomeration of forms, plain and picturesque,
old and young, male and female—jesting, laughing,
shouting, jostling—awaiting the event of the day.
From time to time the crowd moves to and fro unwillingly,
and as it were under protest; then rapidly divides itself
into parallel columns on each side of the street; and through
this space rolls a chariot, with four glossy horses. It contains
some old planter in his richest pourpoint, with his wife
and daughters blazing in silk and velvet and diamonds; and
the driver is a portly and consequential negro, who, proud
of himself, his master, and his position, looks down with
aristocratic condescension on the “poor white folks.”
As the chariot disappears in the direction of the palace
of the Governor, some richly clad gallant, mounted upon
his gayly-caparisoned thorough-bred, prances by in the same
direction; and if he be handsome he occasions favorable remarks
from the damsels, whose heads are visible in the windows
above.
He is succeeded by some country cart of rude pine board,
drawn by a solemn-looking donkey; and as the old countryman
and his wife bounce up and down, the heads at the
windows utter jests and laughter—a taste for the grotesque
having characterized the maidens of that epoch, as it does
the damsels of to-day.
With the uproarious crowd mingle members of the House
of Burgesses, and many personages who seem to look with
a philosophic eye on the carnival. These do not laugh or
jest; they wait; they seek for the currents of popular opinion,
and continue to gaze silently.
All at once, in the midst of the tumult, a bell is heard,
and this is followed by a shout.
Then a great undulation takes place in the mass; the
waves roll right and left, young girls are precipitated into
strangers' arms; through the open space comes on a troop
of horsemen from the direction of the palace—Lord Dunmore's
guards, who occupy barracks near at hand.
They ride vigorous horses, and are clad in the British
uniform, being, indeed, Englishmen. They disappear at the
western end of Gloucester street, followed by some murmurs.
The crowd closes after them; the bells continue to ring;
the windows are more densely crowded; urchins even
mount upon the old Magazine, and clasp the flag-staff bearing
aloft the banner of St. George. A great shout tells
that the object of all this excitement has entered the capital.
The confusion becomes now like Pandemonium. The
heads of young girls are thrust to a dangerous distance from
the windows; handkerchiefs are violently waved by these
splendor-loving youthful personages; and the number of
damsels, children, and all weaker characters who are precipitated
upon alien bosoms is more marked than ever.
But the end is accomplished; the center of the street is
left free.
A score of the guards, riding four abreast, precede the
cavalcade which we have seen stop a moment near the old
field school. As many follow it.
The first chariot contains the Countess of Dunmore, wife
of his Excellency the Governor, with her daughters the Ladies
Susan and Augusta.
The second is occupied by Lady Catherine and her brothers,
the Honorable Alexander and John Murray.
The third contains Lord Fincastle, Captain Foy, the private
secretary of his Excellency, and his wife. Captain
Foy looks forth calmly on the crowd—his pale, quiet face
betrays nothing.
But the countess, her daughters and her sons, are plainly
gratified by their reception. The young ladies especially,
with their rosy and good-humored faces, seem far from indifferent
to the shouts of welcome which greet them. They
look out and smile, and raise their eyes to the fair faces at
the windows, or scan the crowd.
The crowd looks back amiably. It pays no attention to
Lord Fincastle, Captain Foy, or the sons of his Excellency.
They are accustomed to lords and honorables, and prefer
the smiling faces of the young ladies.
Thus the cortege passes along Gloucester street, accompanied
by the crowd which bears it on its way. The bells
continue to ring—a band of music in the palace grounds
commences an inspiring march—the chariots enter the great
gateway, flanked as now by the two guard-houses—and then
the Scottish lindens hide them from the eyes of the multitude.
Virginia has beheld her last viceregal “entrance.”[1]
