13. CHAPTER XIII.
HOW THEY DANCED A MINUET DE LA COUR.
We linger for a moment to look upon the divertisements of
that old, old land—the far away colonial Virginia. It is all
gone from us, and, as says our worthy author, the minuet
bows no longer, but it shall bow in our history as it did before.
A narrative, such as we write, should not only flow
on like a stream toward its termination, it should also mirror
on its surface the bright scenes it passes through—the
banks, the skies, the flowers of other years, all should be
painted on the ever moving current.
Therefore we pause a moment to look on the minuet, to
listen to old Uncle Cæsar's fiddle, to hear the long-drawn
music wind its liquid cadences through mellow variations,
and to see the forms and faces of the young men and the
maidens.
They have a quadrille first, and then a couple take the
floor.
St. John leans on the carved back of Bonnybel's chair,
and makes himself generally agreeable.
“How gracefully the girls of Virginia dress,” he says;
“like butterflies, all blue and gold, and—down.”
“Butterflies indeed!” cries the young lady, “and pray
what do the gentlemen resemble—wasps?”
“No; working bees.”
“Drones rather!”
“What a wit you have!” says Mr. St. John, laughing;
“but, really now, just see. Consider these lilies of the parlor,
they toil not, neither do they spin, like their grandmothers.”
“I do, sir!”
“Then you are different. The young ladies do n't sew
or spin, they engage Mr. Pate or Mrs. Hunter to relieve
them of it.”
“Pray, what do you know of Mr. Pate?”
“I know what I read,” says St. John, taking up, with a
smile, the “Virginia Gazette;” “see here the notice that
Master Matthew Pate has for sale, `Stays, twin and single;
jumps, half-bow stays, stays made to buckle before, pin or
button,' no doubt with diamond studs, like yours, madam!”
“You are extremely wise and learned in the female costume;
my stays came from London, and I'll thank you—”
Here the minuet ends, and the particular conversation is
lost in the general buzz. It is next Bonnybel's turn, and
with a queenly air she says to Mr. St. John, who has engaged
her hand,
“You'll please ask me to dance formally, sir?”
St. John smiles, deposits his cocked-hat on his heart, and
bowing to the ground, requests the pleasure of a minuet.
Bonnybel opens her enormous fan, with ivory decorations,
places its downy edge upon her chin, and inclining her head
sidewise with a die-away expression, declares, simpering,
that really the gallants will not let her rest, she's wearied
with attention, but supposes, since my Lord Bolingbroke
has asked her hand, she ought not to refuse.
With these words, and in the midst of general laughter,
Miss Bonnybel gives her hand daintily to her partner, and
they advance into the floor, to the mellow strains of Uncle
Cæsar's fiddle.
It is a little beauty of the eighteenth century, armed capa-pié
for conquest, that the current of our story now reflects;
the picture will be seen no more in truth, however,
unless grandma on the wall yonder, painted at the age of
seventeen, steps down and curteseys to us in some reverie or
dream.
Bonnybel wears, over a scarlet petticoat, a hooped dress
of yellow satin, all furbelowed and decorated, especially with
a row of rich rosettes, down to the feet. The bodice is cut
square, the waist long and slender; the satin fits closely to
the young lady's pliant figure, which is encircled by a silver
girdle, and between the silken net-work of red cords, securing
the open front, a profusion of saffron lace, kept in its
place by diamond studs, dazzles the eye like a heap of new
fallen snow tinted with sunset. The sleeves are short, or
perhaps it will be more correct to say that the dress has no
sleeves at all, the round, dimpled shoulders of the young
lady being encircled only, so to speak, by a narrow band of
silk; and, last of all, a clond of gauze floats round the neck
and shoulders, reconciling Miss Bonnybel to a pattern which
she gazed at somewhat ruefully when it was first unfolded.
Blue satin shoes, with slender heels about four inches high,
and a light head-dress, principally consisting of a wreath of
roses, finish the costume; the young lady having for decoration
only a pearl necklace, rising and falling tranquilly.
As this prettily clad little beauty bowed before him, Mr.
St. John thought he had never seen a fairer sight, more dancing
eyes, any thing at the same time half so feminine and
mischievous. Bonnybel danced exceedingly well; and as she
moved in perfect time to the stately music, and bent in the
measured curtesey, until her curls fell like a cloud of dusky
gold around the rosy cheeks, and her knee touched the
floor almost,—thus gliding before him in the fine old dance,
and giving him, with dainty ceremony, the tips of her fingers,
the young dame made her partner fancy that the most attractive
and provoking fairy of Titania's court had come in
from the moonlight, and would flit away as she came. He
saw her thus curteseying long afterwards, and when an old
man, told it to another generation.[1]
So the minuet bowed and curteseyed itself onward through
its stately motions, and with a low sigh of satisfaction and
self-admiration, died away.
But the dancing was not over. A reel succeeded. The
fiddler exchanged his mellow cadences for spirit-stirring
mirth, the tragic symphony gave way to sparkling comedy.
Darting, inclining, clasping and unclasping hands, the gay
party bore no bad resemblance to a flock of children turned
loose for a holiday. Even the stately Helen's “dignity”
was overthrown, and Mr. Tom Alston's fine peruke, from
Monsieur Lafonge's, filled the whole wide apartment with
its perfumed powder.
For almost an hour thus Uncle Cæsar made the bounding
feet keep time to his gay music, and as he approached the
end of the performance, the old fiddler seemed to be carried
away by the genius of uproar. With head thrown
back, eyes rolling in their orbits, and huge foot keeping
time to the tune, his bow flashed backward and forward
with a wild delight, and the violin roared and burst into
shouts of laughter. Quicker yet and ever quicker grew the
movements of the “Snow-bird on the ash-bank,” the old
musician threw his whole soul into the uproarious reel, and
the brilliant forms, with dazzling silks and eyes more dazzling
still, and rosy cheeks, and laughter, flashed from end
to end of the great room, and whirled through mazes, and
were borne like variegated foam upon the sparkling waves—
those waves of the wild music which roared, and laughed,
and shouted over pearls and powder, diamonds and bright
eyes, in grandest revelry and furious mirth.
So reigned the great Cæsar over man and maid, and so,
perhaps, the headlong violin would still be playing—but for
cruel fate. Suddenly a string snapped, the dance was at an
end, and Uncle Cæsar, with a long scrape, put his fiddle
under his arm, and made his most impressive bow. The
maidens stood still panting and laughing, with undulating
forms, and rosy cheeks, and sparkling eyes, and vigorous
fannings; and then the reel at an end, they hastily prepared
to depart.
In vain they were pressed to stay; and soon, with a multiplicity
of kisses, (then, as now, a favorite amusement of
young ladies in the presence of young gentlemen,) they
fled away into the moonlit forest, with their attendant cavaliers.
Fair dames! what a pity it is that the pen of him who
writes could not adequately paint your joy and beauty, your
brilliant eyes, your pearl-looped towers of curls, your dangerous
glances—all your sighs, and coquetries and laughter!
And if your fair grand-children, following, in an idle
moment, their most humble servant's chronicle, cry out
with a pretty indignation at the fact, the chronicler can
only take his hat off humbly, and bow low, and plead his
inability to make the picture; to tell how beautiful those
lilies of the past appeared; those lilies and dear roses of
Virginia fields; and hope that they are somewhere blooming
on Virginia walls—flowers of the years before; but
fresh still for us, in imperishable memory!
St. John and Bonnybel stood on the portico and watched
them till they disappeared.
She must have understood the long ardent look which he
fixed upon her face, as she stood thus, bathed in the silver
moonlight; but Miss Bonnybel was sleepy and intent on
bed.
Much as she would have liked to promenade with her
companion, and tantalize him with her glances, she preferred
retiring. So, pursing up her lips toward him, as though she
wished to be kissed, she darted away, laughing, and disappeared.
St. John remained alone, musing by moonlight for an
hour, and then also retired to his chamber and his bed.
It was to dream of her.
