ntertainment of the four hundred of that
time.

For Elizabeth's mother, of the same given name, was "very fond of
display," and in her day the family "lived showily." Her husband (who
was usually called Colonel Philipse, from his title in the militia,
and rarely if ever called lord) had the house refurnished. It was he
who had the princely terraces made on the slope between the mansion
and the Hudson, and who had new gardens laid out and adorned with tall
avenues of box and rarest fruit-trees and shrubs. Doubtless his deer,
in their picketed enclosure, were a sore temptation to the country
marksmen who passed that way. Lady, or Madam, or Mrs. Philipse, the
colonel's wife, bedazzled the admiring inhabitants of West Chester
County in many ways, but there is a difference between authorities as
to whether it was she that used to drive four superb black horses over
the bad roads of the county, or whether it was her mother-in-law, the
second lord's wife. Certainly it was the latter that was killed by a
fall from a carriage, and certainly both had fine horses and
magnificent coaches, and drove over bad roads,--for all roads were bad
in those days, even in Europe, save those the Romans left.

Of all the gay and hospitable occasions that brought, through the
mansion's wide doors, courtly gentlemen and high-and-mighty ladies,
from their coaches, sleighs, horses, or Hudson sloops, perhaps none
saw more feasting and richer display of ruffles and brocade than did
the wedding of Mary Philipse and Captain Morris, seven years after the
death of her father, and two after the marriage of her brother. It was
on the afternoon of Sunday, Jan. 15, 1758. In the famous east parlor,
which has had much mention and will have more in course of this
narrative, was raised a crimson canopy emblazoned with the Philipse
crest,--a crowned golden demi-lion rampant, upon a golden coronet.
Though the weather was not severe, there was snow on the ground, and
the guests began to drive up in sleighs, under the white trees, at two
o'clock. At three arrived the Rev. Henry Barclay, rector of Trinity,
New York, and his assistant, Mr. Auchmuty. At half-past three the
beauteous Mary (did so proud a heart-breaker blush, I wonder?) and the
British captain stood under the crimson canopy and gold, and were
united, "in the presence of a brilliant assembly," says the old county
historian.[1] Miss Barclay, Miss Van Cortlandt, and Miss De Lancey
were the bridesmaids, and