#1773

[dimity-lawn]

“I saw the fall of Troy, World War Five. I pushed boxes at the Boston Tea Party. Now I’m going to die in a dungeon…. in Cardiff.”

[digitalfashionmuseum]

Blue Silk Robe à la Française, 1770-1779, French.

Musée des Arts Décoratifs Paris.

[moonwatchuniverse]

250 years military maritime sea clocks 2023 marks the 330th anniversary of John Harrison's birth but also the 250th anniversary since the last bit of Longitude Prize money was awarded by British parliament. In 1773, 80 years old English clock maker John Harrsion was awarded the final amount of Prize money for his " seawatch n° 1 " H4 clock which solved the Longitude problem. Harrison had been working half a century to perfect his watches . Note the great details in these paintings, with Harrison holding John Jefferys watch and his own H4 clock on the table besides him. As Great Britain asserted its position with France and had to avoid these precious time keepers could be caught by Spanish or Dutch navy ships, copies of Harrison H4 were sent on sea trials. A time of sextants and clocks, while today's rise of technology has isolated us from the natural World, unfortunately much to our detriment. (National Maritime Museum - Greenwich GB)

[ricekirpsees]

|| A Harvard Undergrad Becomes Delusional and Has Vivid Hallucinations of the American Revolution: Chp 1 ||

Synopsis- a Harvard Undergrad becomes delusional and has vivid hallucinations of the American Revolution

Note- i like. history

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“The American Revolutionary War lasted from 1775 to 1783, whereby the Thirteen Colonies secured their independence from the British Crown and consequently established the United States as the first sovereign nation-state founded on Enlightenment principles of the consent of the governed, constitutionalism and liberal democracy--”

The pages turn.

“In late 1774, in support of Massachusetts, twelve of the thirteen colonies sent delegates to Philadelphia, where they formed the First Continental Congress and began coordinating resistance to Britain's colonial governance--”

The pages flip.

“In the summer of 1776, in a setback for American patriots, the British captured New York City and its strategic harbor. In September 1777, in anticipation of a coordinated attack by the British Army--”

The book slams shut.

Dropping your head against the cool marble table, you shut your eyes and slumped. Hours of studying left you with a raging migraine, an empty mind, and one too many paper cuts. You were exhausted in ways only studying could afflict a person and you cursed yourself for your ability to blank out when important information was recited to you. If only you could pay attention during lectures. If only you could focus on the rolling waves of words on the glaring, glossy sheets of textbooks. You breathed out heavily. If only. Sadly the world said “fuck you” and fucked you are.

Peeling your eyes open, you stared blankly at the portrait of Charles C. Pinckney you came to despise seeing day after day and debated whether or not you should call it quits or push through researching for that damned paper. Quickly, you opted for the former. You sighed. Perhaps, three hours was good enough for today.

The Boston Public Library was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because you have access to all kinds of documents on America’s history. A curse, because you have access to all kinds of documents on America’s history. There was a sort of obligation to write about it, especially since you were at the heart of the Revolution, the home of Hancock and Adams, and also because you assumed it would be far easier than it was. You dragged your head to look at the shut textbook and felt your heart crumble. This will be the death of you.

But if you can prolong such death, then you shall. You sat up, stretching your cramped bones, and shoved away the awful books before pushing yourself up and throwing on your bag, wincing. The weight of your bag crushed the knot of stress on your shoulder blade, sending an aching pain down your back. You groaned rolling your shoulder as you wished you could snap your arm off to give you relief. Maybe someone in the library would just walk up to you and rip it off, but until that day comes you’ll settle with endangering yourself with exploration. Giving one final stretch you began to make your way out of the ancient marble library.

Boston. Boston, Massachusetts. A place deeply ingrained in good old American history from massacres to floods of molasses and your personal city-wide jail cell. As unfortunate as it is to be trapped, it could’ve been worse. You shudder to think what would’ve happened if you got caught in the tar trap of Chicago or New York.

You push through the ornate, metal doors of the library and out onto the streets of Boston, beginning the familiar walk to the apartments. Traversing through streets of old and new, there was a certain sense of deep familiarity. It was another lucky thing about Boston being your jail cell. You only moved here a few months ago and usually one would be stiff and awkward in a place far, far away from their origins, but seeing those brick buildings and cobblestone roads hidden by those of steel, glass, and concrete, you adjusted unexpectedly easily.

Not that you were an inflexible person in general. You’ve had your fair share of travelling every which way, up and down and across the country, staying in brief intervals with restlessness plaguing your every action. No, this was different. How or why, you’re not entirely sure, but, you think it’s nice.

Seeing the park that centered on Commonwealth Avenue, you sped up and turned onto your side of the street, working your way around tourists and neighbors and crossing over the bustling traffic. Occasionally you give a quick, polite smile to someone you accidentally make eye contact with, before continuing onwards.

It’s going to be a quick stop at the apartments, grab your gear, and go back again just before the sun begins to set. A grin makes its way to your lips and a burst of speed pushes you forward. Danger is your happy place.

You arrive in front of your apartment building and quickly walk in, flying up the stairs, before pushing into your section. Throwing your work bag onto the dingy couch you sped into your room quickly changing and grabbing your gear, listing them off in your head; pants, shirt, jacket on; goggles, respirator, gloves, headphones, charger, cash, first-aid, phone, camera, put them in your bag.

You rush back into the living room and throw on a pair of boots. With a satisfied smile, you threw on your bag feeling the knot easing, and back out the door you went. You passed by another neighbor, giving her a little wave and smile. She smiled back and you flew back down the stairs making your way to the edge of the street to hail a taxi. This is your kind of relaxation.

---

The barn door is ripped open. The hinges cry out, still weary of being used after nearly two centuries of slumber, but they’ll get used to you. They will.

A puff of dust bursts free from the idle inside and breezes past you, some specks brushing against your respirator and goggles. With ease, you waved the dust cloud away with your glove-clad hand, and casually walked inside as though this was your true home. You discovered the old barn around the time you were brought to Boston when you attempted to make a break for it.

You just ran. And ran. And ran. Until you came upon this decrepit forgotten beat-up barn in the middle of a field only a couple of miles away from the edge of Boston and it surprised you, you won’t lie, with how praise-heavy of history the city was. You assumed that everything within 100 miles of the city would be tended to with major TLC, but that was obviously not the case for your darling broken barn.

And the only sensible thing to do with such a discovery was claim it as yours! So you did and obsessively explored every single crook and corner to your heart’s content. You had no clue where such adoration for the old building came from, but you didn’t give two shits. It was yours and you were its.

Owner.

Unofficially.

No, you’re not weird. Don’t bully yourself.

You made it in the nick of time, arriving just as the sun started to journey its way to the other side of the world to ruin someone else’s sleep. You brought out your stolen 55-dollar flashlight and flicked it on. A good beam of light lit the dusty barn, waking up the sleepy nats that tumbled around in the glow. Time to get cracking.

Throwing on your headphones, you ambled deeper into the barn with a hand trailing lightly on the grooves and ridges of the splintered, ancient planks. Each step you made was delicate and calculated, feeling each pebble and speck of the uneven ground of dirt and old hay left behind centuries ago. Though no matter how much you tried to feel, there was a distance between you and the old barn, easily kept with the heavy protection and gear of your time. And you were far too lazy to take it off, a subconscious fear of accidentally destroying something or something destroying you. Like lead. Or… traps.

You shook your head, quickly skipped the sad song and punk rock immediately filled your spirits. What the hell was all that moaning and groaning about? You dragged a quick hand over your mask and goggles and picked up the pace to move farther back into the barn, the flashlight staying steady and bright as ever. Hmm, maybe you should start bullying yourself. You weirdo.

You began to berate yourself until you saw the ground becoming far closer than it should. A shock of panic shot through your chest and threw your hands in front of you to brace for the brutal impact. And brutal it was. You collided onto jagged gravel and landed with a heavy thud. You could feel ragged ground scrape against you and you clenched your eyes shut, groaning, the sound muffled by the mask. You had tripped on… something. Now your arms and stomach ached with a thousand tiny rocks embedded into your clothes.

What hurt the most was your confidence, not that you had any in the first place, and absolute embarrassment burned fiercely in your chest. God, you felt stupid. Scrambling up from the group, you dusted off the pebbles and dirt on your now dust-stained jacket, before scooping up your fallen flashlight. You shook your hands loose and adjusted your skewed headphones. God, you felt really stupid.

You pivoted to look back at what damaged your self-esteem, pointing your flashlight at the ground. The light illuminated the drag marks in the dirt from your fall and the hay pushed away from the force and… oh?

A small rusted knob stuck out from the ground, now freed from the years of dirt that built up with the help of your trip. Creeping closer, you crouched down, reached a hand towards it, and began to brush away the rest of the dirt. Immediately you felt a difference, below the dirt wasn’t more dirt, it was something else. You placed your flashlight on the floor beside you and a shiver of excitement rushed down your spine.

Adventure.

Brush by brush, you could make out strips of wood that were embedded into the dirt floor, and with one last stroke, a trapdoor was revealed. You leaned back onto your knees, gazing at your discovery in awe. You smirked. Oh, hell yes.

It took far longer and far more strength than you had originally expected to get the door opened. Shockingly, It was worse than the first time when you tried to pry open the barn door. All you could imagine was all the grime, mud, and paint stuck deep in the hinges and grooves that mixed themselves into a superglue, refusing to let just anybody in like some dirty glue guardian of secrets.

Luckily, you’re far more unwavering than some false glue and pried that sucker open with pure strength. And a stick. You couldn’t help that swell of pride that blossomed once you were showered in a puff of ancient dust that wooshed freely after being trapped for who knows how long. Hopping on your toes, you nearly leapt into the void of darkness that was the crypt without precaution.

Picking up the flashlight, you directed the beam into the hidden cellar, shining light onto some highly suspicious-looking steps that led deeper in, rotted and splintered and utterly unstable. Immediately, you stepped in and made a quick descent into the basement, ignoring each creak, groan, and shudder from the steps before landing on a dirt floor. You paused your music and pushed down your headphones, gazing in wonder at your discovery.

It was like a pause in time, a portion of history untouched and kept secret. Shifting the flashlight’s beam over the small room, you drag your eyes across every square inch of the cellar. Over every cracked pot, crooked shelf, shattered counter, rickety wooden table littered with old parchment, and every single speck of dust. It was beautiful.

You crept towards the table that sat back against the room, an intense pull of curiosity filling your veins and you stood before the collections of yellowed paper. Your heart began to pound the moment you caught a glimpse of the faded stains of ink that swirled on the pages. A long-kept secret for more than 200 years, just inches from your palm. Fuck yeah. You reached for a page and with the most delicate of touches, lifted it from its dust-framed seat and slowly brought it close.

Thoughts of accidentally tearing it, ripping it, damaging it in some screamed in your head for brief seconds was not enough to deter you and so, with the flashlight held beneath it, you began to read.

April 1st, 1774--

Suddenly, you were thrown into darkness, pitch black filling your senses. You flinched nearly, dropping the paper and flashlight, as you stumbled back in surprise. What the hell? You quickly and delicately placed the piece of paper down on what you hoped was the table and frantically shook the blacked torch. Mumbling hisses and curses at the thing, you desperately flicked at the switch hoping for something, a flicker of light, anything. You gave it another shake to no avail.

Nothing.

“Oh fuck…” You breathed out, muffled from the labor of your breaths and doused in panic. Fifty-five dollars and it already busted. You paused for a brief moment. That means you were perfectly justified to steal it. You shoved it into the pocket of your bag, it was a scam.

You continued to step back, hesitantly triple-checking each step that was placed. The last thing you wanted to do was trip again in the black void and possibly bust your head open on some rogue stone. Taking a few more steps back, your heel hits the back of what you hope is the bottom of the stairs and you pivot to face it, leaning forward to lay your hands on the wood plank, before crawling up the stairs on all fours.

You’ll come back. You swear it. But exploring abandoned places with no reliable light source is stupidly dangerous and not the kind of danger that’s relaxing. So much for police-grade utilities, cheap bastards.

Each step was a drag and you felt a weight sink your limbs as you slowly made your way out of the cellar. The darkness was deafening and heavy, weighing down upon you. Weird, you thought deliriously as you made another slow step up. Your eyes started to droop and began to stumble, your head whirling and swooning like you were stuck on a rocket-fueled turn-table ride. You take another leaden step. You’re getting closer. And with another step, your head hits the trapdoor.

Sighing, you placed your hands on the door and pushed up.

Instantly you’re blinded, a piercing white light burns into your eyes and you yelp, yanking back into the darkness. You slapped a palm against your eyes and cursed as a tearing pain streaked across your forehead from the intense light, your ears began to ring. Gritting your teeth, you rub at your burned eyes. What in the world is going on out there, did someone bring floodlights to the barn?!

Squinting your eyes, you climb back out the trap door faced with the full force of the light and the ringing grows more shrill. You wince and put a hand out against the radiant beam, finally stepping onto the barn floor.

The ringing ceased. The light faded. Rapidly blinking your burned-out eyes, your vision begins to clear and soon what you saw left you quite bewildered.

The barn looked… different. New as though it was just built from freshly chopped trees, free from any stains, chips, and rot with the musty scent of age unpresent, filled with the fresh breeze of newly laid hay. Not only that but it seemed to be smack dab in the afternoon. The sun’s light breached through the openings between the wood planks and settled its glow into the barn. You furrowed your brows as you looked around the barn you swore you knew. You couldn’t have possibly been in the cellar that long for it to be day.

You swivled back to look at the opened cellar door and quickly leaned over to shut it, before stepping back and staring at it. Darting your gaze between the trapdoor and the brightly-lit new barn, you could only grow more confused by the second. You pull down your hood and lift your goggles to rest on your forehead to get a clearer look at the place, seeing you weren’t entirely losing your mind, and yet the barn still looked new.

Slowly, you nodded and started to accept that maybe you were far more oblivious than you already believed you were and that this barn took it to a whole other level. You waded through the new heaps of haystacks, deciding that you should go back to your apartment and book an appointment with the eye doctor ASAP.

Sliding the barn door open with surprising ease, you tumble out into the open nearly slipping on some mud. A quick leap of your heart had you seeing the heavens for a split moment before you came back down face to face with a horse.

You stared and the horse stared, before tossing its head as it stepped back and walked away to the rest of its fellow equine. To say you had questions would be an understatement. There were never horses nearby. At least that’s what you thought. You needed to go home. Immediately.

And so you tried.

Quick as a mouse, you ran down your supposed-to-be familiar path back to the lone tar road that you could follow into Boston. But you paused as you arrived next to the tree that marked its location.

It wasn’t there.

You stared at the wild shrubs and tall grass that covered the unfamiliar land. Why isn’t it there? Your gaze darted along each pebble, leaf, and stick. It should be here. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t be here. Slowly, You began to run down what you hoped was the path of the vanished highway only to come across more shifts throughout the area.

Missing roads and metal signs, new wooden fences, narrow dirt roads, far more flora, and a disturbing absence of noise replaced by the deafening sounds of the air and birds. Everything was wrong. Everything felt different.

Every once in a while you would stop and turn in circles trying to find that specific marking on your mental map to find absolutely nothing before continuing to run in what you hoped was headed in the right direction. But as you sped on, it only became more apparent that you must’ve made a wrong turn.

You should at least be able to see the industrial towers and the outskirts of the city line, but nothing. There was nothing. You weren’t sure how to feel as you slowed down to let your feet mindlessly guide you through the wilderness.

You’re… confused. Which isn’t much of an improvement, but it’s better than nothing. You don’t know where you are, you don’t know what happened with the barn. You wished you had something that could conveniently tell you where you are and guide you back with the safest and fastest route it could provide. A cold pail of realization tipped down onto your head.

Oh, yeah. You have a phone.

You slid your bag to face your front and quickly snatched your phone from the designated phone pocket. The bag fell back and you opened your phone to Google Maps, giving a glance to your bars. Only one, that’s fine. You looked back at the screen and sighed, seeing it frozen Apparently, it’s not fine. You shut off your phone and shoved it into the pocket of your jacket, trudging on.

And with that, only one little thought circled your mind: You’re lost.

Somehow, some way, you got lost. You had no clue what happened with the barn, no clue where you were, no clue where everything was, and by golly, did you want to drop to the floor and roll around in the grass. But you didn’t, you put one foot in front of the other through the shrubs and the dirt as the sun shone obnoxiously through more trees than you’ve ever seen near a city such as that of Boston.

One foot forward, the other followed, a part of you refused to acknowledge your situation fully and was perfectly content to walk mindlessly through the foreign world. One then the other, one then the other, a nice smooth walk through the lovely forest that you chose to walk through. One then the other, oh, are those buildings?

Squinting, you peer at the curved silhouettes that stand apart from the natural forms of the flora that scarcely surrounded them. Have you finally made it back to Boston? They don’t look like those on the outskirts, though. Perhaps you’ve arrived from a different direction. You lift your head and stare at the paling blue skies. Yes, a different direction, at least you’re back home.

Back home, indeed.

Stumbling closer to the buildings, you come across a dirt road you’ve never seen before that seemed to lead into the city. You ignored the tracks of hooves and parallel streaks and walked along the edge, unclipping your respirator to hang from your other ear. Soon, you begin to hear the faint hustle and bustle of people being people and the city going on with its busy life. A cool sense of relief washed over you, but you couldn’t help but furrow your brows as you listened closer to the noise. It didn’t sound… right.

A chill trickled down your spine and you stopped. Something isn’t right. You’re not supposed to be…

Suddenly you became aware of the creaks and rattles of metal against wood trembling over the uneven dirt road coming from behind you at an alarming pace. Your eyes popped open in panic and you scrambled away from the road just as you were hit by a gust of wind as something whisked past you. Alarmed you whipped around to see what could have possibly been hurtling down the road only to stop and stare in disbelief.

It was a cart. With horses. A cart like those that are displayed in the halls of museums, all broken and rotten and barely living in the 21st century. But rather than the cart crumbling at the mere breath of a butterfly, it rolled on, built brand new with fresh wood like the barn, and carrying large wooden crates stacked heavily atop each other. The wheels were coated thick with mud and pebbles as it left behind idents in the dirt, adding to those already printed into the ground. It continued it’s journey, clearly heading towards the city and oblivious to the pedestrian it nearly hit.

And you could do nothing but follow after it

--------------------------------

More Notes- later

[thescarleteagle]

Happy 300th Anniversary of the Boston Tea Party!!🫖🇺🇸🇬🇧

[thebotanicalarcade]

n466_w1150 by Biodiversity Heritage Library Via Flickr: Florae Austriacae, sive, Plantarum selectarum in Austriae archiducatu. Viennæ Austriæ :Leopoldi Joannis Kaliwoda,1773-78.. biodiversitylibrary.org/page/278604

[artschoolglasses]

The Shepherdess of the Alps, Sevres Manufactory, 1766-73

[ltwilliammowett]

The Hector

In early July 1773, the fluyt Hector sailed from Lochbroom, Scotland bound for Pictou in Nova Scotia. On board the Hector were nearly two hundred men, women and children. By all accounts, The Hector was not in the best shape. It had already seen twenty years’ service as a cargo vessel.

The Hector replica (x)

As the Hector approached the coast of Newfoundland, a fierce storm blow the ship far off course. It took two weeks to regain the ship’s previous position.

(x)

Today, it is estimated that there are more than one hundred and forty thousand descendants of the ‘Hector Scots’ living in Canada and the United States. In 1990, the Pictou Waterfront Development Corporation began the construction of a life size replica of the Hector. The ship is now moored in Pictou Harbour.

(x)

Due to the fact that the replica was 30 years old, it had to be fundamentally repaired. The repairs were supposed to start in 2020, but were postponed due to the pandemic and storm Fiona. Now they have been resumed and the plan is to lift the vessel back into the water on 15 Sept. 2023. That day will mark the 250th anniversary of the Hector's arrival in Pictou.

[nordleuchten]

The Marriage of Adrienne and Gilbert

I wish I could say that some short time ago, @northernmariette and I had a bit of talk about the marriage of the La Fayette’s and that I promptly got to work writing the post they had suggested … well, our discussion has been some long time ago but I finally have the post ready. :-)

Let me preface this entry by saying that the match between Adrienne and Gilbert was a match made in heaven. Not only did the two of them develop feelings for each other and ultimately had a loving, affectionate and mostly happy relationship, their marriage also accomplished everything that an arranged marriage could hope to accomplish. Arranged marriages at that time and in their social classes were usually made between a rich family that lacked a grand name and a family that had lost their fortune but still possessed their great name. In the case of the Noailles’s and the La Fayette’s both families had both money and titles. La Fayette was maybe a tad richer than his future in-laws, the Noailles’, the Noailles’ therefor had a better standing at court. Still, all in all it was match of equal footing.

La Fayette had been orphaned at a young age and was now more or less chaperoned by some of his aunts and uncles and grandparents. The duc d’Ayen, Adrienne’s father, only had daughters that lived into adulthood – and he was not necessarily pleased by that. His oldest daughter Louise was married to her cousin, Louis, the vicomte de Noailles, so that the name would stay in the family. Now it was time to find suitable husbands for his other daughters. La Fayette seemed like a perfect candidate for the next oldest daughter, Adrienne. He came from a prominent family, was rich, had the title of Marquis, was close in age to Adrienne and his guardians were subtly looking around for a suitable wife as well.

We were scarcely twelve years old when M de Lafayette was proposed to her [Adrienne’s mother] for one of us [Adrienne or her older sister Louise]; he himself was only fourteen. His extreme youth, no parents to guide him, having lost all his near relations and having no one in whom he could repose confidence, a large fortune already in his possession, which my mother looked upon as a dangerous gift, all these considerations made her at first refuse him, notwithstanding the good opinion she had acquired of his personal qualities.

Mme de Lasteyrie, Life of Madame de Lafayette, L. Techener, London, 1872, p. 34-35.

Adrienne’s mother, the duchess d’Ayen, was not at all happy about the recent developments at the marriage-front. The thought of having to part with her beloved children was hard another on its own, but by the time that the marriage between Adrienne and La Fayette was proposed, Adrienne had just turned twelve, La Fayette was fourteen. She protested vehemently. Adrienne was not a woman, just a little girl and neither bride nor groom had finished their education yet. Although the duchess was normally an obedient and dutiful wife, she could also be extremely headstrong when she believed herself to be in the right.

Other cares also occupied my mother’s mind during these years. It was at that time that she first received proposals of marriage for her two eldest daughters. Although these proposals were rather premature, my mother, long before they had been made, every time the thought of having to give us to another crossed her mind, was unable to conquer the anguish of her heart. But she never allowed herself to be guided by first impressions and by worldly considerations alone. In such circumstances she would throw herself into the arms of God and await his will with patient courage. (…) It was with this belief that she listened to the first proposals of marriage for her daughters.

Mme de Lasteyrie, Life of Madame de Lafayette, L. Techener, London, 1872, p. 32-34.

Half of fashionable Paris was soon discussing the opposition that the duc faced from his wife. In the end, the duchess prevailed and the duc had to relent, a bargain was made. The duc would negotiate the marriage with La Fayette’s uncle but the marriage would not take place for another two years. During these two years, the duchess would further Adrienne’s education and prepare her for her new role, the duc would personally see to La Fayette’s education and bride and groom would find the time to get to know each other. After the marriage, they would continue to live with the de Noailles’ in their home.

She persisted several months in her refusal; but my father was not discouraged, and as one of his friends observed to him that my mother had gone too far ever to change her mind, he did justice to her straightforwardness in the midst of his anger against her. “You do not know Mme. d Ayen, he said, however far she may have gone, you will see that she will give way like a child if you prove to her that she is in the wrong; but on the other hand she will never yield if she her mistake.” Accordingly, when she was told that her daughter would not leave her during the first years of her marriage, and that it would only be celebrated at the end of two years, several measures having been taken to finish M. de Lafayette’s education, she accepted him whom she cherished ever after as the most tenderly beloved son, whom she valued from the first moment she became acquainted with him, and who alone could have sustained the strength of my heart after having lost her.

Mme de Lasteyrie, Life of Madame de Lafayette, L. Techener, London, 1872, p. 35-36.

The negotiations proofed … tense at time but in the end, the duc d’Ayen agreed to pay a dowry of 200.000 Livre (converting this sum into a more modern equivalent is a bit difficult but we are talking in the dimension of roughly two Million USD). La Fayette was transferred into the regiment of dragoons, Les Dragons de Noailles, and in February of 1773 by the age of fifteen he had moved in with his future-in-laws and lived with them when he was not away on military duty. Important point here is that neither La Fayette nor Adrienne had been told what was going on. Fashionable Paris was maybe talking about one of the matches of the social season, but bride and groom remained oblivious for now.

My sister [Louise] and I had witnessed the misunderstanding between our parents, but we were in ignorance of its cause which my father would have ever kept from my knowledge, but which was afterwards told me by my mother who was convinced that I could only feel grateful towards those who had prepared my happiness with such unworldly views. (…) The two marriages [Louise’s and Adrienne’s] were therefore decided, on condition that nothing would be said to my sister before a year and to me before eighteen months. It was settled that M. de Noailles and M. de Lafayette should meet us sometimes either at home or out walking, but my mother wished that our minds should not be distracted that year from our education, as we were going to be married so young.

Mme de Lasteyrie, Life of Madame de Lafayette, L. Techener, London, 1872, p. 36-38.

The two of them were eventually told about the arrangements, La Fayette a bit earlier than Adrienne. We have Adrienne’s account of her initial reaction:

It was at that time that I was spoken to of M. de Lafayette towards whom I was already attracted by feelings forerunners of that deep and tender affection which every day has united us more and more in the midst of all the vicissitudes of this life, in the midst of the blessings and misfortunes which have filled it for the last twenty-four years. With what pleasure I learnt that, for more than a year, my mother had looked upon him and loved him as a son! She told me all the good she had heard with regard to him all she thought of him herself, and I saw that he already felt for her that filial affection which was to be the blessing of my life. She tried to calm down my poor weak brain which was overexcited by the importance of the coming event. She taught me to pray, she prayed herself for the blessings of Heaven on my future condition. As I had the happiness of remaining with her, my only feelings were those of deep emotion.

Mme de Lasteyrie, Life of Madame de Lafayette, L. Techener, London, 1872, p. 39-41.

Adrienne and La Fayette married on April 11, 1774, in Paris in the chapel of the Hôtel de Noailles. The bride was “fourteen and a half”, the groom sixteen. The archbishop of Paris officiated the wedding and forty guests were witnesses. 31 of these guests belonged to Adrienne’s family and only nine to La Fayette’s side. Since La Fayette in particular was a member of the Noblesse de la robe, the King had to give his consent. King Louis XV signed the marriage contact as well as the future Louis XVI, Louis XVIII and Charles X. La Fayette had learned riding with all three of these future French kings (and would struggle to get along with them as time went on.)

In contrast to the ceremony itself, the following reception was lavish. I can not give you an exact number of guests, but I have the menu and that alone might serve as an indicator for the scale of the festivities.

Harlow Giles Unger, Lafayette, John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 2002, p. 13.

La Fayette himself was gifted a captaincy in his regiment (the regiment that his father-in-law owned) as soon as he would turn eighteen.

We have the first page of the couples Contrat de Mariage, written by the notary Ladequive in 1773:

Contrat de Mariage de Monsieur Le Marquis de La Fayette Avec Mademoiselle de Noailles, Passé devant Laidequive, Notaire, 1773.

Cleveland State University Library Special Collections, the Marquis de Lafayette Collection. (10/19/2022)

We also have the Articles de Mariage that were drawn up during the negotiations in October of 1772 and primarily discussed financial matter like Adrienne’s dowry:

The Arthur H. and Mary Marden Dean Lafayette Collection, 1520-1849, Collection 4991, box 10, folder 44, Digital Facsimiles: Family and Private Life. (10/19/2022)

[coriline]

“I must confess myself highly culpable for suffering a Spirit of Procrastination to get the better of me sometimes”

From John Laurens to James Laurens, 1773, May 31

Same John, same

[flagoftheusa]

Boston Tea Party

"Americans go overboard for the 4th” ~ Non-Americans

"I’m sorry but the last time I checked the only thing going overboard was tea." ~ The Sons of Liberty included John Adams, John Hancock, James Otis, Josiah Quincy, Paul Revere, and Dr. Joseph Warren.

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Peach Pink Robe à la Française, 1770-1780.

Augusta Auctions.

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Storm by Claude Joseph Vernet (1773). One of two paintings commissioned by the King of Poland in 1772 although Vernet instead sold them to Robert Clive (Clive of India). Crafty man.

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Baroque Architecture, 1773 by Johann David Steingruber (1702-1787)

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Spilling The Tea Since 1773 Patriotic Usa SVG Graphic Design Files