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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #54028 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54028)
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Heroines of New England Romance, by 
-Harriet Prescott Spofford and Louise Imogen Guiney and Alice Brown
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-Title: Three Heroines of New England Romance
-       Their true stories herein set forth by Mrs Harriet Spoffard,
-       Miss Louise Imogen Guiney, and Miss Alice Brown
-
-Author: Harriet Prescott Spofford
-        Louise Imogen Guiney
-        Alice Brown
-
-Illustrator: Edmund H. Garrett
-
-Release Date: January 20, 2017 [EBook #54028]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE HEROINES--NEW ENGLAND ROMANCE ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Emmy, MWS and the Online Distributed
-Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
-produced from images generously made available by The
-Internet Archive)
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-THREE HEROINES OF NEW ENGLAND ROMANCE
-
-[Illustration]
-
-[Illustration: “_with her sweeping brocades and a cushion towering upon
-her powdered head_”]
-
-
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-THREE HEROINES OF NEW ENGLAND ROMANCE
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-THEIR true stories herein set forth by Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford
-Miss Louise Imogen Guiney and Miss Alice Brown
-
-    With many little picturings
-    authentic and fanciful by
-    Edmund H Garrett and published
-    by Little Brown and
-    Company Boston 1894
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-    _Copyright, 1894,_
-    BY EDMUND H. GARRETT.
-
-
-    University Press:
-    JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
-
-
-
-
-CONTENTS
-
-
-    PRISCILLA                          15
-      HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
-
-    AGNES SURRIAGE                     63
-      ALICE BROWN.
-
-    MARTHA HILTON                     109
-      LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY.
-
-    NOTES                             137
-      EDMUND H. GARRETT.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-LIST OF DRAWINGS
-
-
-  Martha Hilton. “With her sweeping brocades and a cushion
-        towering upon her powdered head”                _Frontispiece._
-
-  Priscilla at the spinning wheel                                   14
-
-  “In his rough cradle by the sounding sea”                         17
-
-  Rose Standish                                                     21
-
-  “The daring and spirited girl”                                    25
-
-  “Or in calmer moments reading the blessed promises of His word”   29
-
-  Miles Standish                                                    33
-
-  “Up and down the sands I’d pace”                                  36
-
-  “Her respected parent”                                            37
-
-  “There, too, came Priscilla”                                      41
-
-  “Ponds set like jewels in the ring of the green woods”            43
-
-  “First happened on the Mayflower”                                 45
-
-  “The blushing Sabbatia”                                           47
-
-  John Alden                                                        49
-
-  “Silvers its wave, its rustling wave”                             51
-
-  The wedding procession                                            53
-
-  Grape-vine                                                        56
-
-  Woodbine                                                          57
-
-  The ships of the merchants                                        59
-
-  “Up-stairs and down-stairs ran the streets”                       64
-
-  “Houses set ‘catty cornered’”                                     65
-
-  “An old Marbleheader”                                             67
-
-  “The solid dignity of the old Town House”                         69
-
-  “The old graveyard”                                               71
-
-  “The wild azalea”                                                 74
-
-  “The blackberry clings and crowds”                                75
-
-  Butterfly                                                         75
-
-  “Again he came riding”                                            77
-
-  “Bravely attired in small clothes and wigs”                       81
-
-  “She learned to play on the harpsichord”                          83
-
-  Frankland                                                         85
-
-  “Tragic battlings of heart and conscience”                        87
-
-  “All the more did she turn to Frankland”                          89
-
-  “The giant box and a few ancient trees”                           92
-
-  “At the banquets”                                                 93
-
-  “His ancestral home”                                              95
-
-  “The opera was the finest on the continent”                       97
-
-  Agnes Surriage                                                    99
-
-  “They again visited Lisbon”                                      102
-
-  “Married a wealthy banker of Chichester”                         104
-
-  “The little figure with the swishing bucket”                     108
-
-  “Sly damsels in Puritan caps”                                    110
-
-  “Gold laced dandies at Newport”                                  111
-
-  “Nor need link herself with the neighboring yokel whom
-        Providence had assigned her”                               113
-
-  Where Governor Wentworth was born                                114
-
-  “A fishmonger in London”                                         115
-
-  “He had the mortification to see her prefer one Shortridge,
-        a mechanic”                                                117
-
-  “His snuff-boxes and his bowls”                                  118
-
-  Governor Benning Wentworth                                       119
-
-  Wentworth house at Little Harbor                                 121
-
-  “Her strategic eye upon master’s deciduous charms”               123
-
-  “The great buck of his day”                                      127
-
-  “Fiddling at Stoodley’s far into the morning”                    131
-
-  “Wharves now rotting along the harbor-borders”                   133
-
-  Old houses                                                       139
-
-  An old English church                                            139
-
-  Picturesque barns                                                140
-
-  The Weston flag-staff                                            141
-
-  “Houses sheltered by great elms”                                 142
-
-  “Past fertile farms”                                             142
-
-  “Over picturesque stone bridges”                                 143
-
-  “Here is a noble elm”                                            144
-
-  The Wayside Inn, Sudbury                                         145
-
-  Great elms at Hopkinton                                          149
-
-  Shirley Place                                                    151
-
-  The Royall House, Medford                                        153
-
-  Medford Square                                                   155
-
-  Street leading to Moll Pitcher’s                                 156
-
-  Moll Pitcher’s house and the graveyard                           157
-
-  Some fishermen’s hats                                            159
-
-  Circle Street and Floyd Ireson’s house                           161
-
-  “This is where the sailors in pigtails and petticoats
-        used to be”                                                165
-
-  St. John’s, Portsmouth                                           168
-
-  The Gardiner House and the linden                                169
-
-  Stoodley’s                                                       171
-
-  Plymouth, the home of Priscilla                                  172
-
-  A country road                                                   173
-
-  Decorative designs            Title, 7, 8, 9, 12, 105, 106, 134, 175
-
-  Initials                                            15, 63, 109, 137
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-PRISCILLA
-
-[Illustration: _Priscilla_]
-
-
-    “The swallow with summer
-       Will wing o’er the seas,
-    The wind that I sigh to
-       Will visit thy trees.
-    The ship that it hastens
-       Thy ports will contain,
-    But me—I shall never
-       See England again!”
-
-
-I OFTEN fancy John Alden, and others, too, among his companions of
-kindly fame, wandering down the long Plymouth beach and murmuring to
-themselves thoughts like these. And I like to look in the annals of the
-gentle Pilgrims and the sterner Puritans for any pages where one may
-find muffled for a moment the strain of high emprise which wins our awe
-and our praise, but not so surely our love, and gain access on their
-more human side to the men and women who lived the noblest romance in
-all history.
-
-[Illustration: “‘_In his rough cradle by the sounding sea_—’”]
-
-So one comes on the story of the Lady Arbella, and her love and
-death, with the sweet surprise one has in finding a fragile flower
-among granite ledges. So the Baby Peregrine’s velvet cheek has the
-unconscious caress of every mother who thinks of him rocked to sleep
-in his rough cradle by the sounding sea. So the thought deals tenderly
-with Dorothy Bradford, who crossed the mighty darkness of the deep only
-to fall overboard from the “Mayflower,” and be drowned in harbor, and
-would fain reap some harvest of romance in the coming over sea, three
-years afterward, of Mrs. Southworth, with her young sons, Constant and
-Thomas, to marry the Governor, who had loved her as Alice Carpenter
-lang syne. And so the story of John Alden’s courtship is read as if
-we had found some human beings camped in the midst of demigods.
-
-[Illustration: ROSE STANDISH]
-
-Certainly Miles Standish was not of the demigods, if he was of the
-heroes. No Puritan ascetic he, by nature or belief. One might imagine
-him some soul that failed to find incarnation among the captains and
-pirates of the great Elizabeth’s time, the Raleighs and Drakes and
-Frobishers, and who, coming along a hundred years too late, did his
-best to repair the mistake. A choleric fellow, who had quarrelled
-with his kin, and held himself wronged by them of his patrimony; of
-a quarrelsome race, indeed, that had long divided itself into the
-Catholic Standishes of Standish and the Protestant Standishes of
-Duxbury; a soldier who served the Queen in a foreign garrison, and of
-habits and tastes the more emphasized because he was a little man;
-supposed never to have been of the same communion as those with whom
-he cast in his lot,—it is not easy to see the reason of his attraction
-to the Pilgrims in Holland. Perhaps he chose his wife, Rose, from
-among them, and so united himself to them; if not that, then possibly
-she herself may have been inclined to their faith, and have drawn
-him with her; or it may have been that his doughty spirit could not
-brook to see oppression, and must needs espouse and champion the side
-crushed by authority. For the rest, at the age of thirty-five the love
-of adventure was still an active passion with him. That he was of
-quick, but not deep affections is plain from the swiftness with which
-he would fain have consoled himself after the death of Rose, his wife;
-and, that effort failing, by his sending to England for his wife’s
-sister Barbara, as it is supposed, and marrying her out of hand. That
-he was behind the spirit of the movement with which he was connected
-may be judged by his bringing home and setting up the gory head of his
-conquered foe; for although he was not alone in that retrograde act,
-since he only did what he had been ordered to do by the elders, yet
-the holy John Robinson, the inspirer and conscience of them all,
-cried out at that, “Oh that he had converted some before he killed
-any!” Nevertheless, that and other bloody deeds seem to have been
-thoroughly informed with his own satisfaction in them. His armor, his
-sword, his inconceivable courage, his rough piety, that “swore a prayer
-or two,”—all give a flavor of even earlier times to the story of his
-day, and bring into the life when certain dainties were forbidden, as
-smacking of Papistry, a goodly flavor of wassail-bowls, and a certain
-powerful reminiscence of the troops in Flanders.
-
-That such a nature as the fiery Captain’s could not exist without the
-soothing touch of love, could not brook loneliness, and could not
-endure grief, but must needs arm himself with forgetfulness and a new
-love when sorrow came to him in the loss of the old, is of course to
-be expected. If he were a little precipitate in asking for Priscilla’s
-affection before Rose had been in her unnamed grave three months,
-something of the blame is due to the condition of the colony, which
-made sentimental considerations of less value than practical ones,—an
-evident fact, when Mr. Winslow almost immediately on the death of his
-wife married the mother of Peregrine White, not two months a widow,
-hardly more a mother.
-
-Apparently there were not a great many young girls in the little
-company. The gentle Priscilla Mullins and the high-minded Mary Chilton
-were the most prominent ones, at any rate. One knows instinctively
-that it would not be Mary Chilton towards whom the soldier would be
-drawn,—the daring and spirited girl who must be the first to spring
-ashore when the boat touched land. It is true that John Alden’s
-descendants ungallantly declare that he was before her in that act;
-but no one disputes her claim to be the first woman whose foot touched
-shore; and that is quite enough for one who loves to think of her and
-of the noble and serene Ann Hutchinson as the far-away mothers of the
-loftiest and loveliest soul she ever knew.
-
-[Illustration: _The daring and spirited girl_]
-
-One can well conjecture Mary Chilton as comforting and supporting
-Priscilla in the terrors of that voyage, in such storms as that
-where the little ship, tossed at the waves’ will, lay almost on
-her beam-ends, and the drowning man who had gone down fathoms deep
-clutched her topsail-halyards and saved himself; or in calmer moments
-reading the blessed promises of His word. Young girls willing to
-undertake that voyage, that enterprise, and whose hearts were already
-so turned heavenward as the act implied, must have been of a lofty
-type of thought and nature; they must often have walked the narrow
-deck, exchanging the confidences of their hopes and dreams. I see them
-sitting and softly singing hymns together, on the eve of that first
-Sunday on the new coast, sitting by that fragrant fire of the red
-cedar which Captain Standish brought back to the ships after the first
-exploration of the forest. Priscilla might have sung, “The Lord is my
-shepherd,” and the voice of Rose may have added a note of sweetness to
-the strain. But that gentle measure would never have expressed the
-feelings of the Captain, whose God was “a man of war.” If, out of the
-tunes allowed, there were one that fitted the wild burden,—and unless
-their annexation to the book of Common Prayer caused the disapproval
-of “All such Psalms of David as Thomas Sternholde, late Grome of the
-Kinges Majestyes Robes, did in his lyfe-tyme drawe into Englyshe
-Metre,”—I can feel the zest with which the Captain may have roared out,—
-
-    “The Lord descended from above,
-      And bowed the heavens high,
-    And underneath His feet He cast
-      The darkness of the sky.
-    On seraph and on cherubim
-      Full royally He rode,
-    And on the wings of mighty winds
-      Came flying all abroad!”
-
-[Illustration: “_Or in calmer moments reading the blessed promises of
-His word_”]
-
-One might suppose that Priscilla, gentle as tradition represents
-her, would have been attracted by the fire and spirit of the brave
-Captain. But perhaps she was not so very gentle. Was there a spice
-of feminine coquetry in her famous speech to John Alden, for all her
-sweet Puritanism? Or was it that she understood the dignity and worth
-of womanhood, and was the first in this new land to take her stand upon
-it?
-
-The whole story of the courtship which her two lovers paid to her is a
-bit of human nature suddenly revealing itself in the flame of a great
-passion,—a mighty drama moving before us, and a chance light thrown
-upon the stage giving the life and motion of a scene within a scene.
-There is a touching quality in the modest feeling of the soldier; he is
-still a young man, not at all grizzled, or old, or gray, as the poet
-paints him,—perhaps thirty-five or thirty-six years old. Daring death
-at every daily exposure of the colony to dangers from disease, from the
-tomahawk, from the sea, from the forest, always the one to go foremost
-and receive the brunt, to put his own life and safety a barrier against
-the common enemy,—yet he shrank from telling a girl that she had fired
-his inflammable heart, and would fain let her know the fact by the
-one who, if he has left no record of polished tongue or ready phrase,
-was the one he loved as the hero loves the man of peace, the one who
-loved him equally,—the youth of twenty-three whose “countenance of
-gospel looks” could hardly at that time have carried in its delicate
-lineaments much of the greatness of nature that may have belonged to
-the ancestor of two of our Presidents.
-
-[Illustration: Miles Standish]
-
-For the purposes of romance, fathers and mothers are often much in
-the way; and the poet and the romancer, with a reckless disregard of
-the life and safety of Mr. William Mullins, her respected parent,
-represent Priscilla as orphaned while her father was yet alive. It was
-to Mr. Mullins that John Alden, torn between duty and passion, and
-doubtless pale with suffering, presented the Captain’s claims. If the
-matter was urged rather perfunctorily, Mr. Mullins seems not to have
-noticed it, as he gave his ready consent. But we may be confident that
-Priscilla did; and that, after all, maidenly delicacy would never
-have suffered her to utter her historic words, “Why don’t you speak
-for yourself, John?” if the deadly sinking of his heart had not been
-evident in his downcast face. Does it need any chronicle to tell us
-what a flame of joy shot through John Alden’s heart at the instant of
-those words,—what an icy wave of despair quenched it,—what a horror of
-shame overcame Priscilla till her blushes became a pain? For when she
-had dared so much, and dared in vain, what else but shame could be her
-portion?
-
-They must have been dark days that followed for the two young lovers.
-Can you not see John Alden trying to walk away his trouble on the
-stretch of the long beach, to escape his sense of treachery, his sorrow
-in his friend’s displeasure, his joy and his shame together?
-
-    “There, my cloak about my face,
-     Up and down the sands I’d pace,
-     Making footprints for the spray
-     To wash away.
-            . . . . . .
-
-    “Up and down the barren beaches,
-       Round the ragged belts of land,
-     In along the curving reaches,
-       Out along the horns of sand.”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-[Illustration: “Her respected parent”]
-
-There, too, came Priscilla, without much doubt, when the closeness
-of the little cluster of log huts, within a few feet of one another,
-grew too oppressive, or the notion that others looked askance at her,
-lest in any recklessness of desperation the Captain, the mainstay
-of the colony, threw his life away in the daily expeditions he
-undertook,—came not as girls stroll along the shore to gather shells,
-to write their names on the sand, to pick up the seaweed with hues like
-those
-
-    “Torn from the scarfs and gonfalons of Kings
-     Who dwell beneath the waters,”
-
-as very likely she had done ere this, but to forget her trouble, to
-diffuse and lose it. For here, added to homesickness and horror and
-impending famine, was a new trouble, worse perhaps than all the rest.
-If her lover had been lost at sea, she might have watched for his sail,
-
-    “And hope at her yearning heart would knock
-     When a sunbeam on a far-off rock
-     Married a wreath of wandering foam.”
-
-[Illustration: “There too came Priscilla”]
-
-[Illustration: “Ponds set like jewels on the ring of the green woods”]
-
-But this was more unbearable than loss: she had dishonored herself in
-his eyes; she had betrayed herself, and he had scorned her; and she
-came to the sea for the comfort which nearness to the vast and the
-infinite always gives. Even that was not solitude; for there, a mile
-away, lay the “Mayflower,” still at anchor, where the spy-glass made
-her prisoner, while it was not safe for a lonely girl to tread the
-shore at night, watching the glow of the evening star or the moonswale
-on the sea. Perhaps, with Mary Chilton by her side, or with some of the
-smaller children of the colony, she climbed a hill, protected by the
-minion and the other piece of ordnance, which were afterwards mounted
-on the roof of the rude church, and looked down over the cluster of
-cabins where now the fair town lies, and thought life hard and sorry,
-and longed, as John Alden himself did, for the shelter of Old England.
-Perhaps she had no time for lovesick fancies, anyway, in the growing
-sickness among the people, which tasked the strength and love of all;
-and when, watching with the sick at night, she thrust aside a casement
-latticed with oiled paper, or chanced to go outside the door for fresh
-water to cool a fevered lip, she saw a planet rising out of the sea,
-or the immeasurable universe of stars wheeling overhead, over desolate
-shore, and water, and wilderness, she felt her own woe too trivial
-to be dwelt upon; and when on the third of March her father died and
-was laid in the field where the wheat was planted over the level graves
-for fear of the Indians, we may be sure that she saw her trouble as
-part of the cross she was to bear, and waited in patience and meekness
-either till the rumor came of the death of Miles Standish in the Indian
-skirmish,—of which we know nothing,—or till John Alden had made it up
-with his conscience and found his chance, not in the crowded little log
-huts, not on the open shore, but within the leafy covert of the freshly
-springing woodside, with none but the fallow deer to see them, to put
-an end to her unrest.
-
-[Illustration: “First happened on the Mayflower”]
-
-[Illustration: The blushing Sabbatia]
-
-Probably that period of bliss now dawned which makes most lovers
-feel themselves lifted into a region just above the earth and when
-they tread on air. It was in the hallowed time of this courtship, on
-the skirts of the deep pine forests, that they first happened on the
-mayflower, the epigea, full of the sweetest essence of the earth which
-lends it her name, and felt as if love and youth and joy and innocence
-had invented a flower for them alone,—the deeply rosy and ineffably
-fragrant mayflower that blooms only in the Plymouth woods in its
-pink perfection, and whose breath must have seemed like a breath blown
-out of the open doors of the new life awaiting them together. If they
-had ventured as far as any of the numberless ponds, set like jewels in
-the ring of the green woods about them, something later in their new
-year, they would have found the blushing sabbatia in all its pristine
-loveliness,—the flower most typical of Priscilla herself; the flower to
-which some fortunate fate, in view of the sabbatical character of the
-region, gave the name of an old Italian botanist, as if it were its own
-from the beginning; a flower which is to-day less rare around Plymouth
-than elsewhere. Now, in the soft spring evenings, too, it may be that
-they strolled along the beach, and watched the phosphorescence of the
-waters playing about the sacred rock with which the continent had gone
-out first to meet them, all unweeting that it was the “corner-stone of
-a nation.” Now,—for lovers will be lovers still, although the whole
-body of Calvinism be behind them, and the lurking foe of the forest
-before,—they sat on the Burial Hill by night, and watched such a scene
-as William Allingham has pictured,—
-
-[Illustration: John Alden.]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-    “Above the headlands massy, dim,
-       A swelling glow, a fiery birth,
-     A marvel in the sky doth swim,
-       Advanced upon the hush of earth.
-
-    “The globe, o’erhanging bright and brave
-       The pale green-glimmering ocean-floor,
-     Silvers its wave, its rustling wave
-       Soft folded on the shelving floor.
-
-    “O lonely moon, a lonely place
-     Is this thou cheerest with thy face;
-     Three sand-side houses, and afar
-     The steady beacon’s faithful star”—
-
-only, instead of the three sand-side houses it was “the Seven Houses of
-Plymouth,” and all the beacon was the light in the “Mayflower’s” or
-the “Fortune’s” shrouds.
-
-That the betrothal did not impair the friendship of the lovers with the
-impetuous Captain Standish, we can understand from the fact that when,
-subsequently, the Captain built his house over on Duxbury Hill, John
-Alden’s house stood near it; and that later,—and unhindered, for aught
-we know,—John Alden’s daughter married the Captain’s son. It pleases me
-to think that the dear daughter-in-law, by whom, in his last will and
-testament, the old Captain desired to be buried, was the daughter of
-Priscilla Mullins.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Priscilla and John must have had time enough for this sweet acceptance
-of life and nature together, for although in other instances courtship
-was brief, yet we know that their wedding certainly did not take
-place till May, as Governor Winslow then married Mrs. White, and that
-marriage was recorded as the first in the colony. There is indeed some
-probability that the engagement of the young people was of quite
-another character from the incomprehensibly brief one just mentioned.
-Perhaps John Alden was building his house, and it may be that it had to
-be more or less commodious, since he probably became the protector of
-the family which Mr. Mullins left, and which is registered as numbering
-five persons upon landing. But if we accept the legend regarding the
-wedding journey, we might have to postpone the bridal for some seasons,
-as it was not until three years after their arrival that Edward
-Winslow, having gone to England and returned with cattle, made such a
-thing possible as that traditional ride on the back of the gentle white
-bull with its crimson cloth and cushion.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-In fact, the incidents of real occurrence and the traditions of real
-descent, concerning the courtship of Priscilla, are very few. We know
-that Rose Standish died; that the Captain sent John Alden to urge his
-suit before Mr. Mullins, who replied favorably; that Priscilla asked
-him why he did not speak for himself; that Mr. Mullins presently
-died; that Captain Standish presently married elsewhere; and that John
-eventually married Priscilla, lived in the neighborhood of the Captain,
-married his daughter to the Captain’s son, and died in his old age,
-being known to the end as a severe and righteous and reverend man.
-These are the bare facts; all the rest is coloring and conjecture. Yet
-one has the right to surround these facts with all the possibilities of
-human emotion, alike in any age and with any people, which go to the
-making of romance and poetry, and which will do so as long as hearts
-beat, lips tremble, and souls desire companionship.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-[Illustration: “The ships of the merchants”]
-
-It is because we like to make these people, looming large through the
-mists of time, and on the stage of their mighty drama, real enough for
-our sympathies, that we love Mr. Longfellow’s version of their story.
-Nothing more skilful, gentle, and beautiful has ever been written
-concerning the Pilgrims than the beloved poet’s verses. Every incident
-in their pages is absolutely true to the life of the period, and
-although the anachronisms are many, yet they do not exceed the province
-of poetic license,—they are perhaps necessary to it; and many of the
-events are those which actually took place, if not at the stated time.
-Thus, for instance, it was at a later season than the poem intimates
-that the gory head of the savage was brought home; yet it was brought
-home. It was at another date that the rattlesnake skin filled with
-arrows was sent; yet it was sent. It was Governor Bradford and not
-Captain Standish who returned it stuffed with powder and shot; yet it
-was returned. It was much later than represented that property was held
-in severalty, and individuals owned their dwellings; yet they did do
-so in time. It was much later than the first autumn that the ships of
-the merchants brought cattle; yet they did bring cattle. But whether
-the cattle came early or late, that snow-white bull with his crimson
-saddle-cloth gives occasion for one of the most beautiful pictures in
-literature. Europa herself, fleeing over the meadow on her white bull,
-flecked with warm sunshine, with shadows of leaves and flowers, all
-white and rosy loveliness as she fled, is not a fairer picture to the
-mind than this exquisite one of the bridal procession, where
-
-    “Pleasantly murmured the brook as they crossed the ford in the forest,
-     Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love, through its bosom,
-     Tremulous, floating in air, o’er the depths of the azure abysses.
-     Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors,
-     Gleaming on purple grapes that, from branches above them suspended,
-     Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree,
-     Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol,
-     Like a picture, it seemed, of the primitive pastoral ages,
-     Fresh with the youth of the world.”
-
-
-
-
-AGNES SURRIAGE
-
-    “_Misled by Fancy’s meteor ray,
-              By Passion driven,
-     But yet the light that led astray
-              Was light from Heaven”_
-
-
-[Illustration: down-stairs ran the streets]
-
-ONE of the few perfect jewels of romance, needing neither the craft
-of imagination nor cunning device of word-cutting lapidary, is that
-of Agnes Surriage, so improbable, according to every-day standards,
-so informed with the truest sentiment, and so calculated to satisfy
-every exaction of literary art, that even the most critical eye might
-be forgiven for tracing its shifting color to the light of fancy,
-and not of homely truth. Even at the present day, when the “Neck” is
-overrun by the too-civilized cottager, to whose gilded ease summer
-life everywhere most patiently conforms, Marblehead is one of our coast
-wonders,—a fortress perennially held by beauty, and dedicated to her
-use; but let the reminiscent gaze wander back a century and a half,
-and how entirely fitted to the requirements of fancy would it find the
-quaint town, the vagrant peninsula, and serenely hospitable harbor!
-The town itself was fantastically builded, as if by a generation of
-autocratic landowners, each with a wilful bee in his bonnet. Upstairs
-and downstairs ran the streets; they would have respected not my
-lady’s chamber. Their modest dwellings seem by no means the outcome of
-a community governed by common designs and necessities; rather do they
-voice a capricious and eccentric individualism.
-
-[Illustration: “Houses set catty cornered to the street”]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-“Well, you see,” said an old Marbleheader, indulgently, “they built the
-houses fust, an’ the streets arterwards. One man says to himself, ‘I’m
-a-goin’ to set here; _you_ can set where you’re a mind to.’ But,” he
-added, in loyal justification of his forbears, “I tell ye what ’tis,
-they done the best they could with what they had to do _with_!”
-
-For they were governed by no inexplicable and crazy fancy,—these
-sturdy fishermen of Marblehead; they were merely constrained by the
-rigid requirements of their chosen site. Building on that stony
-hillside, they were slaves of the rock, dominated by it, pressed
-into corners. The houses themselves were founded upon solid ledges,
-while the principal streets followed the natural valleys between;
-and with all such rioting of irregularity, that long-past generation
-was doubtless well content. A house set “catty-cornered” to the
-world at large, sovereign over its bit of a garden, was sufficient
-unto itself, overtopped though it were by the few great colonial
-mansions, upspringing here and there, or by the solid dignity of the
-old Town-House. The smaller dividing paths, zigzag as they would, led
-to all the Romes of local traffic, and presently the houses followed
-the paths, the paths developed into rocky streets, and lo! there was
-Marblehead, a town dropped from the skies, and each house taking root
-where it fell.
-
-[Illustration: The solid dignity of the old Town House]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-But if any one reading the tale of these wilful dwellings should
-soberly doubt the common interests of the people, let him climb the
-rocky eminence in their midst to the old graveyard, where stood
-the little church, the oldest of all; here the first settlers
-worshipped, and here, in comforting nearness, they buried their dead,
-within the niches spared them by the rock. It was set thus high,
-this homely tabernacle of faith, to overlook land and water, that no
-stealthy Indian band might creep upon the worshippers unaware,—for
-those were the days of the church militant in more than a poetic
-sense. An admirable spot this for the antiquary, wherein to pursue his
-loving labor of coaxing forward a reluctant past! Ancient headstones
-will salute his eye, and of these said one local lingerer, garrulous
-as he who discoursed on Yorick’s skull, “I can tell the date of ’em
-all, jest as I could a buildin’, by the architectur’!” But let him not
-conclude that in scanning the slabs erected two centuries ago he has
-seen all,—for here lies many an unrecorded grave. “They had to send to
-England for their stones then,” said the Oldest Inhabitant. “Poor folks
-couldn’t afford that, an’ most of ’em went without.”
-
-[Illustration: “The wild azalea”]
-
-[Illustration: “The blackberry clings and crowds”]
-
-[Illustration: Butterfly]
-
-Across the little harbor, at nightfall populous with white sails,
-stretches the “Neck,” once a lonely, rock-defended treasury of beauty,
-besieged by wave, and alternately lashed and caressed by the fickle,
-but persistent foam. Well fitted are its girdling citadels for
-enduring warfare; their towers outlast the feet that climb them, and
-their masonry crumbles not below, save slowly, through the infinite
-patience of the eternally tossing sea. And when the eye tired of this
-majesty of the illimitable, when it wearied of ocean spray, spouting
-column-like through some gigantic cleft, and found itself oppressed by
-the rhythm of rolling foam, what would it have seen, on turning inland
-from Castle Rock, that century and a half agone? A stretch of green
-pasture-land, becoming yellow as August marches on,—the “Neck” itself.
-Then, wandering on unwearied, still traversing the “Neck,” sweet,
-bosky hollows, where lie to-day such treasures of shining leaf and
-soft-lipped flower as Paradise might claim. These are the wild, sunken
-gardens on the road to Devereux, glowing in the gold of a royal tansy,
-greenly odorous of fern, and sweet with the wild azalea,—honey-smeared
-and pollen-powdered, loved of the bee, and his chief tempter to drunken
-revels on the way from market. The button-bush holds aloft her sign of
-cool white balls; loosestrife stars the green undergrowth with yellow;
-and over stick and stone the blackberry clings and crowds. There the
-wild rose lives and blooms, fed on manna brought by roving winds and
-fleeting sunlight, never unblest, even when the purveyors of honey
-come winging by, to rifle her sweets, and leave her to the ripening of
-maturity and the solid glow of her red-hipped matron-hood. And on the
-left again, still facing south, is the insistent sea, dragging down its
-pebbly beach, and on the right, the dimpling harbor, reddened, for him
-who is wise enough to wander that way at sunset, with flaming banners
-of the sky. To cross the harbor again, and follow the mainland back
-to a point nearly opposite the lighthouse of the Neck, is to find,
-neighbored by the old graveyard, ruined and grassy Fort Sewall, to-day
-the lounging-place for village great-grandfathers, or vantage-ground
-for overlooking a yacht race, but in 1742, when Charles Henry Frankland
-was Collector of the Port of Boston, just a building. And one day in
-the previous year, the gallant young Collector, smartly dressed in
-the fine feathers of the period, and no doubt humming a song,—since
-he seems to have fulfilled all the conditions of an interesting
-young galliard,—came riding down on some business connected with the
-prospective fort. He stopped at the Fountain Inn for a draught,—not so
-innocent, perhaps, as that from the clear well still springing near
-the spot,—and, scrubbing the tavern floor, there knelt before him, in
-lovely disarray, the sweet beggar-maid destined to be crowned at once
-by the favor of this careless Cophetua. Let that phrase be swiftly
-amended! Agnes Surriage was no beggar-maid, but the honest daughter
-of hard-working fisher-folk, and patient under her own birthright of
-toil. Her beauty was something rare and delicate, calculated to arrest
-the eye and chain the heart; the simple dignity of her demeanor was
-no more to be affected through her menial task than a rose by clouded
-skies. Her fair feet were naked, and blushed not at their poverty, but
-Frankland’s heart ached with pity of them, and he closed her fingers
-over a coin, to buy shoes and stockings. Then he gave her “good-day,”
-and rode away,—but not to forget her; only to muse on her grace, and
-to start at the vision of her eyes, shining between him and his bills
-of merchandise and lading. Again he came riding that way, and again he
-found her, still barefooted; but when he reproached her for having
-failed to put his coin to its destined use, she blushed, and answered
-in the homely dialect of Marblehead, which yet had no power over the
-music of her voice, that the shoes and stockings were bought, but that
-she kept them to wear to meeting. And now the young Collector went
-often and more often to Marblehead, until the day came when he obtained
-her parents’ permission to become her guardian, and take her away to
-be educated. So the wild bird entered voluntarily into the life of
-cages, to learn the demeanor and song-notes which were approved by the
-fashionable Boston of the day.
-
-[Illustration: “again he came riding”]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-The quaint, village-like, and yet all-regal Boston of the past! Perhaps
-this was one of the most interesting pages of its life history, before
-the royal insolence had roused in it an answering manhood; when fashion
-scrupulously followed a far-away court over sea, and the daily life of
-luxurious British officials was so distinct from that of the Puritan
-stratum of society. In England, public affairs seesawed between the
-policies of George II. and Walpole, and from the world of letters,
-Richardson and Fielding were amusing the young bloods of the day, and
-by no means toughening their moral fibre. The leisure of the bold
-Britons who ruled over us was not for a moment poisoned by fear of
-American defection from the royal mother-land. Rather, for men like
-Frankland, was this loitering in western airs their _Wanderjahr_, a
-pleasant exile, whence they would some day return, with treasures
-of new experience, to sit down beside the English hearthstone, and,
-Othello-like, rehearse the wonders they had seen. Meantime, they walked
-the streets, bravely attired in small-clothes and wigs, discussing the
-troubles brewing with the French, and seeking, so far as they might,
-to build up a miniature England within the savage-girdled settlements
-of the New World. Sir Harry Frankland stands out from the faint
-portraiture of the time as one of the most knightly souls of all.
-He was young, blest with an attractive presence, and his tastes
-were those of the gentleman and the scholar. That he was sensitive
-and refined even to the point of evincing that feminine strain of
-temperament so fascinating in a manly man, is very apparent from the
-fragmentary records of his life, but he lacked no sturdiness of temper
-or demeanor.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-[Illustration: Frankland]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Agnes Surriage responded at once to the new influences about her.
-Indeed, she was of those to whom borrowed graces are external and
-almost unnecessary: Nature had dowered her with the riches of beauty,
-nobility, and modesty of mien; and to adorn her by artifice was merely
-to remove the rose from its garden bed, and set it in a silver vase.
-From God’s lady, fitted to scrub the tavern floor and lose no charm
-thereby, she became a dame who might have been commended to courts and
-palaces. She learned to sing, to play on the harpsichord, and dance;
-for painting, embroidery, and all the fragile accomplishments of the
-day, she had a surprising aptitude. She was surrounded by luxuries
-which might have proved bewildering to a less simple and noble nature,
-and, last of all, she stooped to receive the crown of her guardian’s
-love. Alas! poor maid of Marblehead! for this was a crown that smirched
-the brow and stung as with nettles, no matter how bravely its blossoms
-nodded above. Frankland loved her, but he was bound by the fetters of
-an ancestral pride; he owed all to his family, and nothing to his own
-manly honor,—and he could not marry her. It is pitiful to guess
-with what tragic battlings of heart and conscience her overthrow must
-have been accomplished, but even she could scarcely have counted the
-cost,—the daily torture, the hourly pinch of circumstance, when one
-after another of Boston’s best, who had not failed to recognize the
-fisher-girl, rich in nothing but her dower of beauty and character,
-refused to countenance the fine lady, so ironically favored of Fortune.
-In the humble home at Marblehead, her name became the keynote of
-shame; for though these fisher-folk were rude of speech almost beyond
-belief, though they caroused wildly half the year, preparatory to their
-summer voyaging, they had a hard hand and a rough word ready for one
-who was light o’ love. She had given all for the one jewel, and both
-her little worlds, of birth and adoption, trembled from their centres.
-All the more did she turn to Frankland, as to her sun of happiness, and
-in the unfailing warmth of his affection she alternately drooped and
-smiled.
-
-[Illustration: “All the more did she turn to Frankland”]
-
-Then began the second and more glowing chapter of this dramatic tale.
-Sir Harry must have been bitterly moved by the social ostracism of his
-ward and lady, and he shortened the period of her expiation by the only
-possible device left him, save one, and took her away. He had bought a
-large tract of land in Hopkinton, Massachusetts, and there he proceeded
-to build a manor-house, where, in a humble fashion, life might copy
-the abundance and solid magnificence of England’s ancestral homes. The
-country itself was a wonder of hill and valley,—hills where the
-loftier beauty of Wachusett and Monadnock might be viewed, valley where
-a happy village nestled, and where clear, cool streams flowed lightly
-to their outlet. Sir Harry was a clever purveyor of the good things of
-life; he made his manor-house commodious and fair to see, and erected
-a comfortable farm-house for his laborers; his great hall roof was
-supported by fluted columns, and its walls were hung with tapestry,
-rich of hue and texture. The house was approached by a long and stately
-avenue cut through magnificent chestnut-trees; the ground sloped down
-in commanding terraces of blooming sward, and the gardens and orchards
-were marvels of growth and abundance. In his gardening he took delight,
-but, alas for human pride and power! only the giant box of his borders
-and a few ancient trees have seen the present century, to attest his
-vanished life.
-
-[Illustration: “The giant box and a few ancient trees.”]
-
-[Illustration: “At the banquets”]
-
-Here the two must have lived Arcadian days, in all but lightness
-of heart. The lovely maid, for whom no labor had been too menial,
-reigned the queen, of this lavish domain. She was the mistress of negro
-slaves, she walked in silk attire; and local gossip assures us that her
-tastes and those of Sir Harry were in the most perfect harmony. They
-rode together through their own plantation or over the fascinatingly
-unbroken country without; they read the latest consignment of books
-from England; and Sir Harry hunted the fox and fished for trout in the
-cold streams, possibly while Agnes did a bit of graceful and ladylike
-sketching on her own account,—for it must not be forgotten that she
-belonged to that unexacting era when large eyes and sloping shoulders
-were much in vogue, and when the work of womankind was all the more
-attractive for being a trifle thin and “very pretty.” Probably her
-accomplishments were all the more entrancing for matching “lady’s
-Greek, without the accents.” Here in their primeval wilderness,
-primeval morals were more to be tolerated, and the autocrats of Boston
-did not disdain to visit them—undoubtedly without their wives! At
-least Sir Harry did not lack society; and there is a tale that at the
-banquets, enlivened by the choice wines which came in his way by virtue
-of his collectorship, he, canny man! drank from a glass cunningly made
-shallow, so that he could toss off an equal number of potations with
-his guests, and yet remain sober while they slid imperceptibly under
-the table. For in these days, it was almost incumbent upon gentlemen to
-conclude a banquet by lying reclined “like gods together, careless of
-mankind.”
-
-[Illustration: “His ancestral home”]
-
-[Illustration: “The opera was the finest on the continent”]
-
-But the swiftly moving drama could not be stayed; and Sir Harry, called
-to England by imperative duties, carried his treasure with him to
-his ancestral home. At least there was this to be said in his favor,
-during these doubtful days,—he was not of those who love and ride away,
-and his loyalty to the one chosen woman never suffered reproach. In
-England, either defiant or strangely obtuse to the values of their
-relation, he introduced Agnes to his family; but neither her beauty
-nor accomplishments redeemed her unhappy standing, and she was made
-to suffer that social ignominy which is so absolutely blighting to a
-sensitive spirit. The strange irony of her position is very dramatic in
-retrospect. A lovely and loving woman, bound to the man who should have
-been her husband, by all the most holy vows of nature, she was destined
-to an unrelieved and bitter expiation; and though Sir Harry doubtless
-suffered with her, yet, in obedience to the laws that govern womankind,
-Agnes must have endured a desolation of misery entirely unimagined by
-him. Again they went into happy exile, and made the grand tour of the
-Continent, ending at Lisbon, at that time a species of modern Sybaris.
-Enriched by Brazilian gold, the court was supported in a magnificence
-then unparalleled in Europe. The opera was the finest on the Continent,
-and one pageant succeeded another, obedient to the whims of any
-ever-regnant luxury. Here, too, on the eminence of the seven hills, a
-colony of wealthy English merchants had congregated, and spent their
-fairy gold, flowing back through the magic portals leading to the New
-World, with a prodigality emulating that of the court. Here Frankland
-gave himself up to the fair god of Pleasure; he lived as if there were
-to be no morrow, and lo! the morrow came, and with it the judgment of
-God. On All Saints’ Day, 1755, the sun rose in splendor over the city
-of Lisbon; and all its inhabitants, from courtier to beggar, took their
-way churchward, for the celebration of High Mass. Frankland, in his
-court dress, was riding with a lady, when without warning the earth
-surged sea-like under them, and a neighboring house fell, engulfing
-them in its ruins. The lady (who was she, O Historic Muse? and was
-their talk light or sober, that care-free day in Lisbon?), this unnamed
-lady, in her agony and terror, bit through the sleeve of Frankland’s
-cloth coat, and tore a piece of flesh from his arm. And for him, he lay
-helpless, reading the red record of his sins, and adjudging himself in
-nothing so guilty as the wrong to the woman who loved him. Strange and
-awful scenes had driven the city frantic. Churches and dwellings had
-fallen; the sea swelled mountain-high, and swallowed the quay, with
-its thousands of bewildered fugitives. Lisbon went mad, and beat its
-breast, beseeching all the saints for mercy. But to one great spirit,
-even the insecurity of the solid earth was as nothing compared with
-the danger of her beloved mate. Agnes Surriage, aflame with anxiety
-for Frankland, ran out, as soon as the surging streets would give her
-foothold, and rushed about the desolated city in agonizing search. By
-some chance, strange as all the chances of her dramatic life, she came
-upon the very spot of his fearful burial. She tore at the rubbish above
-him with her tender hands; she offered large rewards, so purchasing the
-availing strength of others, and Frankland was saved.
-
-[Illustration: Agnes Surriage]
-
-To court and people, the earthquake voiced the vengeance of an angry
-God; to Frankland, it had been a flaming finger, writing on the
-wall a sentence for him alone, and in security he did not forget
-its meaning. Waiting only for the healing of his wounds, he at last
-besought the blessing of holy church upon his love; and Agnes Surriage
-under went a radiant change into the Lady Agnes Frankland. And now for
-a time her days became gleaming points in a procession of happiness.
-Her husband returned with her to England, where she was received as a
-beloved daughter of the house, and enshrined in those steadfast English
-hearts, where fealty, once given, so seldom grows cold; and after a
-tranquil space, the two set sail again for America. Even amid the
-scenes of her former martyrdom, Agnes was no longer to be regarded as
-an alien and social outcast. She walked into Boston society as walks a
-princess entering her rightful domain, and there took up the sceptre
-of social sway at the aristocratic North End. Frankland had purchased
-the most lordly mansion there, of which the fragmentary descriptions
-are enough to make the antiquary’s mouth water. The stairs ascending
-from the great hall were so broad and low that he could ride his pony
-up and down in safety; there were wonderful inlaid floors, Italian
-marbles, and carven pillars. There Agnes lived the life of a dignified
-matron, and a social leader whose fiats none might gainsay. Indeed,
-from this time forward her story is that of the happy women whose
-deeds are unrecorded, and is only to be guessed through scanning the
-revelations of her husband’s journal. His health seems to have guided
-their movements in great measure; for they again visited Lisbon, and
-then came home to England, where he died, in 1768.
-
-[Illustration: “They again visited Lisbon”]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Lady Frankland returned to Hopkinton, and there she lived through
-uneventful days, with her sister and sister’s children, overseeing her
-spacious estate, and entertaining her hosts of friends, until 1775,
-that fiery date of American story. A jealous patriotism was rife;
-and it was not unnatural that the widow of an officer of the Crown,
-herself a devotee of the Established Church, should become an object
-of local suspicion, hand in glove as she was with the British invaders
-of our peace. Like many another avowed royalist, she judged it best
-to leave her undefended estate at Hopkinton, and place herself under
-military protection in Boston, and there she arrived, after a short
-detention by some over-zealous patriot, in time to witness the battle
-of Bunker Hill from the windows of her house, and to receive some of
-the wounded within its shelter. Thence she sailed for England, as our
-unpleasantness with the mother-country increased in warmth, and at
-this point she becomes lost to the romance-loving vision,—for, alas
-for those who “love a lover,” and insist upon an ideal constancy! Lady
-Frankland was married, in the fourteenth year of her widowhood, to John
-Drew, a wealthy banker of Chichester, and at Chichester she died, in
-one year’s time. But after all, on that sober second thought which is
-so powerful in regilding a tarnished fancy, does not her remarriage
-suit still better the requirements of romance? For instead of dying a
-staid Lady Frankland, her passions merged in the vital interests of
-caps and lap-dogs, she transmutes herself into another person, and
-thus fades out into an unrecognized future. Since neither the name of
-Surriage nor Frankland is predominant in its legend, even her tomb
-seems lost; and the mind goes ever back in fancy to her maiden name,
-her maiden state, when she was the disguised and humble princess of
-Marblehead.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-MARTHA HILTON
-
-[Illustration: “The little figure with the swishing bucket.”]
-
-[Illustration: Sly damsels in puritanical caps]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-NEW ENGLAND had her spurts of human nature in old times, whenever she
-was not taken up with the witches and the Tories, and could afford a
-nine-days’ wonder over so simple a thing as a marriage between high and
-low. For we had not got then to a professional denial of difference
-between high and low; not as yet had the bell of Philadelphia cracked
-its heart, like the philosopher Chilo, with public joy, and proclaimed
-the crooked ways straight, and the rough places plain. When some sweet
-scrub of an Agnes Surriage captured a Sir Harry, at the end of a moving
-third act, there was a thrill of awe and satisfaction: and forthwith
-the story went into our folk-lore, and very properly; since it had
-incidents and character. Sly damsels in Puritan caps made the most of
-a shifting society, full of waifs and strays from the foreign world.
-Royal commissioners were yet to be seen, and gold-laced Parisian barons
-at Newport and Norwich, and pirate Blackbeards tacking from the Shoals,
-and leaving sweethearts to wring ghostly hands there to this day. So
-that no lass had too dull an outlook upon life, nor need link herself
-with the neighboring yokel whom Providence had assigned her, while
-such splendid fish were in the seas. Let her but wed “above her,” and
-she shall be a fountainhead of precedent and distinction, and the
-sister ideal of King Cophetua’s beggar-bride.
-
-[Illustration: Gold laced dandies at Newport]
-
-[Illustration: Nor need link herself with the neighbouring yokel whom
-Providence had assigned her]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-[Illustration: Where Governor Wentworth was Born]
-
-[Illustration: “A fishmonger in London”]
-
-[Illustration: He had the mortification to see her prefer one
-Shortridge, a mechanic]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Poor Agnes of Marblehead, as faithful as the Nut-Browne Maid herself,
-adorns her romantic station with living interest; but Martha Hilton,
-who figures in true histories and in Mr. Longfellow’s pretty ballad,
-is a heroine of the letter, rather than of the spirit. We hear nothing
-of her deserts; we hear merely of her success. She became Lady
-Wentworth (all personable Madams were Ladies then and awhile after,
-even in the model republican air of Mount Vernon!) and she had been
-a kitchen-wench. But she was also the descendant of the honorable
-founder of Dover, “a fishmonger in London,” even as the great and gouty
-Governor, her appointed spouse, was grandson to a noblest work of God,
-who, in 1670, got “libertie to entertayne strangers, and sell and brew
-beare.” In that house of beer, the hearty-timbered house planted yet
-by a Portsmouth inlet, with one timid bush to be seen over against
-the door, was Benning Wentworth born. Having subdued the alphabet,
-grown his last inch, looked about, married, and buried his sons and
-Abigail his wife, he enters upon our tale “inconsolable, to the minuet
-in _Ariadne_.” He had played a game, too, and lost, since his weeds
-withered. Having proposed himself and his acres to young Mistress
-Pitman, he had the mortification to see her prefer one Shortridge, a
-mechanic. The sequel shows that Benning’s Excellency could rise
-grandly to an occasion, and also that he had an amorphous turn for the
-humor of things; for he had the obnoxious mechanic kidnapped and sent
-to sea, “for seven years long,” like the child in the fairy-lay. This
-stroke of playfulness insured him nothing but a recoil of fate. Events
-restored the lovers to each other, and he was left to console himself
-with his restless colony, with his snuff-boxes and his bowls. And into
-that lonely manor of his, malformed and delightful, sleeping over
-against Newcastle, meekly as befits her menial office (though it is to
-be suspected that she was always a minx!) enters Martha Hilton, late
-the horror of the landlady of the Earl of Halifax. That well-conducted
-Juno of Queen Street, beholding a shoeless girl fetching water from
-the decent pump of Portsmouth, in a bare-shouldered estate sacred only
-to the indoor and adult orgies of the aristocracy, did not content
-herself, as the poet hath it, with
-
-    “O Martha Hilton, fie!”
-
-[Illustration: His snuff boxes and his bowls]
-
-[Illustration: Gov. Benning Wentworth]
-
-Her comment had greater vivacity, and was pleasingly metrical. “You
-Pat, you Pat, how dare you go looking like that?” There seems to be no
-doubt that the pseudo-Hibernian did reply with a prophecy, and, better
-yet, that she made it her business to have spoken true. Seven years,
-according to the verses in question, did Martha serve her future lord;
-and it is not for this oracle, on whatever computation, to dispute
-with a son of Apollo. There she shed her clever childhood, and took
-her degree in the arts of womankind; busy with pans and clothes-lines,
-the sea-wind always in her hair, her strategic eye upon master’s
-deciduous charms, and perhaps, provisionally, upon master’s only son,
-“a flower too early faded” for any mortal plucking. The latter was not
-fore-doomed, either, to be a stepson. He died; and in March of 1760,
-one year after, a moment of historic astonishment befell the Reverend
-Arthur Brown, shared by the painted Strafford on the wall, when the
-good rector of St. John’s, having dined sumptuously at Little Harbor,
-heard his host proclaim:—
-
-    “This is my birthday; it shall likewise be
-     My wedding-day, and you shall marry me!”
-
-[Illustration: Wentworth house at Little Harbour]
-
-(Ah, no; he marrified him, did that Reverend Arthur Brown from the
-north of Ireland, who had so much to do, first and last, with the
-matrimonial oddities of the Wentworths.) And the victress, as all the
-world knows, was “You Pat,” suddenly found standing in the fine old
-council-chamber, appropriately vested, and radiant with her twenty
-years. Abruptly were they joined, these wondrous two, and literally
-“across the walnuts and the wine.” And now Martha had her chariot, as
-foretold, and her red heels, and her sweeping brocades, and a cushion
-towering on her powdered head, and a famous beautiful carven mantel,
-on which to lean her indolent elbow. By able and easy generalship is
-she here, with him of a race of rulers, aged sixty-five and terrible in
-his wrath, for her gentle orderly, her minion. The rustling of Love’s
-wings is not audible in the Governor’s corridors, perhaps would be
-an impertinence there, like any blow-fly’s; but domestic comfort was
-secured upon one side, and power, swaggering power, upon the other,—a
-heady draught of it, such as might well turn a novice giddy.
-Tradition saith that very shortly after her elevation, Martha dropped
-her ring, and summoned one of her recent colleagues to rescue it from
-the floor. But the colleague, alas! became piteously short-sighted, and
-could offer no help worth having, until my lady, with great acumen,
-dismissed her, and picked it up.
-
-[Illustration: and her strategic eye upon master’s deciduous charms”]
-
-For a full decade she rolled along, behind outriders, through the fair
-provincial roads, with kerchiefed children bobbing respectfully at
-every corner. The strange, stout, splenetic being to whom she owed her
-meridian glory, disgusted with events, and out of office, was gathered
-presently to his fathers, and left all his property in her hands. With
-instant despatch, the scene shifts. The Reverend Arthur Brown beholds
-the siren of Hilton blood again before him, with an imported Wentworth
-by her side: one red-coated Michael of England, who had been in the
-tragic smoke of Culloden. For three years now, in shady Portsmouth,
-he has been striding magnificently up and down, and fiddling at
-Stoodley’s far into the morning, for pure disinterested enthusiasm
-that the dancing might not flag; a live soldierly man, full of bluster
-and laughter, equal to many punches, and to afternoon gallops between
-the hills of Boston and his own fireside! The fortunate widow of
-one Georgian grandee became the wife of this other, his namesake;
-and save that Colonel Michael Wentworth was a much more suave and
-flexible person, besides being the “great buck” of his day, there was
-small divergence in him from the type of his predecessor. Men of that
-generation fell into a monotony: if they were rural, they were given
-to hunting, bousing, and swearing; the trail of Squire Western is over
-them all. Well did Martha, tamer of lions, know her _métier_.
-
-[Illustration: “The great buck of his day.”]
-
-Unto this twain gloriously reigning, came Washington, in 1789, rowed by
-white-jacketed sailors to their vine-hung, hospitable door. They were
-the mighty in the land; they had somehow weathered the Revolution;
-they were peers of—
-
-    “The Pepperells, the Langdons, and the Lears,
-     The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest,”
-
-with their stately Devon names; and none could more fitly honor the
-Father of the Country. He went about the town, indeed, in a visible
-halo, weaving the web of peace; and his smile was called as good as
-sunshine, and his Sunday black velvet small-clothes elegant in the
-extreme. There was a younger Martha in the house, curtseying to this
-kind guest, who had grown up to play the spinet by the open window
-in lilac-time, and who, later, tautologically bestowed her hand on
-a Wentworth, and passed with him to France. Her father’s cherry
-cheeks paled gradually, before he gave up his high living, and took
-to a bankrupt’s grave, in New York, in 1795. It was feared that he
-checkmated too hard a fate by suicide. “I have eaten my cake,” he said
-at the end, with a homely brevity. What was in his mind, no chronicler
-knoweth; but it is not unlawful to remember that in that eaten cake
-Martha Hilton was a plum.
-
-[Illustration: Fiddling at Stoodley’s far into the morning]
-
-[Illustration: Wharves now rotting along the harbor-borders]
-
-Legends such as hers have truth and rustic dignity, and they tell
-enough. It will not do to be too curious, to thirst for all that
-can be guessed or gleaned. Let Martha herself remain a myth, not to
-be stared at. _Il ne faut pas tout corriger._ Breathe it not to the
-mellower civilizations that a myth of New England can have a daughter
-only forty years dead! That, after all, is not the point, and is
-useful to recall only inasmuch as it assures sceptics that the myth
-was, in its unregenerate days, a fact. It rode in stage-chairs which
-performed once a week for thirteen-and-six; it held babes to a porphyry
-baptismal font stolen by heretics from Senegal; it looked upon the busy
-wharves now rotting along the harbor-borders; it produced love-letters
-on lavender-scented paper, and with an individual spelling which the
-brief discipline of a school for “righters, reeders, and Latiners” was
-not calculated to blight. Martha must have done these things! and
-it is no matter at all if they be suppressed. Gossip concerns itself
-exclusively with her first daring nuptial campaign, an event of epic
-significance, and in the practical manner of that immortal eighteenth
-century. Is it so long ago that the shouting sailors in pigtails and
-petticoats lounged under the lindens, along the flagged lanes of
-Portsmouth, fresh from the gilded quarter-galleries and green lamps
-of the Spanish ships? It is not so to anybody with a Chinese love of
-yesterday; which is an emotion somewhat exotic, it is to be feared,
-on our soil. Near to politics, if not to poetry, are the patriot
-pre-revolutionary mutterings of our seaboard cities, reaching the ears
-of the surly nightwatch, before the stocks were swept away. And it was
-in that immediate past of effigy-burning, and tea-throwing, and social
-panic, that
-
-    “Mistress Stavers in her furbelows”
-
-shook her fat finger at the little figure with the swishing bucket, not
-dreaming how it should blend with what we have of dearest story and
-song. The life back of our democracy is unsensational enough. The saucy
-beauty from the scullery is one of its few dabs of odd local color, and
-therefore to be cherished. She is part forever of the blue Piscataqua
-water, the wildest on the coast, and of the happy borough which shall
-never be again.
-
-[Illustration: End of Chapter motif]
-
-
-
-
-NOTES
-
-    ’TIS hard, methinks, that a man cannot publish a book
-    but he must presently give the world a reason for it,
-    when there is not one book of twenty that will bear a
-    reason.
-
-                                     SIR ROGER L’ESTRANGE.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-SO I do now offer my excuses, and leave a generous public to the
-decision whether this book may be regarded as the one of all the
-twenty, or shall be counted among the unhappy nineteen. Very many there
-are who never hear a story but they must at once know if it be true;
-and if it be but partly true, they fain would know just how much is
-fact and how much fancy. It is to satisfy such curious folk, so far as
-relates to three New England heroines, that these true histories have
-been written. The proverb runs that “Truth is stranger than fiction;”
-and true it is that truth is ofttimes more romantic, and does little
-violence, withal, to our delight in a tale.
-
-He who reads “The Courtship of Miles Standish,” and, later, learns
-something of the true lives of its characters, must confess to a slight
-shock in the discovery that the scholarly John Alden, of Longfellow’s
-lines, was but a cooper at Southampton. Then, too, the romance that
-surrounds the martial Miles Standish is somewhat dulled, when one reads
-of his parley with the Indians and of his killing of some of them. And
-so, though we must confess that the tale is not wholly true, we may
-adopt the Italian saying, “So much the worse for truth.”
-
-Sharp eyes might see, even were it not here confessed, that Priscilla
-alone bears not the dignity of her full name on the half-titles of this
-book. Despite the eloquence of Juliet, one cannot feel the need of
-Mullins.
-
-Yet, after all is said, we cannot love the poem less, but love the
-poet more. His genius the brighter shines, the while our curiosity is
-satisfied. Curiosity is a quality denied to few, and it is pleasant to
-satisfy; and so three New England girls have written these three true
-histories, while I, the artist, have wandered here and there, with an
-eye to such picturesque bits as may have escaped calamity and progress.
-This the excuse for the book, and now the story of the artist’s quest.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-First to Hopkinton, from Winchester, by bicycle,—a way which lay by
-the “Wayside Inn.” Nothing is more disappointing than such a search
-for oldtime scenes, but yet it is a joy, for one sees so much that is
-delightful, if not closely related to the object of the quest. The road
-wound always to new beauties. The way led by old houses and picturesque
-barns, shaded by lofty trees, past fertile farms and modern dwellings,
-bristling with gables and rising among green, smooth-shaven lawns. A
-season earlier I had spent in England; and when Weston was reached,
-with its quaint stone church, the thought arose of those village
-churches of Old England with their ivy-covered towers, and, all about,
-God’s acre.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-But here no manor-house rose proudly above the trees, no coat-of-arms
-was sculptured over the cottage doors. Indeed, the picturesque
-cottages themselves were missed, and in their stead were the plainest
-of dwellings; but upon the green rose something far prouder than a coat
-of arms, the flag-staff, and, at its head, the flag streaming in the
-breeze.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-This is the one distinctive feature of the typical New England village.
-Always upon the village green is seen the flag-staff, although the
-town-pump may have long ago gone, and the bandstand not yet come.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-The ride continued, and still I found comparisons between Old and New
-England, but not to the discredit of either. Now are more old houses
-sheltered by great elms; stone walls, green fringed; merry children
-coming from school; pastures, with grazing cattle; and so lies the
-way through Wayland, by the fields and rivers, over picturesque stone
-bridges, up hill and down, until we come to Sudbury.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Sudbury is connected with our Martha Hilton, for her story makes one
-of the “Tales of the Wayside Inn.” The old hostelry does not look
-particularly antique now. It reminds me of what a friend of mine once
-said, “’Tis wonderful what one can do with a little putty and paint.”
-There are some who would, doubtless, prefer to see the old inn without
-that fresh coat of yellow; and yet all will commend that generous
-public spirit which is preserving for us this shrine of the muse. And
-it may be that it will longer resist the attacks of time, protected by
-its jacket of yellow, than it would be able to, did it wear Nature’s
-soft mantle of gray. But yet the place is one of interest, and all
-about is beautiful. The inn has, at least, one merit, inasmuch as it
-leaves much to be imagined, and it is well worthy of a visit.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-From thence to Hopkinton is a matter of a dozen miles, the last four of
-which are exceedingly rough and hilly. At Ashland, it is said that it
-is four miles to Hopkinton, and three miles back. From this it may be
-inferred that the village is one of those which, “set on a hill, cannot
-be hid.” Little of bygone days is left for the sight of the pilgrim to
-this village. Here is a noble elm, said to measure twenty-five feet in
-circumference. It is said to have been brought from England, and set
-out by the fair hands of Madam Elizabeth Price, whose husband, then
-rector of King’s Chapel, was a close friend of Frankland. It was in
-their house that Agnes Surriage found shelter while she and Frankland
-were building their home.
-
-[Illustration: The Wayside Inn, Sudbury]
-
-The Frankland mansion stood upon the old highway, now a country road,
-pleasant and shady, midway between Hopkinton and Ashland. The old
-mansion was destroyed by fire in 1858, and in its place now stands a
-modern structure, said, though questionably, to bear a resemblance to
-the original building. A bit of the ancient woodwork is seen in a shed,
-at the rear; and at the side is a beautiful and gigantic flower vase,
-made from the upturned stump of one of Frankland’s great trees. This
-is the tree to which Dr. Holmes refers in his poem, “Agnes,” where he
-says,—
-
-    “Three elms, high arching, still are seen,
-       And one lies stretched below.”
-
-This elm, too, is said to have had a girth of twenty-five feet.
-Indeed, this is the legend which attaches to all of the ancient
-trees hereabout, so that I concluded that it was a figure of speech
-equivalent to the forty-eleven of my boyhood and the _trente-six_ of
-the French. The fine, noble elms at the west of the lawn, said by Dr.
-Chadwick to have been planted by the lovers, cast a broad curtain of
-shade over the drive and lawn. Dr. Nason,[1] writing in 1865, records
-the circumference of the largest two of these as twelve feet each, but
-doubtless by this time they have reached the conventional girth of
-twenty-five.
-
-[Illustration: Great Elms, Hopkinton]
-
-Since Dr. Nason’s time the old box of Sir Harry’s borders, described as
-having a height of ten or twelve feet, has nearly disappeared except
-a few plants remaining before the house, and on the terraces built by
-Sir Harry’s slaves. One who knew some of the descendants of Agnes and
-Frankland well says that, in her youthful days, the young girls were
-wont to gather this box, for Christmas greens, with which to deck the
-old church. A bright, sunny day will serve to dispel the terrible ghost
-of Dr. Nason’s early days, and the bewitched pump no longer displays
-its weird waywardness, but yields, instead, a cool, refreshing
-draught.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-The pilgrim to the places that knew Agnes would naturally first
-visit Marblehead, her birthplace; yet, on my quest, I reached it
-last. Others, in a similar pilgrimage, would go first where fancy or
-opportunity leads; and this is the true spirit of roaming. So next to
-Roxbury, to visit Shirley Place. The reader remembers how delightfully
-Mr. Bynner introduced Mrs. Shirley into his romance, and will recall
-his story of Agnes’s ride there, in the collector’s coach. In my
-boyhood days in Roxbury, the old mansion was called the Eustis House,
-and it stood in a great field given over to goats and burdocks. There
-are those living who remember it when Madam Eustis still lived there.
-This grand dame wore a majestic turban; and the tradition still lingers
-of madam’s pet toad, on gala days decked with a blue ribbon. Now the
-old house is sadly dilapidated. It is shorn of its piazzas, the
-sign “To Let” hangs often in the windows, and the cupola is adorned
-with well-filled clothes-lines. Partitions have cut the house into
-tenements. One runs right through the hall, but the grand old staircase
-and the smaller one are still there, and the marble floor, too, in the
-back hall. A few of the carved balusters are missing, carried away by
-relic-hunters.
-
-“’Tis a great city,” said Goody Surriage, as she peered at Colonial
-Boston, over the shoulders of Agnes and Mrs. Shirley. Now, it is truly
-a great city, wreathed in smoke and steam; and all about are churches,
-school-houses, and factories, while the “broomstick train” of Dr.
-Holmes’ fancy whirls along, close by the ancient mansion. The engraving
-is from a sketch made many years ago. Since then the old house has been
-entirely surrounded by modern dwelling-houses. The pilgrim who searches
-for it will leave the Mt. Pleasant electric car at Shirley Street.
-
-[Illustration: The Royall House Medford]
-
-In Medford is a house often visited by Sir Harry and Agnes, known as
-the Royall House. This house, also, to-day shelters more than a single
-tenant. Here is a little drawing of this home of hospitality, which was
-forsaken so hastily by its fleeing owner, the Colonel, alarmed by
-the too near crack of the guns at Lexington. “A Tory against his will;
-it was the frailty of his blood, more than the fault of his judgment.”
-The electric cars from Boston to Medford pass the door of the old
-mansion, as it stands near the corner of Royall Street. Medford has a
-picturesque town square; and it is only a pleasant walk to the Craddock
-House, built in 1632, now converted into a museum, and thus, after many
-vicissitudes, rescued from the usual fate of ancient landmarks.
-
-[Illustration: Medford Square]
-
-And now to Marblehead, by road or by rail as one chooses. Perhaps the
-pleasantest route is from Lynn or Salem by electric car. By either
-route, the ride is a pleasure, and although little remains to tell of
-Agnes in her girlhood, there is much that is quaint and picturesque;
-and to visit the old town is well worth one’s time. Arrived at
-Marblehead, the visitor walking down the main road to Orne Street, and
-ascending the hill to the old burying-ground, will see by the wayside
-the old houses, “set catty-cornered,” as the quaint old saying is,
-and the bright gardens. Now upstairs and now down run the streets,
-and likely enough the visitor will meet “many an old Marbleheader,”
-pictures in themselves.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Just where the road turns to skirt the burying-ground at the left, is
-Moll Pitcher’s house. Whittier draws the portrait of our New England
-witch in one of his poems, handling her no more gently than he does her
-fellow-townsman, old Floyd Ireson. This house is the home of her youth;
-as a witch, she flourished in Lynn. I have often heard stories of her
-predictions, and one of my cherished possessions is a small square of
-yellow quilted silk, which once formed a part of Moll’s brave array.
-
-Across the way stood the Fountain Inn. Here, upon its site, and
-overlooking the harbor, are two cottages, in front of which is the
-well of the old hostelry, from whence Agnes drew the draught of water
-which she offered to Sir Harry. This fountain has been recently brought
-to light, and still refreshes the traveller as of yore. Beneath the
-apple-trees which shade it is found a restful seat, from which one may
-look out over a scene of singular beauty. As often as one looks upon
-this scene, it meets the eye with an added charm.
-
-We little realize the beauty of our sea. In summer time it is ofttimes
-as blue as the waters of the Mediterranean, a dark, intense blue,
-broken by purple patches, by beautiful streaks of emerald, dotted with
-warm, glowing rocks, and accentuated by snowy, foaming breakers. Below
-the hill, to the left, are some fishermen’s huts, surrounded by nets,
-drying in the sunshine, boats ashore, old lobster-pots, and anchors,
-all in picturesque confusion, ready to be sketched and painted.
-
-Away up above the well and the cottages, is the old burying-ground,
-with restful benches here as well. Here, one can look across the little
-harbor to old Fort Sewall, and here, just at the base of the fort, so
-says Mr. Bynner, is the probable site of the home of Agnes Surriage.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-A walk to the old fort is full of interest. Many shady spots are there,
-in which to rest, and watch the waves breaking on the rocks below. From
-this point it is but a step to the terminus of the electric cars, at
-the foot of Circle Street. In this street, upon the right, is old Floyd
-Ireson’s house, dark and weather-beaten. But the tourist is advised not
-to ask too many questions concerning him, of the old Marbleheaders;
-for it is a tender point with them, and it is whispered that Mr.
-Whittier’s ballad is more fraught with fancy than with fact.
-
-From this point, it is interesting to walk up the hill, following the
-windings and turnings of the street. Let the traveller not fail to
-look into the queer old back-yards, and at the gardens, filled with
-old-fashioned flowers, gorgeous in their splendor, nor to turn and
-view the prospect toward the town. The quaint streets here are filled
-with old and picturesque houses. Some are fine examples of colonial
-architecture, and some are interesting as the birthplaces of eminent
-men. These places should be preserved and marked with appropriate
-tablets.
-
-Now cross over to the hill on which sits the Abbott memorial. Here are
-many stately old houses, well worth the attention of the sight-seer.
-The electric cars or the steam railway are near at hand, on the other
-side of the hill, and to return to Boston by way of Salem is a pretty
-ride.
-
-So much for Agnes and Marblehead. Her stately house at the North End in
-Boston, from the windows of which she watched the battle of Bunker
-Hill, has long since gone; but Copp’s Hill burying-ground, the Old
-North Church, Paul Revere’s house, and many other old houses are still
-there.
-
-[Illustration: Circle Street and “Old Flud Orson’s” House]
-
-And now, of Martha Hilton. Portsmouth was her home and the scene of her
-brilliant matrimonial campaign. This is one of the most picturesque
-of our New England towns. Aldrich’s “An Old Town by the Sea” should
-be read by the pilgrim on his way. No one loves the old town more,
-or knows it better than he. Much remains, here, to tell of Martha
-Hilton, but a day well suffices to see it all. A short walk from the
-railway-station is a pleasant, old-fashioned market square. At times
-it is filled with wagons of hay and loads of wood, while, all about,
-is a subdued bustle. From this square leads Pleasant Street, well
-named, and, only a few steps away, it is crossed by State Street, once
-Queen Street, at the foot of which once stood Stavers’ Inn, the “Earl
-of Halifax.” It was in the doorway of this inn that Mistress Stavers
-“fied” Martha Hilton _circa anno Domini_ 1754. No print or picture of
-this old inn is known to exist. Beyond State Street is Court Street,
-with interesting old houses, and some of the ancient flagging here
-and there. On the cross streets is more of this, with sometimes a
-gutter in the middle of the street. All of this portion of the town
-is interesting, dirty, primitive, and full of memories. Parallel with
-Pleasant Street are Washington and Water streets, from which, at right
-angles, run a dozen lanes, not a whit altered since Martha’s time. Here
-is where the sailors in pig-tails and petticoats used to gather. At the
-corner of Water and Gardiner streets, let the visitor notice the great
-golden linden, overshadowing a house as old and as lovely as the tree
-itself.
-
-The neighborhood is full of old houses, with hip roofs and gables. The
-Point of Graves, a stone’s throw away, is sadly neglected. Children
-sometimes play on a large, flat tombstone, and curiosity-seekers skip
-from one headstone to another, in search of the oldest date. The
-old stones are sculptured with grim skulls and cross-bones, or with
-humorous cherubs. One thinks of the days Tom Bailey spent here, when he
-was a blighted being. Let us hope that it was a more secluded spot then
-than now.
-
-Close by is Manning Place, very short, and at the corner is the square,
-strong house, built prior to 1670, where Benny Wentworth and his
-sires were born. A grand place this once was, with its lawn extending
-to Puddle Dock. Once this was a fair inlet, but now no one will dispute
-the rightfulness of its name.
-
-[Illustration: “This is where the sailors in pigtails and petticoats
-used to be.”]
-
-From this point it is a pleasant walk to the old Wentworth mansion,
-where Martha came, slaved and conquered, even receiving as her guest
-the Father of his country. Skirt around the Point of Graves, and follow
-along the water side, by the Gardiner House and its big linden, over
-the bridge, and past the Proprietors’ burying-ground; everywhere it
-is picturesque. From thence let the traveller follow the left fork
-of the road in full view of the river for a portion of the way, and
-thence pass through pine groves and between great bowlders, until,
-with a sudden descent, a fair prospect seaward bursts upon the vision.
-At one’s feet, toward the left, is the old house, “malformed and
-delightful.” I well remember when it was venerable in appearance and in
-its rooms were to be seen the old spinet, the Strafford portrait, and
-many other things so delightful to the antiquary. But, alas! it now is
-“spick-span” in yellow and white paint, and set back in a well-groomed
-lawn.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-[Illustration: The Gardiner House and the Linden]
-
-The visitor will, of course, wish to see St. John’s. It has an
-interesting interior. Here is the old plate, the “Vinegar” Bible, and
-other quaint and curious things. The steeple is modern. All about are
-fine old houses and great spreading trees. Stoodley’s, too, one will
-wish to see, where the gallant captain “fiddled far into the morning.”
-It is the brick building, marked “Custom House,” and it stands at the
-corner of Daniel and Penhallow streets.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-These are the principal points of interest connected with the life of
-Martha Hilton, but Portsmouth old and quaint affords much more to which
-the eye of the lover of the antique will surely turn.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Every one visits Plymouth, the home of Priscilla. There is little
-need to dwell upon this place here. A Plymouth pilgrimage, if by sea,
-is easy and pleasant. Of guide-books there is no lack, and all that
-remains of the Puritan maiden’s time is readily found. Even Plymouth
-Rock is carefully enclosed; and rightly, too, else it would long
-since have been carried away in fragments. On the hill is the old
-burying-ground, from which fine views may be had of the old town and
-of the harbor where the “Mayflower” lay at anchor, the sweeping coast
-here low in sandy dunes, now high in bolder bluffs. The electric car
-is here also, which takes one the length of the town and far beyond,
-passing the Memorial Hall, where are so many relics of old colony days.
-Plymouth, indeed, is easily to be seen. It is the Mecca, to-day, of
-many pilgrims. What has been done for Plymouth, I have tried to do for
-the other old towns into whose histories are woven the lives of our
-heroines. Many of these old houses will soon have passed away. Many
-have disappeared within a few years past. Let us hope, however, that
-the little now left to us will long remain, and especially may we hope
-will be preserved all that serves to remind us of these Three Heroines
-of New England Romance.
-
-[Illustration: THE END]
-
-FOOTNOTE:
-
-[1] “Sir Charles Henry Frankland, or Boston in the Colonial Times.”
-Elias Nason, M. A. Albany, N. Y.: J. Munsell.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Transcriber’s Note: Repeated major section titles were removed. Varied
-hyphenation was retained as printed. The list of illustrations and
-the captions on the illustrations varied widely. This was retained.
-The illustrations were moved to stop them interrupting the middle of
-paragraphs so the page numbers in the list will often not match the
-actual location of the illustration mentioned.
-
-
-
-
-
-End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Heroines of New England Romance, by 
-Harriet Prescott Spofford and Louise Imogen Guiney and Alice Brown
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-<pre>
-
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Heroines of New England Romance, by 
-Harriet Prescott Spofford and Louise Imogen Guiney and Alice Brown
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-Title: Three Heroines of New England Romance
-       Their true stories herein set forth by Mrs Harriet Spoffard,
-              Miss Louise Imogen Guiney, and Miss Alice Brown
-
-Author: Harriet Prescott Spofford
-        Louise Imogen Guiney
-        Alice Brown
-
-Illustrator: Edmund H. Garrett
-
-Release Date: January 20, 2017 [EBook #54028]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE HEROINES--NEW ENGLAND ROMANCE ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Emmy, MWS and the Online Distributed
-Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
-produced from images generously made available by The
-Internet Archive)
-
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
-
-<h1 class="faux">THREE HEROINES OF
-NEW ENGLAND
-ROMANCE</h1>
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 499px;">
-<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="499" height="800" alt="cover" />
-</div>
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
-<div class="maintitle">THREE HEROINES OF<br />
-NEW ENGLAND<br />
-ROMANCE</div>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p>
-
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 93px;">
-<img src="images/i-002.jpg" width="93" height="77" alt="decoration" />
-</div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a><br /><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 506px;"><a id="frontispiece"></a>
-<img src="images/i-004.jpg" width="506" height="606" alt="with her sweeping brocades and
-a cushion towering upon
-her powdered head" />
-</div>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p>
-
-
-
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 417px;"><a id="title"></a>
-<img src="images/title.jpg" width="417" height="752" alt="title page" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="maintitle">THREE HEROINES OF<br />
-NEW ENGLAND<br />
-ROMANCE</div>
-
-
-<div class="blockquot2">
-<p class="drop-cap">THEIR true stories herein<br />
-set forth by Mrs.<br />
-Harriet Prescott Spofford<br />
-Miss Louise Imogen Guiney<br />
-and Miss Alice Brown</p></div>
-
-<div class="center"><br /><br />
-With many little picturings<br />
-authentic and fanciful by<br />
-Edmund H Garrett and published<br />
-by Little Brown and<br />
-Company Boston 1894</div>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></p>
-
-
-
-
-<p class="copyright">
-<i>Copyright, 1894,</i><br />
-<span class="smcap">By Edmund H. Garrett.</span><br />
-<br />
-<br />
-University Press:<br />
-<span class="smcap">John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.</span><br />
-</p>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p>
-
-
-
-<h2 class="faux"><span class="smcap">Contents</span></h2>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 396px;">
-<img src="images/i-007a.jpg" width="396" height="250" alt="Contents" />
-</div>
-
-
-
-
-<div class="center">
-<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Cpntents">
-<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Priscilla</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Harriet Prescott Spofford.</span></span></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Agnes Surriage</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Alice Brown.</span></span></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Martha Hilton</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Louise Imogen Guiney.</span></span></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Notes</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Edmund H. Garrett.</span></span></td></tr>
-</table></div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 149px;">
-<img src="images/i-007b.jpg" width="149" height="110" alt="decoration" />
-</div>
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 170px;">
-<img src="images/i-008.jpg" width="170" height="172" alt="decoration" />
-</div>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p>
-
-<h2 class="faux"><span class="smcap">List of
-drawings</span></h2>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 386px;">
-<img src="images/i-009.jpg" width="386" height="385" alt="List of Drawings" />
-</div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<div class="center">
-<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="Illustrations">
-<tr><td align="left"><div class="hang1">Martha Hilton. “With her sweeping brocades and a cushion towering upon her powdered head”</div></td><td align="right"><i><a href="#frontispiece">Frontispiece</a>.</i></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Priscilla at the spinning wheel</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_14">14</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“In his rough cradle by the sounding sea”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Rose Standish</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus21">21</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“The daring and spirited girl”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Or in calmer moments reading the blessed promises of His word”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_29">29</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Miles Standish</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Up and down the sands I’d pace”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus36">36</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>“Her respected parent”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus37">37</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“There, too, came Priscilla”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus41">41</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Ponds set like jewels in the ring of the green woods”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus43">43</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“First happened on the Mayflower”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus45">45</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“The blushing Sabbatia”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">John Alden</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Silvers its wave, its rustling wave”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus51">51</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">The wedding procession</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Grape-vine</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Woodbine</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">The ships of the merchants</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_59">59</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Up-stairs and down-stairs ran the streets”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus_64">64</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Houses set ‘catty cornered’”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“An old Marbleheader”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus67">67</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“The solid dignity of the old Town House”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus69">69</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“The old graveyard”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“The wild azalea”</td><td align="right"><a href="#azalea">74</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“The blackberry clings and crowds”</td><td align="right"><a href="#blackberry">75</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Butterfly</td><td align="right"><a href="#butterfly">75</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Again he came riding”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Bravely attired in small clothes and wigs”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus81">81</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“She learned to play on the harpsichord”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Frankland</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus85">85</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Tragic battlings of heart and conscience”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus87">87</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“All the more did she turn to Frankland”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus89">89</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“The giant box and a few ancient trees”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus92">92</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“At the banquets”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus93">93</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>“His ancestral home”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus95">95</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“The opera was the finest on the continent”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus97">97</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Agnes Surriage</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus99">99</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“They again visited Lisbon”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus102">102</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Married a wealthy banker of Chichester”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus104">104</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“The little figure with the swishing bucket”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Sly damsels in Puritan caps”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Gold laced dandies at Newport”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus111">111</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left"><div class="hang1">“Nor need link herself with the neighboring yokel whom Providence had assigned her”</div></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#illus113">113</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Where Governor Wentworth was born</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus114">114</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“A fishmonger in London”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus115">115</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“He had the mortification to see her prefer one Shortridge, a mechanic”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus117">117</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“His snuff-boxes and his bowls”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus118">118</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Governor Benning Wentworth</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus119">119</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Wentworth house at Little Harbor</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus121">121</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Her strategic eye upon master’s deciduous charms”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus123">123</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“The great buck of his day”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus127">127</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Fiddling at Stoodley’s far into the morning”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus131">131</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Wharves now rotting along the harbor-borders”</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus133">133</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Old houses</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_139">139</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">An old English church</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_139">139</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Picturesque barns</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_140">140</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">The Weston flag-staff</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Houses sheltered by great elms”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Past fertile farms”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“Over picturesque stone bridges”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>“Here is a noble elm”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">The Wayside Inn, Sudbury</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Great elms at Hopkinton</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Shirley Place</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">The Royall House, Medford</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_153">153</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Medford Square</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Street leading to Moll Pitcher’s</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Moll Pitcher’s house and the graveyard</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_157">157</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Some fishermen’s hats</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Circle Street and Floyd Ireson’s house</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">“This is where the sailors in pigtails and petticoats used to be”</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_165">165</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">St. John’s, Portsmouth</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_168">168</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">The Gardiner House and the linden</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Stoodley’s</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_171">171</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Plymouth, the home of Priscilla</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">A country road</td><td align="right"><a href="#illus173">173</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left" valign="top">Decorative designs</td><td align="right"><a href="#title">Title</a>, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#illus175">175</a></td></tr>
-<tr><td align="left">Initials</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_15">15</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>, <a href="#Page_137">137</a></td></tr>
-</table></div>
-
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 186px;">
-<img src="images/i-012.jpg" width="186" height="179" alt="decoration" />
-</div>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span></p>
-
-
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span></p>
-<h2>PRISCILLA</h2>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 370px;">
-<img src="images/i-014.jpg" width="370" height="475" alt="Priscilla" />
-</div>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p>
-
-
-
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 219px;">
-<img src="images/i-015.jpg" width="219" height="47" alt="PRISCILLA title" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="faux">
-<div class="poetry-container">
-  <div class="poetry">
-<div class="verse">“The swallow with summer</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Will wing o’er the seas,</span></div>
-<div class="verse">The wind that I sigh to</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Will visit thy trees.</span></div>
-<div class="verse">The ship that it hastens</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Thy ports will contain,</span></div>
-<div class="verse">But me—I shall never</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">See England again!”</span></div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-
-
-<div>
-  <img class="splittop" src="images/i-015a.jpg" alt="poem" width="394" height="257" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-015b.jpg" alt="I" width="191" height="227" />
-</div>
-
-<p class='dropcapstory'>I &nbsp; OFTEN fancy John Alden,
-and others, too, among his
-companions of kindly fame,
-wandering down the long
-Plymouth beach and murmuring
-to themselves
-thoughts like these. And I
-like to look in the annals of
-the gentle Pilgrims and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
-sterner Puritans for any pages where one
-may find muffled for a moment the strain of
-high emprise which wins our awe and our
-praise, but not so surely our love, and gain
-access on their more human side to the men
-and women who lived the noblest romance in
-all history.</p>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 391px;">
-<img src="images/i-017.jpg" width="391" height="585" alt="woman sitting beside baby in cradle" />
-</div>
-
-<p>So one comes on the story of the Lady
-Arbella, and her love and death, with the
-sweet surprise one has in finding a fragile
-flower among granite ledges. So the Baby
-Peregrine’s velvet cheek has the unconscious
-caress of every mother who thinks of him
-rocked to sleep in his rough cradle by the
-sounding sea. So the thought deals tenderly
-with Dorothy Bradford, who crossed the
-mighty darkness of the deep only to fall
-overboard from the “Mayflower,” and be
-drowned in harbor, and would fain reap some
-harvest of romance in the coming over sea,
-three years afterward, of Mrs. Southworth,
-with her young sons, Constant and Thomas,
-to marry the Governor, who had loved her as
-Alice Carpenter lang syne. And so the story<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a><br /><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a><br /><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
-of John Alden’s courtship is read as if we
-had found some human beings camped in
-the midst of demigods.</p>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 432px;"><a id="illus21"></a>
-<img src="images/i-021.jpg" width="432" height="609" alt="Rose Standish" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Certainly Miles Standish was not of the
-demigods, if he was of the heroes. No Puritan
-ascetic he, by nature or belief. One
-might imagine him some soul that failed to
-find incarnation among the captains and
-pirates of the great Elizabeth’s time, the
-Raleighs and Drakes and Frobishers, and
-who, coming along a hundred years too late,
-did his best to repair the mistake. A choleric
-fellow, who had quarrelled with his kin, and
-held himself wronged by them of his patrimony;
-of a quarrelsome race, indeed, that
-had long divided itself into the Catholic
-Standishes of Standish and the Protestant
-Standishes of Duxbury; a soldier who served
-the Queen in a foreign garrison, and of habits
-and tastes the more emphasized because he
-was a little man; supposed never to have
-been of the same communion as those with
-whom he cast in his lot,—it is not easy to
-see the reason of his attraction to the Pilgrims<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
-in Holland. Perhaps he chose his wife, Rose,
-from among them, and so united himself to
-them; if not that, then possibly she herself
-may have been inclined to their faith, and
-have drawn him with her; or it may have
-been that his doughty spirit could not brook
-to see oppression, and must needs espouse
-and champion the side crushed by authority.
-For the rest, at the age of thirty-five the love
-of adventure was still an active passion with
-him. That he was of quick, but not deep
-affections is plain from the swiftness with
-which he would fain have consoled himself
-after the death of Rose, his wife; and, that
-effort failing, by his sending to England for
-his wife’s sister Barbara, as it is supposed,
-and marrying her out of hand. That he was
-behind the spirit of the movement with which
-he was connected may be judged by his
-bringing home and setting up the gory head
-of his conquered foe; for although he was
-not alone in that retrograde act, since he only
-did what he had been ordered to do by the
-elders, yet the holy John Robinson, the inspirer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a><br /><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a><br /><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>
-and conscience of them all, cried out
-at that, “Oh that he had converted some
-before he killed any!” Nevertheless, that
-and other bloody deeds seem to have been
-thoroughly informed with his own satisfaction
-in them. His armor, his sword, his inconceivable
-courage, his rough piety, that “swore
-a prayer or two,”—all give a flavor of even
-earlier times to the story of his day, and bring
-into the life when certain dainties were forbidden,
-as smacking of Papistry, a goodly
-flavor of wassail-bowls, and a certain powerful
-reminiscence of the troops in Flanders.</p>
-
-<p>That such a nature as the fiery Captain’s
-could not exist without the soothing touch
-of love, could not brook loneliness, and could
-not endure grief, but must needs arm himself
-with forgetfulness and a new love when sorrow
-came to him in the loss of the old, is
-of course to be expected. If he were a little
-precipitate in asking for Priscilla’s affection
-before Rose had been in her unnamed grave
-three months, something of the blame is due
-to the condition of the colony, which made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
-sentimental considerations of less value than
-practical ones,—an evident fact, when Mr.
-Winslow almost immediately on the death of
-his wife married the mother of Peregrine
-White, not two months a widow, hardly more
-a mother.</p>
-
-<p>Apparently there were not a great many
-young girls in the little company. The gentle
-Priscilla Mullins and the high-minded
-Mary Chilton were the most prominent ones,
-at any rate. One knows instinctively that it
-would not be Mary Chilton towards whom
-the soldier would be drawn,—the daring and
-spirited girl who must be the first to spring
-ashore when the boat touched land. It is
-true that John Alden’s descendants ungallantly
-declare that he was before her in that
-act; but no one disputes her claim to be the
-first woman whose foot touched shore; and
-that is quite enough for one who loves to
-think of her and of the noble and serene
-Ann Hutchinson as the far-away mothers
-of the loftiest and loveliest soul she ever
-knew.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 430px;">
-<img src="images/i-025.jpg" width="430" height="672" alt="The daring and spirited girl" />
-</div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a><br /><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p>
-
-<p>One can well conjecture Mary Chilton as
-comforting and supporting Priscilla in the
-terrors of that voyage, in such storms as that
-where the little ship, tossed at the waves’
-will, lay almost on her beam-ends, and the
-drowning man who had gone down fathoms
-deep clutched her topsail-halyards and saved
-himself; or in calmer moments reading the
-blessed promises of His word. Young girls
-willing to undertake that voyage, that enterprise,
-and whose hearts were already so
-turned heavenward as the act implied, must
-have been of a lofty type of thought and
-nature; they must often have walked the
-narrow deck, exchanging the confidences of
-their hopes and dreams. I see them sitting
-and softly singing hymns together, on the
-eve of that first Sunday on the new coast,
-sitting by that fragrant fire of the red cedar
-which Captain Standish brought back to the
-ships after the first exploration of the forest.
-Priscilla might have sung, “The Lord is my
-shepherd,” and the voice of Rose may have
-added a note of sweetness to the strain. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
-that gentle measure would never have expressed
-the feelings of the Captain, whose
-God was “a man of war.” If, out of the
-tunes allowed, there were one that fitted
-the wild burden,—and unless their annexation
-to the book of Common Prayer caused
-the disapproval of “All such Psalms of
-David as Thomas Sternholde, late Grome
-of the Kinges Majestyes Robes, did in his
-lyfe-tyme drawe into Englyshe Metre,”—I
-can feel the zest with which the Captain
-may have roared out,—</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-  <div class="poetry">
-<div class="verse">“The Lord descended from above,</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">And bowed the heavens high,</span></div>
-<div class="verse">And underneath His feet He cast</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">The darkness of the sky.</span></div>
-<div class="verse">On seraph and on cherubim</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Full royally He rode,</span></div>
-<div class="verse">And on the wings of mighty winds</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Came flying all abroad!”</span></div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 394px;">
-<img src="images/i-029.jpg" width="394" height="582" alt="Or in calmer moments reading the blessed promises of His word" />
-</div>
-
-<p>One might suppose that Priscilla, gentle
-as tradition represents her, would have been
-attracted by the fire and spirit of the brave
-Captain. But perhaps she was not so very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a><br /><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a><br /><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
-gentle. Was there a spice of feminine coquetry
-in her famous speech to John Alden,
-for all her sweet Puritanism? Or was it that
-she understood the dignity and worth of
-womanhood, and was the first in this new
-land to take her stand upon it?</p>
-
-<p>The whole story of the courtship which
-her two lovers paid to her is a bit of human
-nature suddenly revealing itself in the flame
-of a great passion,—a mighty drama moving
-before us, and a chance light thrown upon
-the stage giving the life and motion of a
-scene within a scene. There is a touching
-quality in the modest feeling of the soldier;
-he is still a young man, not at all grizzled,
-or old, or gray, as the poet paints him,—perhaps
-thirty-five or thirty-six years old.
-Daring death at every daily exposure of the
-colony to dangers from disease, from the
-tomahawk, from the sea, from the forest,
-always the one to go foremost and receive
-the brunt, to put his own life and safety a
-barrier against the common enemy,—yet he
-shrank from telling a girl that she had fired<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
-his inflammable heart, and would fain let
-her know the fact by the one who, if he has
-left no record of polished tongue or ready
-phrase, was the one he loved as the hero
-loves the man of peace, the one who loved
-him equally,—the youth of twenty-three
-whose “countenance of gospel looks” could
-hardly at that time have carried in its delicate
-lineaments much of the greatness of nature
-that may have belonged to the ancestor of
-two of our Presidents.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 394px;">
-<img src="images/i-033.jpg" width="394" height="581" alt="Miles Standish" />
-</div>
-
-<p>For the purposes of romance, fathers and
-mothers are often much in the way; and the
-poet and the romancer, with a reckless disregard
-of the life and safety of Mr. William
-Mullins, her respected parent, represent Priscilla
-as orphaned while her father was yet
-alive. It was to Mr. Mullins that John Alden,
-torn between duty and passion, and doubtless
-pale with suffering, presented the Captain’s
-claims. If the matter was urged rather perfunctorily,
-Mr. Mullins seems not to have
-noticed it, as he gave his ready consent.
-But we may be confident that Priscilla did;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a><br /><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a><br /><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>
-and that, after all, maidenly delicacy would
-never have suffered her to utter her historic
-words, “Why don’t you speak for yourself,
-John?” if the deadly sinking of his heart
-had not been evident in his downcast face.
-Does it need any chronicle to tell us what a
-flame of joy shot through John Alden’s heart
-at the instant of those words,—what an icy
-wave of despair quenched it,—what a horror
-of shame overcame Priscilla till her blushes
-became a pain? For when she had dared
-so much, and dared in vain, what else but
-shame could be her portion?</p>
-
-<p>They must have been dark days that followed
-for the two young lovers. Can you
-not see John Alden trying to walk away his
-trouble on the stretch of the long beach, to
-escape his sense of treachery, his sorrow in
-his friend’s displeasure, his joy and his shame
-together?</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-  <div class="poetry">
-    <div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“There, my cloak about my face,</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Up and down the sands I’d pace,</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Making footprints for the spray</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">To wash away.</span></div>
-<div class="center"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 4em;">. . . . . .</span></div>
-    </div>
-    <div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“Up and down the barren beaches,</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Round the ragged belts of land,</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">In along the curving reaches,</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Out along the horns of sand.”</span></div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 398px;"><a id="illus36"></a>
-<img src="images/i-036.jpg" width="398" height="280" alt="seascape" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 427px;"><a id="illus37"></a>
-<img src="images/i-037.jpg" width="427" height="590" alt="Her respected parent" />
-</div>
-
-<p class="unindent">There, too, came Priscilla, without much
-doubt, when the closeness of the little cluster
-of log huts, within a few feet of one another,
-grew too oppressive, or the notion that
-others looked askance at her, lest in any
-recklessness of desperation the Captain, the
-mainstay of the colony, threw his life away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a><br /><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a><br /><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
-in the daily expeditions he undertook,—came
-not as girls stroll along the shore to gather
-shells, to write their names on the sand, to
-pick up the seaweed with hues like those</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-  <div class="poetry">
-<div class="verse">“Torn from the scarfs and gonfalons of Kings</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Who dwell beneath the waters,”</span></div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="unindent">as very likely she had done ere this, but to
-forget her trouble, to diffuse and lose it.
-For here, added to homesickness and horror
-and impending famine, was a new trouble,
-worse perhaps than all the rest. If her lover
-had been lost at sea, she might have watched
-for his sail,</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-  <div class="poetry">
-<div class="verse">“And hope at her yearning heart would knock</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">When a sunbeam on a far-off rock</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Married a wreath of wandering foam.”</span></div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 398px;"><a id="illus41"></a>
-<img src="images/i-041.jpg" width="398" height="581" alt="There too came Priscilla" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 392px;"><a id="illus43"></a>
-<img src="images/i-043.jpg" width="392" height="430" alt="Ponds set like jewels on the ring of the green woods" />
-</div>
-
-<p class="unindent">But this was more unbearable than loss: she
-had dishonored herself in his eyes; she had
-betrayed herself, and he had scorned her;
-and she came to the sea for the comfort which
-nearness to the vast and the infinite always
-gives. Even that was not solitude; for there,
-a mile away, lay the “Mayflower,” still at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
-anchor, where the spy-glass made her prisoner,
-while it was not safe for a lonely girl to
-tread the shore at night, watching the glow
-of the evening star or the moonswale on the
-sea. Perhaps, with Mary Chilton by her side,
-or with some of the smaller children of the
-colony, she climbed a hill, protected by
-the minion and the other piece of ordnance,
-which were afterwards mounted on the roof
-of the rude church, and looked down over
-the cluster of cabins where now the fair town
-lies, and thought life hard and sorry, and
-longed, as John Alden himself did, for the
-shelter of Old England. Perhaps she had
-no time for lovesick fancies, anyway, in the
-growing sickness among the people, which
-tasked the strength and love of all; and
-when, watching with the sick at night, she
-thrust aside a casement latticed with oiled
-paper, or chanced to go outside the door for
-fresh water to cool a fevered lip, she saw a
-planet rising out of the sea, or the immeasurable
-universe of stars wheeling overhead, over
-desolate shore, and water, and wilderness,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a><br /><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a><br /><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
-she felt her own woe too trivial to be dwelt
-upon; and when on the third of March her
-father died and was laid in the field where
-the wheat was planted over the level graves
-for fear of the Indians, we may be sure that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
-she saw her trouble as part of the cross she
-was to bear, and waited in patience and
-meekness either till the rumor came of the
-death of Miles Standish in the Indian skirmish,—of
-which we know nothing,—or till
-John Alden had made it up with his conscience
-and found his chance, not in the
-crowded little log huts, not on the open
-shore, but within the leafy covert of the
-freshly springing woodside, with none but
-the fallow deer to see them, to put an end
-to her unrest.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 389px;"><a id="illus45"></a>
-<img src="images/i-045.jpg" width="389" height="554" alt="First happened on the Mayflower" />
-</div>
-
-<div>
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-047a.jpg" alt="The blushing Sabbatia" width="394" height="352" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-047b.jpg" alt="The blushing Sabbatia" width="161" height="320" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Probably that period of bliss now dawned
-which makes most lovers feel themselves lifted
-into a region just above the earth and when
-they tread on air. It was in the hallowed time
-of this courtship, on the skirts of the deep
-pine forests, that they first happened on the
-mayflower, the epigea, full of the sweetest
-essence of the earth which lends it her name,
-and felt as if love and youth and joy and
-innocence had invented a flower for them
-alone,—the deeply rosy and ineffably fragrant
-mayflower that blooms only in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a><br /><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a><br /><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
-Plymouth woods in its
-pink perfection, and whose
-breath must have seemed
-like a breath blown out
-of the open doors of the
-new life awaiting them
-together. If they had
-ventured as far as any of
-the numberless ponds, set<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
-like jewels in the ring of the green woods
-about them, something later in their new
-year, they would have found the blushing
-sabbatia in all its pristine loveliness,—the
-flower most typical of Priscilla herself; the
-flower to which some fortunate fate, in view
-of the sabbatical character of the region, gave
-the name of an old Italian botanist, as if it
-were its own from the beginning; a flower
-which is to-day less rare around Plymouth
-than elsewhere. Now, in the soft spring
-evenings, too, it may be that they strolled
-along the beach, and watched the phosphorescence
-of the waters playing about the sacred
-rock with which the continent had gone out
-first to meet them, all unweeting that it was
-the “corner-stone of a nation.” Now,—for
-lovers will be lovers still, although the whole
-body of Calvinism be behind them, and the
-lurking foe of the forest before,—they sat
-on the Burial Hill by night, and watched
-such a scene as William Allingham has
-pictured,—</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 394px;">
-<img src="images/i-049.jpg" width="394" height="608" alt="John Alden" />
-</div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a><br /><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 390px;"><a id="illus51"></a>
-<img src="images/i-051.jpg" width="390" height="250" alt="ship at sea" />
-</div>
-
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-  <div class="poetry">
-    <div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“Above the headlands massy, dim,</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">A swelling glow, a fiery birth,</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">A marvel in the sky doth swim,</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Advanced upon the hush of earth.</span></div>
-    </div>
-    <div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“The globe, o’erhanging bright and brave</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The pale green-glimmering ocean-floor,</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Silvers its wave, its rustling wave</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Soft folded on the shelving floor.</span></div>
-    </div>
-    <div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“O lonely moon, a lonely place</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Is this thou cheerest with thy face;</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Three sand-side houses, and afar</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">The steady beacon’s faithful star”—</span></div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="unindent">only, instead of the three sand-side houses it
-was “the Seven Houses of Plymouth,” and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
-all the beacon was the light in the “Mayflower’s”
-or the “Fortune’s” shrouds.</p>
-
-<p>That the betrothal did not impair the
-friendship of the lovers with the impetuous
-Captain Standish, we can understand from
-the fact that when, subsequently, the Captain
-built his house over on Duxbury Hill, John
-Alden’s house stood near it; and that later,—and
-unhindered, for aught we know,—John
-Alden’s daughter married the Captain’s
-son. It pleases me to think that the dear
-daughter-in-law, by whom, in his last will
-and testament, the old Captain desired to
-be buried, was the daughter of Priscilla
-Mullins.</p>
-
-<p>Priscilla and John must have had time
-enough for this sweet acceptance of life and
-nature together, for although in other instances
-courtship was brief, yet we know that
-their wedding certainly did not take place till
-May, as Governor Winslow then married Mrs.
-White, and that marriage was recorded as the
-first in the colony. There is indeed some
-probability that the engagement of the young<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a><br /><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a><br /><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
-people was of quite another character from
-the incomprehensibly brief one just mentioned.
-Perhaps John Alden was building
-his house, and it may be that it had to be
-more or less commodious, since he probably
-became the protector of the family which
-Mr. Mullins left, and which is registered as
-numbering five persons upon landing. But
-if we accept the legend regarding the wedding
-journey, we might have to postpone the
-bridal for some seasons, as it was not until
-three years after their arrival that Edward
-Winslow, having gone to England and returned
-with cattle, made such a thing possible
-as that traditional ride on the back of the
-gentle white bull with its crimson cloth and
-cushion.</p>
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 392px;">
-<img src="images/i-053.jpg" width="392" height="542" alt="wedding procession" />
-</div>
-<div>
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-056a.jpg" alt="Grape vine" width="388" height="174" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-056b.jpg" alt="Grape vine" width="172" height="136" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-056c.jpg" alt="Grape vine" width="128" height="238" />
-</div>
-
-<p>In fact, the incidents of real occurrence
-and the traditions of real descent, concerning
-the courtship of Priscilla, are very few.
-We know that Rose Standish died; that the
-Captain sent John Alden to urge his suit
-before Mr. Mullins, who replied favorably;
-that Priscilla asked him why he did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>
-speak for himself; that
-Mr. Mullins presently
-died; that Captain Standish
-presently married
-elsewhere; and that
-John eventually married
-Priscilla, lived in the neighborhood
-of the Captain, married
-his daughter to the Captain’s
-son, and died in his old
-age, being known to the end
-as a severe and righteous and
-reverend man. These are the
-bare facts; all the rest is
-coloring and conjecture. Yet
-one has the right to surround these facts
-with all the possibilities of human emotion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
-alike
-in any
-age and
-with any
-people, which
-go to the making
-of romance and
-poetry, and which will
-do so as long as hearts
-beat, lips tremble, and
-souls desire companionship.</p>
-
-<div>
-  <img class="splitr" src="images/i-057a.jpg" alt="woodbine" width="379" height="103" />
-  <img class="splitr" src="images/i-057b.jpg" alt="woodbine" width="301" height="72" />
-  <img class="splitr" src="images/i-057c.jpg" alt="woodbine" width="259" height="91" />
-  <img class="splitr" src="images/i-057d.jpg" alt="woodbine" width="179" height="289" />
-</div>
-
-<p>It is because we like
-to make these people,
-looming large through
-the mists of time, and on
-the stage of their mighty
-drama, real enough for
-our sympathies, that we love Mr. Longfellow’s
-version of their story. Nothing more skilful,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
-gentle, and beautiful has ever been written
-concerning the Pilgrims than the beloved
-poet’s verses. Every incident in their pages
-is absolutely true to the life of the period,
-and although the anachronisms are many,
-yet they do not exceed the province of
-poetic license,—they are perhaps necessary
-to it; and many of the events are those
-which actually took place, if not at the stated
-time. Thus, for instance, it was at a later
-season than the poem intimates that the gory
-head of the savage was brought home; yet
-it was brought home. It was at another date
-that the rattlesnake skin filled with arrows
-was sent; yet it was sent. It was Governor
-Bradford and not Captain Standish who returned
-it stuffed with powder and shot; yet
-it was returned. It was much later than
-represented that property was held in severalty,
-and individuals owned their dwellings;
-yet they did do so in time. It was
-much later than the first autumn that the
-ships of the merchants brought cattle; yet
-they did bring cattle. But whether the cattle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
-came early or late, that snow-white bull
-with his crimson saddle-cloth gives occasion
-for one of the most beautiful pictures
-in literature. Europa herself, fleeing over
-the meadow on her white bull, flecked with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
-warm sunshine, with shadows of leaves and
-flowers, all white and rosy loveliness as she
-fled, is not a fairer picture to the mind than
-this exquisite one of the bridal procession,
-where</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 409px;">
-<img src="images/i-059.jpg" width="409" height="449" alt="The ships of
-the merchants" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-  <div class="poetry">
-<div class="verse">“Pleasantly murmured the brook as they crossed the ford in the forest,</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love, through its bosom,</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Tremulous, floating in air, o’er the depths of the azure abysses.</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors,</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Gleaming on purple grapes that, from branches above them suspended,</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree,</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol,</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Like a picture, it seemed, of the primitive pastoral ages,</span></div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Fresh with the youth of the world.”</span></div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span></p>
-<h2 class="faux">AGNES SURRIAGE</h2>
-
-
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a><br /><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p>
-
-
-
-
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 358px;">
-<img src="images/i-063a.jpg" width="358" height="98" alt="AGNES SURRIAGE title" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="faux">
-<div class="poetry-container">
-  <div class="poetry">
-<div class="verse">“<i>Misled by Fancy’s meteor ray,</i></div>
-<div class="verse"><i><span style="margin-left: 5em;">By Passion driven,</span></i></div>
-<div class="verse"><i><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">But yet the light that led astray</span></i></div>
-<div class="verse"><i><span style="margin-left: 5em;">Was light from Heaven”</span></i></div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 412px;"><a id="illus_64"></a>
-<img src="images/i-064.jpg" width="412" height="270" alt="down-stairs ran the streets" />
-</div>
-
-<div>
-  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i-063-drop-o.jpg" width="169" height="195" alt="O" />
-</div>
-
-<p class="drop-capi">ONE of the few perfect
-jewels of romance,
-needing neither the
-craft of imagination
-nor cunning device
-of word-cutting lapidary,
-is that of
-Agnes Surriage, so
-improbable, according to every-day standards,
-so informed with the truest sentiment,
-and so calculated to satisfy every
-exaction of literary art, that even the most
-critical eye might be forgiven for tracing
-its shifting color to the light of fancy, and
-not of homely truth. Even at the present
-day, when the “Neck” is overrun by the
-too-civilized cottager, to whose gilded ease<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>
-summer life everywhere most patiently conforms,
-Marblehead is one of our coast wonders,—a
-fortress perennially held by beauty,
-and dedicated to her use; but let the reminiscent
-gaze wander back a century and a half,
-and how entirely fitted to the requirements
-of fancy would it find the quaint town, the
-vagrant peninsula, and serenely hospitable
-harbor! The town itself was fantastically
-builded, as if by a generation of autocratic
-landowners, each with a wilful bee in his
-bonnet. Upstairs and downstairs ran the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a><br /><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a><br /><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
-streets; they would have respected not my
-lady’s chamber. Their modest dwellings
-seem by no means the outcome of a community
-governed by common designs and
-necessities; rather do they voice a capricious
-and eccentric individualism.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 387px;">
-<img src="images/i-065.jpg" width="387" height="454" alt="“Houses set catty cornered to the street" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 171px;"><a id="illus67"></a>
-<img src="images/i-067.jpg" width="171" height="181" alt="An old Marbleheader" />
-</div>
-
-<p>“Well, you see,” said an old Marbleheader,
-indulgently, “they built
-the houses fust, an’ the
-streets arterwards. One
-man says to himself,
-‘I’m a-goin’ to set here;
-<i>you</i> can set where you’re
-a mind to.’ But,” he
-added, in loyal justification
-of his forbears, “I
-tell ye what ’tis, they done the best they
-could with what they had to do <i>with</i>!”</p>
-
-<p>For they were governed by no inexplicable
-and crazy fancy,—these sturdy fishermen of
-Marblehead; they were merely constrained
-by the rigid requirements of their chosen
-site. Building on that stony hillside, they
-were slaves of the rock, dominated by it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
-pressed into corners. The houses themselves
-were founded upon solid ledges, while
-the principal streets followed the natural valleys
-between; and with all such rioting of
-irregularity, that long-past generation was
-doubtless well content. A house set “catty-cornered”
-to the world at large, sovereign
-over its bit of a garden, was sufficient unto
-itself, overtopped though it were by the few
-great colonial mansions, upspringing here
-and there, or by the solid dignity of the old
-Town-House. The smaller dividing paths,
-zigzag as they would, led to all the Romes
-of local traffic, and presently the houses followed
-the paths, the paths developed into
-rocky streets, and lo! there was Marblehead,
-a town dropped from the skies, and each
-house taking root where it fell.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a id="illus69"></a>
-<img src="images/i-069.jpg" width="600" height="407" alt="The solid dignity of the old Town House" />
-</div>
-
-
-<div>
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-071a.jpg" alt="The Old grave yard" width="410" height="165" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-071b.jpg" alt="The Old grave yard" width="260" height="161" />
-</div>
-
-<p>But if any one reading the tale of these
-wilful dwellings should soberly doubt the
-common interests of the people, let him
-climb the rocky eminence in their midst to
-the old graveyard, where stood the little
-church, the oldest of all; here the first settlers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a><br /><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a><br /><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
-worshipped, and here, in comforting
-nearness, they buried their dead, within the
-niches spared them by the rock. It was set
-thus high, this homely tabernacle of faith,
-to overlook land and water, that no stealthy
-Indian band might creep upon the worshippers
-unaware,—for those were the days of
-the church militant in more than a poetic
-sense. An admirable spot this for the antiquary,
-wherein to pursue his loving labor of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
-coaxing forward a reluctant past! Ancient
-headstones will salute his eye, and of these
-said one local lingerer, garrulous as he who
-discoursed on Yorick’s skull, “I can tell the
-date of ’em all, jest as I could a buildin’, by
-the architectur’!” But let him not conclude
-that in scanning the slabs erected two centuries
-ago he has seen all,—for here lies
-many an unrecorded grave. “They had to
-send to England for their stones then,” said
-the Oldest Inhabitant. “Poor folks couldn’t
-afford that, an’ most of ’em went without.”</p>
-
-<div><a id="azalea"></a>
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-074a.jpg" alt="The wild azalea" width="297" height="159" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-074b.jpg" alt="The wild azalea" width="203" height="48" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-074c.jpg" alt="The wild azalea" width="149" height="177" />
-</div>
-
-<div><a id="blackberry"></a>
-  <img class="splitr" src="images/i-075aa.jpg" alt="The blackberry clings and crowds" width="286" height="152" />
-  <img class="splitr" src="images/i-075ab.jpg" alt="The blackberry clings and crowds" width="115" height="252" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 128px;"><a id="butterfly"></a>
-<img src="images/i-075b.jpg" width="128" height="112" alt="Butterfly" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Across the little harbor, at nightfall populous
-with white sails, stretches the “Neck,”
-once a lonely, rock-defended treasury of
-beauty, besieged by wave, and alternately
-lashed and caressed by the fickle, but persistent
-foam. Well fitted are its girdling citadels
-for enduring warfare; their towers outlast the
-feet that climb them, and their masonry
-crumbles not below, save slowly, through the
-infinite patience of the eternally tossing sea.
-And when the eye tired of this majesty of the
-illimitable, when it wearied of ocean spray,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>
-spouting column-like through some gigantic
-cleft, and found itself oppressed by the
-rhythm of rolling foam, what would it have
-seen, on turning inland from Castle Rock,
-that century and a half agone? A stretch of
-green pasture-land, becoming yellow as
-August marches on,—the “Neck” itself.
-Then, wandering on unwearied, still traversing
-the “Neck,” sweet, bosky hollows, where
-lie to-day such treasures of shining leaf and
-soft-lipped flower as Paradise might claim.
-These are the wild, sunken gardens on the
-road to Devereux, glowing in the gold of a
-royal tansy, greenly odorous of fern, and
-sweet with the wild azalea,—honey-smeared
-and pollen-powdered, loved of the bee, and
-his chief tempter to drunken revels on the
-way from market. The button-bush holds
-aloft her sign of cool white balls; loosestrife
-stars the green undergrowth with yellow; and
-over stick and stone the blackberry clings
-and crowds. There the wild rose lives and
-blooms, fed on manna brought by roving
-winds and fleeting sunlight, never unblest,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
-even when the purveyors of honey come
-winging by, to rifle her sweets, and leave her
-to the ripening of maturity and the solid
-glow of her
-red-hipped
-matron-hood.
-And
-on the left
-again, still
-facing
-south, is
-the insistent sea, dragging
-down its pebbly
-beach, and on the right, the
-dimpling harbor, reddened,
-for him who is wise enough
-to wander that way at sunset,
-with flaming banners of the
-sky. To cross the harbor
-again, and follow the mainland
-back to a point nearly opposite the
-lighthouse of the Neck, is to find, neighbored
-by the old graveyard, ruined and grassy Fort
-Sewall, to-day the lounging-place for village<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
-great-grandfathers, or vantage-ground for
-overlooking a yacht race, but in 1742, when
-Charles Henry Frankland was Collector of
-the Port of
-Boston, just
-a building.
-And one day
-in the previous
-year,
-the gallant
-young Collector, smartly dressed
-in the fine feathers of the period,
-and no doubt humming a song,—since
-he seems to have fulfilled
-all the conditions of an
-interesting young galliard,—came
-riding down
-on some business
-connected with
-the prospective
-fort. He stopped at the Fountain
-Inn for a draught,—not
-so innocent, perhaps, as that from the clear
-well still springing near the spot,—and,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
-scrubbing the tavern floor, there knelt before
-him, in lovely disarray, the sweet beggar-maid
-destined to be crowned at once by the
-favor of this careless Cophetua. Let that
-phrase be swiftly amended! Agnes Surriage
-was no beggar-maid, but the honest
-daughter of hard-working fisher-folk, and
-patient under her own birthright of toil.
-Her beauty was something rare and delicate,
-calculated to arrest the eye and chain the
-heart; the simple dignity of her demeanor
-was no more to be affected through her
-menial task than a rose by clouded skies.
-Her fair feet were naked, and blushed not at
-their poverty, but Frankland’s heart ached
-with pity of them, and he closed her fingers
-over a coin, to buy shoes and stockings.
-Then he gave her “good-day,” and rode
-away,—but not to forget her; only to muse
-on her grace, and to start at the vision of
-her eyes, shining between him and his bills
-of merchandise and lading. Again he came
-riding that way, and again he found her, still
-barefooted; but when he reproached her for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a><br /><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a><br /><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
-having failed to put his coin to its destined
-use, she blushed, and answered in the homely
-dialect of Marblehead, which yet had no
-power over the music of her voice, that the
-shoes and stockings were bought, but that
-she kept them to wear to meeting. And
-now the young Collector went often and
-more often to Marblehead, until the day
-came when he obtained her parents’ permission
-to become her guardian, and take her
-away to be educated. So the wild bird
-entered voluntarily into the life of cages, to
-learn the demeanor and song-notes which
-were approved by the fashionable Boston of
-the day.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 394px;">
-<img src="images/i-077.jpg" width="394" height="484" alt="again he came riding" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 403px;"><a id="illus81"></a>
-<img src="images/i-081.jpg" width="403" height="530" alt="bravely arrived in small clothes and wigs" />
-</div>
-
-<p>The quaint, village-like, and yet all-regal
-Boston of the past! Perhaps this was one of
-the most interesting pages of its life history,
-before the royal insolence had roused in it
-an answering manhood; when fashion scrupulously
-followed a far-away court over sea,
-and the daily life of luxurious British officials
-was so distinct from that of the Puritan stratum
-of society. In England, public affairs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
-seesawed between the policies of George II.
-and Walpole, and from the world of letters,
-Richardson and Fielding were amusing the
-young bloods of the day, and by no means
-toughening their moral fibre. The leisure
-of the bold Britons who ruled over us was
-not for a moment poisoned by fear of American
-defection from the royal mother-land.
-Rather, for men like Frankland, was this
-loitering in western airs their <i>Wanderjahr</i>,
-a pleasant exile, whence they would some
-day return, with treasures of new experience,
-to sit down beside the English hearthstone,
-and, Othello-like, rehearse the wonders they
-had seen. Meantime, they walked the streets,
-bravely attired in small-clothes and wigs,
-discussing the troubles brewing with the
-French, and seeking, so far as they might,
-to build up a miniature England within the
-savage-girdled settlements of the New World.
-Sir Harry Frankland stands out from the
-faint portraiture of the time as one of the
-most knightly souls of all. He was young,
-blest with an attractive presence, and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a><br /><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a><br /><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
-tastes were those of the gentleman and the
-scholar. That he was sensitive and refined
-even to the point of evincing that feminine
-strain of temperament so
-fascinating in a manly
-man, is very apparent
-from the fragmentary
-records of his life,
-but he lacked no
-sturdiness of
-temper or
-demeanor.</p>
-
-<div>
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-083a.jpg" alt="She learned to play the harpsichord" width="139" height="85" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-083b.jpg" alt="She learned to play the harpsichord" width="190" height="58" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-083c.jpg" alt="She learned to play the harpsichord" width="211" height="18" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-083d.jpg" alt="She learned to play the harpsichord" width="258" height="51" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-083e.jpg" alt="She learned to play the harpsichord" width="317" height="34" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-083f.jpg" alt="She learned to play the harpsichord" width="393" height="155" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 416px;"><a id="illus85"></a>
-<img src="images/i-085.jpg" width="416" height="512" alt="Frankland" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 422px;"><a id="illus87"></a>
-<img src="images/i-087.jpg" width="422" height="254" alt="Tragic battlings of heart and conscience" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Agnes Surriage responded at once to the
-new influences about her. Indeed, she was
-of those to whom borrowed graces are external<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
-and almost unnecessary: Nature had
-dowered her with the riches of beauty, nobility,
-and modesty of mien; and to adorn her
-by artifice was merely to remove the rose
-from its garden bed, and set it in a silver
-vase. From God’s lady, fitted to scrub the
-tavern floor and lose no charm thereby, she
-became a dame who might have been commended
-to courts and palaces. She learned
-to sing, to play on the harpsichord, and dance;
-for painting, embroidery, and all the fragile
-accomplishments of the day, she had a surprising
-aptitude. She was surrounded by
-luxuries which might have proved bewildering
-to a less simple and noble nature, and,
-last of all, she stooped to receive the crown
-of her guardian’s love. Alas! poor maid
-of Marblehead! for this was a crown that
-smirched the brow and stung as with nettles,
-no matter how bravely its blossoms nodded
-above. Frankland loved her, but he was
-bound by the fetters of an ancestral pride;
-he owed all to his family, and nothing to
-his own manly honor,—and he could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a><br /><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a><br /><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
-marry her. It is pitiful to guess with what
-tragic battlings of heart and conscience her
-overthrow must have been accomplished, but
-even she could scarcely have counted the
-cost,—the daily torture, the hourly pinch
-of circumstance, when one after another of
-Boston’s best, who had not failed to recognize
-the fisher-girl, rich in nothing but her
-dower of beauty and character, refused to
-countenance the fine lady, so ironically favored
-of Fortune. In the humble home
-at Marblehead, her name became the keynote<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
-of shame; for though these fisher-folk
-were rude of speech almost beyond belief,
-though they caroused wildly half the year,
-preparatory to their summer voyaging, they
-had a hard hand and a rough word ready
-for one who was light o’ love. She had
-given all for the one jewel, and both her
-little worlds, of birth and adoption, trembled
-from their centres. All the more did
-she turn to Frankland, as to her sun of happiness,
-and in the unfailing warmth of his affection
-she alternately drooped and smiled.</p>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 479px;"><a id="illus89"></a>
-<img src="images/i-089.jpg" width="479" height="663" alt="All the more did she turn to Frankland" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Then began the second and more glowing
-chapter of this dramatic tale. Sir Harry
-must have been bitterly moved by the social
-ostracism of his ward and lady, and he shortened
-the period of her expiation by the only
-possible device left him, save one, and took
-her away. He had bought a large tract of
-land in Hopkinton, Massachusetts, and there
-he proceeded to build a manor-house, where,
-in a humble fashion, life might copy the
-abundance and solid magnificence of England’s
-ancestral homes. The country itself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a><br /><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a><br /><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
-was a wonder of hill and valley,—hills where
-the loftier beauty of Wachusett and Monadnock
-might be viewed, valley where a happy
-village nestled, and where clear, cool streams
-flowed lightly to their outlet. Sir Harry was
-a clever purveyor of the good things of life;
-he made his manor-house commodious and
-fair to see, and erected a comfortable farm-house
-for his laborers; his great hall roof
-was supported by fluted columns, and its
-walls were hung with tapestry, rich of hue
-and texture. The house was approached by
-a long and stately avenue cut through magnificent
-chestnut-trees; the ground sloped
-down in commanding terraces of blooming
-sward, and the gardens and orchards were
-marvels of growth and abundance. In his
-gardening he took delight, but, alas for human
-pride and power! only the giant box of his
-borders and a few ancient trees have seen the
-present century, to attest his vanished life.</p>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 420px;"><a id="illus92"></a>
-<img src="images/i-092.jpg" width="420" height="440" alt="The giant box and a few ancient trees" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 127px;"><a id="illus93"></a>
-<img src="images/i-093.jpg" width="127" height="228" alt="At the banquets" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Here the two must have lived Arcadian
-days, in all but lightness of heart. The
-lovely maid, for whom no labor had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
-too menial, reigned the queen, of this lavish
-domain. She was the mistress of negro
-slaves, she walked in silk attire; and local
-gossip assures us that her tastes and those
-of Sir Harry were in the most perfect harmony.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
-They rode together through their
-own plantation or over the fascinatingly unbroken
-country without; they read the latest
-consignment of books from England; and Sir
-Harry hunted the fox and fished for trout in
-the cold streams, possibly while Agnes did a
-bit of graceful and ladylike sketching on her
-own account,—for it must not be forgotten
-that she belonged to that unexacting era
-when large eyes and sloping shoulders were
-much in vogue, and when the
-work of womankind was all the
-more attractive for being a
-trifle thin and “very pretty.”
-Probably her accomplishments
-were all the more entrancing
-for matching “lady’s Greek,
-without the accents.” Here in
-their primeval wilderness, primeval
-morals were more to be
-tolerated, and the autocrats of Boston did not
-disdain to visit them—undoubtedly without
-their wives! At least Sir Harry did not
-lack society; and there is a tale that at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
-banquets, enlivened by the choice wines
-which came in his way by virtue of his collectorship,
-he, canny man! drank from a
-glass cunningly made shallow, so that he
-could toss off an equal number of potations
-with his guests, and yet remain sober while
-they slid imperceptibly under the table. For
-in these days, it was almost incumbent upon
-gentlemen to conclude a banquet by lying
-reclined “like gods together, careless of
-mankind.”</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 412px;"><a id="illus95"></a>
-<img src="images/i-095.jpg" width="412" height="264" alt="His ancestral home" />
-</div>
-
-<div><a id="illus97"></a>
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-097a.jpg" alt="The opera was the finest on the continent" width="92" height="39" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-097b.jpg" alt="The opera was the finest on the continent" width="163" height="121" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-097c.jpg" alt="The opera was the finest on the continent" width="287" height="67" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-097d.jpg" alt="The opera was the finest on the continent" width="399" height="188" />
-</div>
-
-<p>But the swiftly moving drama could not
-be stayed; and Sir Harry, called to England
-by imperative duties, carried his treasure
-with him to his ancestral home. At
-least there was this to be said in his favor,
-during these doubtful days,—he was not of
-those who love and ride away, and his loyalty
-to the one chosen woman never suffered
-reproach. In England, either defiant
-or strangely obtuse to the values of their
-relation, he introduced Agnes to his family;
-but neither her beauty nor accomplishments
-redeemed her unhappy standing, and she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
-made to suffer that social ignominy which
-is so absolutely blighting to a sensitive spirit.
-The strange irony of her position is very
-dramatic in retrospect. A lovely and loving
-woman, bound to the man who should have
-been her husband, by all the most holy vows
-of nature, she was destined to an unrelieved
-and bitter expiation; and though Sir Harry
-doubtless suffered with her, yet, in obedience
-to the laws that govern womankind, Agnes
-must have endured a desolation of misery
-entirely unimagined by him. Again they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
-went into happy exile, and made the grand
-tour of the Continent, ending at Lisbon, at
-that time a species of modern Sybaris. Enriched
-by Brazilian gold, the court was supported
-in a magnificence then unparalleled
-in Europe. The opera was the finest on the
-Continent, and one pageant succeeded another,
-obedient to the whims of any ever-regnant
-luxury. Here, too, on the eminence
-of the seven hills, a colony of wealthy English
-merchants had congregated, and spent their
-fairy gold, flowing back through the magic
-portals leading to the New World, with a
-prodigality emulating that of the court. Here
-Frankland gave himself up to the fair god of
-Pleasure; he lived as if there were to be no
-morrow, and lo! the morrow came, and with
-it the judgment of God. On All Saints’ Day,
-1755, the sun rose in splendor over the city
-of Lisbon; and all its inhabitants, from courtier
-to beggar, took their way churchward, for the
-celebration of High Mass. Frankland, in his
-court dress, was riding with a lady, when
-without warning the earth surged sea-like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
-under them, and a neighboring house fell,
-engulfing them in its ruins. The lady (who
-was she, O Historic Muse? and was their
-talk light or sober, that care-free
-day in Lisbon?), this unnamed
-lady, in her agony and
-terror, bit through the
-sleeve of Frankland’s
-cloth coat, and tore a
-piece of flesh from his
-arm. And
-for him, he
-lay helpless,
-reading the red record of his sins, and
-adjudging himself in nothing so guilty as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
-wrong to the woman who loved him. Strange
-and awful scenes had driven the city frantic.
-Churches and dwellings had fallen; the sea
-swelled mountain-high, and swallowed the
-quay, with its thousands of bewildered fugitives.
-Lisbon went mad, and beat its breast,
-beseeching all the saints for mercy. But to
-one great spirit, even the insecurity of the
-solid earth was as nothing compared with
-the danger of her beloved mate. Agnes
-Surriage, aflame with anxiety for Frankland,
-ran out, as soon as the surging streets would
-give her foothold, and rushed about the desolated
-city in agonizing search. By some
-chance, strange as all the chances of her
-dramatic life, she came upon the very spot
-of his fearful burial. She tore at the rubbish
-above him with her tender hands; she offered
-large rewards, so purchasing the availing
-strength of others, and Frankland was
-saved.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 417px;"><a id="illus99"></a>
-<img src="images/i-099.jpg" width="417" height="533" alt="Agnes Surriage" />
-</div>
-
-<p>To court and people, the earthquake voiced
-the vengeance of an angry God; to Frankland,
-it had been a flaming finger, writing on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a><br /><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a><br /><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
-the wall a sentence for him alone, and in
-security he did not forget its meaning. Waiting
-only for the healing of his wounds, he at
-last besought the blessing of holy church
-upon his love; and Agnes Surriage under
-went a radiant change into the Lady Agnes
-Frankland. And now for a time her days
-became gleaming points in a procession of
-happiness. Her husband returned with her
-to England, where she was received as a beloved
-daughter of the house, and enshrined
-in those steadfast English hearts, where fealty,
-once given, so seldom grows cold; and after
-a tranquil space, the two set sail again for
-America. Even amid the scenes of her
-former martyrdom, Agnes was no longer to
-be regarded as an alien and social outcast.
-She walked into Boston society as walks a
-princess entering her rightful domain, and
-there took up the sceptre of social sway at
-the aristocratic North End. Frankland had
-purchased the most lordly mansion there,
-of which the fragmentary descriptions are
-enough to make the antiquary’s mouth water.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
-The stairs ascending from the great hall were
-so broad and low that he could ride his pony
-up and down in safety; there were wonderful
-inlaid floors, Italian marbles, and carven
-pillars. There Agnes lived the life of a dignified
-matron, and a social leader whose fiats
-none might gainsay. Indeed, from this time
-forward her story is that of the happy women
-whose deeds are unrecorded, and is only to
-be guessed through scanning the revelations<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
-of her husband’s journal. His health seems
-to have guided their movements in great
-measure; for they again visited Lisbon, and
-then came home to England, where he died,
-in 1768.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 394px;"><a id="illus102"></a>
-<img src="images/i-102.jpg" width="394" height="321" alt="They again visited Lisbon" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 257px;"><a id="illus104"></a>
-<img src="images/i-104.jpg" width="257" height="306" alt="cherubs on money box" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Lady Frankland returned to Hopkinton,
-and there she lived through uneventful days,
-with her sister and sister’s children, overseeing
-her spacious estate, and entertaining her
-hosts of friends, until 1775, that fiery date of
-American story. A jealous patriotism was
-rife; and it was not unnatural that the widow
-of an officer of the Crown, herself a devotee
-of the Established Church, should become
-an object of local suspicion, hand in glove
-as she was with the British invaders of our
-peace. Like many another avowed royalist,
-she judged it best to leave her undefended
-estate at Hopkinton, and place herself under
-military protection in Boston, and there she
-arrived, after a short detention by some over-zealous
-patriot, in time to witness the battle
-of Bunker Hill from the windows of her
-house, and to receive some of the wounded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
-within its shelter. Thence she sailed for
-England, as our unpleasantness with the
-mother-country increased in warmth, and at
-this point she becomes lost to the romance-loving
-vision,—for,
-alas for those who
-“love a lover,” and insist
-upon an ideal constancy!
-Lady Frankland
-was married, in the
-fourteenth year of her
-widowhood, to John
-Drew, a wealthy banker
-of Chichester, and at
-Chichester she died, in
-one year’s time. But
-after all, on that sober
-second thought which is so powerful in regilding
-a tarnished fancy, does not her remarriage
-suit still better the requirements
-of romance? For instead of dying a staid
-Lady Frankland, her passions merged in
-the vital interests of caps and lap-dogs, she
-transmutes herself into another person, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
-thus fades out into an unrecognized future.
-Since neither the name of Surriage nor
-Frankland is predominant in its legend,
-even her tomb seems lost; and the mind
-goes ever back in fancy to her maiden name,
-her maiden state, when she was the disguised
-and humble princess of Marblehead.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 128px;">
-<img src="images/i-105.jpg" width="128" height="118" alt="cherub" />
-</div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 170px;">
-<img src="images/i-106.jpg" width="170" height="171" alt="decoration" />
-</div>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p>
-
-<h2>MARTHA HILTON</h2>
-
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 410px;">
-<img src="images/i-108.jpg" width="410" height="595" alt="The little figure with the swishing bucket." />
-</div>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span></p>
-
-
-
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 282px;">
-<img src="images/i-109a-title.jpg" width="282" height="42" alt="MARTHA HILTON title" />
-</div>
-
-
-
-<div>
-  <img class="splittop" src="images/i-109a.jpg" alt="N" width="280" height="119" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-109b.jpg" alt="N" width="272" height="249" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-109c.jpg" alt="N" width="276" height="41" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-109d.jpg" alt="N" width="85" height="50" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 163px;">
-<img src="images/i-110a.jpg" width="163" height="171" alt="Sly damsels in puritanical caps" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 106px;">
-<img src="images/i-110b.jpg" width="106" height="112" alt="another damsel" />
-</div>
-<p class="drop-capi">NEW ENGLAND
-had her spurts of
-human nature in old
-times, whenever she
-was not taken up
-with the witches
-and the Tories, and
-could afford a nine-days’
-wonder over
-so simple a thing
-as a marriage between
-high and low.
-For we had not got then to a professional
-denial of difference between high and low;
-not as yet had the bell of Philadelphia<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
-cracked its heart, like the philosopher Chilo,
-with public joy, and proclaimed the crooked
-ways straight, and the rough places plain.
-When some sweet scrub of an Agnes Surriage
-captured a Sir
-Harry, at the end of a
-moving third act, there
-was a thrill of awe and
-satisfaction: and forthwith
-the story went into
-our folk-lore, and very
-properly; since it had incidents
-and character.
-Sly damsels in Puritan
-caps made the most of a shifting
-society, full of waifs and
-strays from the foreign world.
-Royal commissioners were yet
-to be seen, and gold-laced Parisian barons
-at Newport and Norwich, and pirate Blackbeards
-tacking from the Shoals, and leaving
-sweethearts to wring ghostly hands there to
-this day. So that no lass had too dull an
-outlook upon life, nor need link herself with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a><br /><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a><br /><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
-the neighboring yokel whom Providence had
-assigned her, while such splendid fish were
-in the seas. Let her but wed “above her,” and
-she shall be a fountainhead
-of precedent and
-distinction, and
-the sister ideal
-of King Cophetua’s
-beggar-bride.</p>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 600px;"><a id="illus111"></a>
-<img src="images/i-111.jpg" width="600" height="337" alt="Gold laced dandies at Newport" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 110px;"><a id="illus113"></a>
-<img src="images/i-113a.jpg" width="110" height="179" alt="Nor need link herself with the neighbouring yokel whom Providence had assigned her" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 170px;">
-<img src="images/i-113b.jpg" width="170" height="187" alt="yokels" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 221px;"><a id="illus114"></a>
-<img src="images/i-114.jpg" width="221" height="219" alt="Where Governor Wentworth was born" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 419px;"><a id="illus115"></a>
-<img src="images/i-115.jpg" width="419" height="621" alt="A fishmonger in London" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 137px;"><a id="illus117"></a>
-<img src="images/i-117.jpg" width="137" height="154" alt="He had the mortification to see her prefer
-one Shortridge, a mechanic" />
-</div>
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 129px;">
-<img src="images/i-117b.jpg" width="129" height="164" alt="He saw her prefer" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Poor Agnes
-of Marblehead,
-as faithful as the Nut-Browne Maid
-herself, adorns her romantic station with living
-interest; but Martha Hilton, who figures
-in true histories and in Mr. Longfellow’s
-pretty ballad, is a heroine of the letter,
-rather than of the spirit. We hear nothing
-of her deserts; we hear merely of her success.
-She became Lady Wentworth (all personable
-Madams were Ladies then and awhile
-after, even in the model republican air of
-Mount Vernon!) and she had been a kitchen-wench.
-But she was also the descendant of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
-the honorable founder of Dover, “a fishmonger
-in London,” even as the great and
-gouty Governor, her appointed spouse, was
-grandson to a noblest work of God, who, in
-1670, got “libertie to entertayne strangers,
-and sell and brew beare.” In that house of
-beer, the hearty-timbered
-house planted
-yet by a Portsmouth
-inlet, with one timid
-bush to be seen over
-against the door, was
-Benning Wentworth
-born. Having subdued
-the alphabet,
-grown his last inch,
-looked about, married, and buried his sons
-and Abigail his wife, he enters upon our
-tale “inconsolable, to the minuet in <i>Ariadne</i>.”
-He had played a game, too, and lost, since
-his weeds withered. Having proposed himself
-and his acres to young Mistress Pitman,
-he had the mortification to see her prefer
-one Shortridge, a mechanic. The sequel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a><br /><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a><br /><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
-shows that Benning’s Excellency could rise
-grandly to an occasion, and also that he had
-an amorphous turn for the humor of things;
-for he had the obnoxious mechanic kidnapped
-and sent to sea, “for seven years
-long,” like the child in the fairy-lay. This
-stroke of playfulness insured him nothing
-but a recoil of fate.
-Events restored the
-lovers to each
-other, and he was
-left to console
-himself
-with his
-restless colony,
-with his snuff-boxes and his bowls. And
-into that lonely manor of his, malformed and
-delightful, sleeping over against Newcastle,
-meekly as befits her menial office (though
-it is to be suspected that she was always a
-minx!) enters Martha Hilton, late the horror
-of the landlady of the Earl of Halifax. That
-well-conducted Juno of Queen Street, beholding
-a shoeless girl fetching water from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>
-the decent pump of Portsmouth, in a bare-shouldered
-estate sacred only to the indoor
-and adult orgies of the aristocracy, did not
-content herself, as the poet hath it, with</p>
-
-<p class="center">
-“O Martha Hilton, fie!”<br />
-</p>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 172px;"><a id="illus118"></a>
-<img src="images/i-118.jpg" width="172" height="203" alt="His snuff boxes and his bowls" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 395px;"><a id="illus119"></a>
-<img src="images/i-119.jpg" width="395" height="602" alt="Gov. Benning Wentworth" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Her comment had greater vivacity, and was
-pleasingly metrical. “You Pat, you Pat, how
-dare you go looking like
-that?” There seems to
-be no doubt that the
-pseudo-Hibernian did
-reply with a prophecy,
-and, better yet, that she
-made it her business
-to have spoken true.
-Seven years, according
-to the verses in question,
-did Martha serve her future lord; and
-it is not for this oracle, on whatever computation,
-to dispute with a son of Apollo.
-There she shed her clever childhood, and
-took her degree in the arts of womankind;
-busy with pans and clothes-lines, the sea-wind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a><br /><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a><br /><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
-always in her hair, her strategic eye
-upon master’s deciduous charms, and perhaps,
-provisionally, upon master’s only son,
-“a flower too early faded” for any mortal
-plucking. The latter was not fore-doomed,
-either, to be a stepson. He died; and in
-March of 1760, one year after, a moment of
-historic astonishment befell the Reverend
-Arthur Brown, shared by the painted Strafford
-on the wall, when the good rector of St.
-John’s, having dined sumptuously at Little
-Harbor, heard his host proclaim:—</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-  <div class="poetry">
-<div class="verse">“This is my birthday; it shall likewise be</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">My wedding-day, and you shall marry me!”</span></div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 413px;"><a id="illus121"></a>
-<img src="images/i-121.jpg" width="413" height="220" alt=" Wentworth house at Little Harbour" />
-</div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p>
-
-<p class="unindent">(Ah, no; he marrified him, did that Reverend
-Arthur Brown from the north of Ireland,
-who had so much to do, first and last, with
-the matrimonial oddities of the Wentworths.)
-And the victress, as all the world knows, was
-“You Pat,” suddenly found standing in the
-fine old council-chamber, appropriately vested,
-and radiant with her twenty years. Abruptly
-were they joined, these wondrous two, and
-literally “across the walnuts and the wine.”
-And now Martha had her chariot, as foretold,
-and her red heels, and her sweeping brocades,
-and a cushion towering on her powdered
-head, and a famous beautiful carven
-mantel, on which to lean her indolent elbow.
-By able and easy generalship is she here,
-with him of a race of rulers, aged sixty-five
-and terrible in his wrath, for her gentle orderly,
-her minion. The rustling of Love’s
-wings is not audible in the Governor’s corridors,
-perhaps would be an impertinence
-there, like any blow-fly’s; but domestic comfort
-was secured upon one side, and power,
-swaggering power, upon the other,—a heady<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a><br /><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a><br /><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
-draught of it, such as might well turn a novice
-giddy. Tradition saith that very shortly after
-her elevation, Martha dropped her ring, and
-summoned one of her recent colleagues to
-rescue it from the floor. But the colleague,
-alas! became piteously short-sighted, and
-could offer no help worth having, until my
-lady, with great acumen, dismissed her, and
-picked it up.</p>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 600px;"><a id="illus123"></a>
-<img src="images/i-123.jpg" width="600" height="409" alt="and her strategic eye upon master’s deciduous charms" />
-</div>
-
-<p>For a full decade she rolled along, behind
-outriders, through the fair provincial roads,
-with kerchiefed children bobbing respectfully
-at every corner. The strange, stout,
-splenetic being to whom she owed her meridian
-glory, disgusted with events, and out
-of office, was gathered presently to his fathers,
-and left all his property in her hands.
-With instant despatch, the scene shifts. The
-Reverend Arthur Brown beholds the siren of
-Hilton blood again before him, with an imported
-Wentworth by her side: one red-coated
-Michael of England, who had been
-in the tragic smoke of Culloden. For three
-years now, in shady Portsmouth, he has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
-been striding magnificently up and down,
-and fiddling at Stoodley’s far into the morning,
-for pure disinterested enthusiasm that
-the dancing might not flag; a live soldierly
-man, full of bluster and laughter, equal to
-many punches, and to afternoon gallops between
-the hills of Boston and his own fireside!
-The fortunate widow of one Georgian
-grandee became the wife of this other, his
-namesake; and save that Colonel Michael
-Wentworth was a much more suave and
-flexible person, besides being the “great
-buck” of his day, there was small divergence
-in him from the type of his predecessor.
-Men of that generation fell into
-a monotony: if they were rural, they were
-given to hunting, bousing, and swearing;
-the trail of Squire Western is over them
-all. Well did Martha, tamer of lions, know
-her <i>métier</i>.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 403px;"><a id="illus127"></a>
-<img src="images/i-127.jpg" width="403" height="633" alt="The great buck of his day." />
-</div>
-
-<p>Unto this twain gloriously reigning, came
-Washington, in 1789, rowed by white-jacketed
-sailors to their vine-hung, hospitable door.
-They were the mighty in the land; they had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a><br /><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a><br /><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
-somehow weathered the Revolution; they
-were peers of—</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-  <div class="poetry">
-<div class="verse">“The Pepperells, the Langdons, and the Lears,</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest,”</span></div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="unindent">with their stately Devon names; and none
-could more fitly honor the Father of the
-Country. He went about the town, indeed,
-in a visible halo, weaving the web of peace;
-and his smile was called as good as sunshine,
-and his Sunday black velvet small-clothes
-elegant in the extreme. There was a younger
-Martha in the house, curtseying to this kind
-guest, who had grown up to play the spinet
-by the open window in lilac-time, and who,
-later, tautologically bestowed her hand on
-a Wentworth, and passed with him to France.
-Her father’s cherry cheeks paled gradually,
-before he gave up his high living, and took
-to a bankrupt’s grave, in New York, in 1795.
-It was feared that he checkmated too hard a
-fate by suicide. “I have eaten my cake,”
-he said at the end, with a homely brevity.
-What was in his mind, no chronicler knoweth;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
-but it is not unlawful to remember that in
-that eaten cake Martha Hilton was a plum.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 440px;"><a id="illus131"></a>
-<img src="images/i-131.jpg" width="440" height="714" alt=" Fiddling at Stoodley’s far into the morning" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 422px;"><a id="illus133"></a>
-<img src="images/i-133.jpg" width="422" height="261" alt="Wharves now rotting along the harbor-borders" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Legends such as hers have truth and rustic
-dignity, and they tell enough. It will not do
-to be too curious, to thirst for all that can
-be guessed or gleaned. Let Martha herself
-remain a myth, not to be stared at. <i>Il ne
-faut pas tout corriger.</i> Breathe it not to the
-mellower civilizations that a myth of New
-England can have a daughter only forty
-years dead! That, after all, is not the point,
-and is useful to recall only inasmuch as it
-assures sceptics that the myth was, in its
-unregenerate days, a fact. It rode in stage-chairs
-which performed once a week for
-thirteen-and-six; it held babes to a porphyry
-baptismal font stolen by heretics from Senegal;
-it looked upon the busy wharves now
-rotting along the harbor-borders; it produced
-love-letters on lavender-scented paper,
-and with an individual spelling which the
-brief discipline of a school for “righters,
-reeders, and Latiners” was not calculated to
-blight. Martha must have done these things!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a><br /><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a><br /><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
-and it is no matter at all if they be suppressed.
-Gossip concerns itself exclusively
-with her first daring nuptial campaign, an
-event of epic significance, and in the practical
-manner of that immortal eighteenth century.
-Is it so long ago that the shouting sailors in
-pigtails and petticoats lounged under the
-lindens, along the flagged lanes of Portsmouth,
-fresh from the gilded quarter-galleries
-and green lamps of the Spanish ships? It is
-not so to anybody with a Chinese love of
-yesterday; which is an emotion somewhat
-exotic, it is to be feared, on our soil. Near<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
-to politics, if not to poetry, are the patriot
-pre-revolutionary mutterings of our seaboard
-cities, reaching the ears of the surly nightwatch,
-before the stocks were swept away.
-And it was in that immediate past of effigy-burning,
-and tea-throwing, and social panic,
-that</p>
-
-<p class="center">
-“Mistress Stavers in her furbelows”<br />
-</p>
-
-<p class="unindent">shook her fat finger at the little figure with
-the swishing bucket, not dreaming how it
-should blend with what we have of dearest
-story and song. The life back of our democracy
-is unsensational enough. The saucy
-beauty from the scullery is one of its few
-dabs of odd local color, and therefore to be
-cherished. She is part forever of the blue
-Piscataqua water, the wildest on the coast,
-and of the happy borough which shall never
-be again.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 117px;">
-<img src="images/i-134.jpg" width="117" height="129" alt="Cherub decoration" />
-</div>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-<div class="chapter"></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p>
-
-<h2 class="faux">NOTES</h2>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a><br /><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p>
-
-
-
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 131px;">
-<img src="images/i-137-title.jpg" width="131" height="43" alt="NIOTES title" />
-</div>
-
-
-<div>
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-137a.jpg" alt="S" width="126" height="171" />
-  <img class="split" src="images/i-137b.jpg" alt="S" width="126" height="235" />
-</div>
-<div class="blockquot">
-
-<p><span class="smcap">’Tis</span> hard, methinks, that a man cannot
-publish a book but he must presently
-give the world a reason for it, when there
-is not one book of twenty that will bear a
-reason.</p>
-
-<div class="sig">
-<span class="smcap">Sir Roger L’Estrange.</span><br />
-</div></div>
-<p class="drop-capi2">SO I do now offer my excuses, and
-leave a generous public to the
-decision whether this book may
-be regarded as the one of all the
-twenty, or shall be counted among
-the unhappy nineteen. Very many
-there are who never hear a story
-but they must at once know if it
-be true; and if it be but partly
-true, they fain would know just
-how much is fact and how much fancy. It is to
-satisfy such curious folk, so far as relates to three<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
-New England heroines, that these true histories
-have been written. The proverb runs that “Truth
-is stranger than fiction;” and true it is that truth
-is ofttimes more romantic, and does little violence,
-withal, to our delight in a tale.</p>
-
-<p>He who reads “The Courtship of Miles Standish,”
-and, later, learns something of the true lives
-of its characters, must confess to a slight shock in
-the discovery that the scholarly John Alden, of
-Longfellow’s lines, was but a cooper at Southampton.
-Then, too, the romance that surrounds the
-martial Miles Standish is somewhat dulled, when
-one reads of his parley with the Indians and of his
-killing of some of them. And so, though we must
-confess that the tale is not wholly true, we may
-adopt the Italian saying, “So much the worse for
-truth.”</p>
-
-<p>Sharp eyes might see, even were it not here
-confessed, that Priscilla alone bears not the dignity
-of her full name on the half-titles of this
-book. Despite the eloquence of Juliet, one cannot
-feel the need of Mullins.</p>
-
-<p>Yet, after all is said, we cannot love the poem
-less, but love the poet more. His genius the
-brighter shines, the while our curiosity is satisfied.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>
-Curiosity is a quality denied to few, and it is pleasant
-to satisfy; and so three New England girls
-have written these
-three true histories,
-while I, the artist,
-have wandered here
-and there, with an
-eye to such picturesque
-bits as may
-have escaped calamity
-and progress. This the excuse for the book,
-and now the story of the artist’s quest.</p>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 199px;">
-<img src="images/i-139a.jpg" width="199" height="165" alt="Old houses" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 145px;">
-<img src="images/i-139b.jpg" width="145" height="232" alt="An old English church" />
-</div>
-
-<p>First to Hopkinton, from Winchester,
-by bicycle,—a way which
-lay by the “Wayside Inn.”
-Nothing is more disappointing
-than such a search for oldtime
-scenes, but yet it is a joy, for one
-sees so much that is delightful, if
-not closely related to the object
-of the quest. The road wound
-always to new beauties. The way
-led by old houses and picturesque
-barns, shaded by lofty trees, past fertile farms and
-modern dwellings, bristling with gables and rising<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
-among green, smooth-shaven lawns. A season
-earlier I had spent in England; and when Weston
-was reached, with its quaint stone church, the
-thought arose of those village churches of Old
-England with their ivy-covered towers, and, all
-about, God’s acre.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 409px;">
-<img src="images/i-140.jpg" width="409" height="333" alt="picturesque barns" />
-</div>
-
-<p>But here no manor-house rose proudly above
-the trees, no coat-of-arms was sculptured over the
-cottage doors. Indeed, the picturesque cottages<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
-themselves were missed, and in their stead were
-the plainest of dwellings; but upon the green rose
-something far prouder than a coat of arms, the
-flag-staff, and, at its head, the flag streaming in
-the breeze.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 387px;">
-<img src="images/i-141.jpg" width="387" height="342" alt="The Weston flag staff" />
-</div>
-
-<p>This is the one distinctive feature of the typical
-New England village. Always upon the village
-green is seen the flag-staff, although the town-pump
-may have long ago gone, and the bandstand
-not yet come.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 209px;">
-<img src="images/i-142a.jpg" width="209" height="169" alt="Houses sheletered by great elms" />
-</div>
-
-<p>The ride continued, and still I found comparisons
-between Old and New England, but not to
-the discredit of either.
-Now are more old
-houses sheltered by
-great elms; stone walls,
-green fringed; merry
-children coming from
-school; pastures, with
-grazing cattle; and so
-lies the way through
-Wayland, by the fields and rivers, over picturesque
-stone bridges, up hill and down, until we come
-to Sudbury.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 302px;">
-<img src="images/i-142b.jpg" width="302" height="283" alt="another fertil farm" />
-</div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 406px;">
-<img src="images/i-143.jpg" width="406" height="359" alt="Over picturesque stone bridges" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figright" style="width: 223px;">
-<img src="images/i-144.jpg" width="223" height="367" alt="Here is a noble elm" />
-</div>
-<p>Sudbury is connected with our Martha Hilton,
-for her story makes one of the “Tales of the
-Wayside Inn.” The old hostelry does not look
-particularly antique now. It reminds me of
-what a friend of mine once said, “’Tis wonderful
-what one can do with a little putty and paint.”
-There are some who would, doubtless, prefer to
-see the old inn without that fresh coat of yellow;
-and yet all will commend that generous public<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>
-spirit which is preserving for us this shrine of the
-muse. And it may be that it will longer resist
-the attacks of time, protected by its jacket of yellow,
-than it would be able to, did it wear Nature’s
-soft mantle of gray. But yet the place is one of
-interest, and all about is beautiful. The inn has,
-at least, one merit, inasmuch as it leaves much to
-be imagined, and it is
-well worthy of a visit.</p>
-
-
-
-<p>From thence to Hopkinton
-is a matter of a
-dozen miles, the last four
-of which are exceedingly
-rough and hilly. At Ashland,
-it is said that it is
-four miles to Hopkinton,
-and three miles back.
-From this it may be inferred
-that the village is
-one of those which, “set
-on a hill, cannot be hid.”
-Little of bygone days is
-left for the sight of the
-pilgrim to this village. Here is a noble elm, said
-to measure twenty-five feet in circumference. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a><br /><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a><br /><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
-is said to have been brought from England, and
-set out by the fair hands of Madam Elizabeth
-Price, whose husband, then rector of King’s
-Chapel, was a close friend of Frankland. It was
-in their house that Agnes Surriage found shelter
-while she and Frankland were building their
-home.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 439px;">
-<img src="images/i-145.jpg" width="439" height="546" alt="The Wayside Inn, Sudbury" />
-</div>
-
-<p>The Frankland mansion stood upon the old
-highway, now a country road, pleasant and shady,
-midway between Hopkinton and Ashland. The
-old mansion was destroyed by fire in 1858, and in
-its place now stands a modern structure, said,
-though questionably, to bear a resemblance to the
-original building. A bit of the ancient woodwork
-is seen in a shed, at the rear; and at the side is a
-beautiful and gigantic flower vase, made from the
-upturned stump of one of Frankland’s great trees.
-This is the tree to which Dr. Holmes refers in his
-poem, “Agnes,” where he says,—</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-  <div class="poetry">
-<div class="verse">“Three elms, high arching, still are seen,</div>
-<div class="verse"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And one lies stretched below.”</span></div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>This elm, too, is said to have had a girth of
-twenty-five feet. Indeed, this is the legend which
-attaches to all of the ancient trees hereabout, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>
-that I concluded that it was a figure of speech
-equivalent to the forty-eleven of my boyhood and
-the <i>trente-six</i> of the French. The fine, noble elms
-at the west of the lawn, said by Dr. Chadwick to
-have been planted by the lovers, cast a broad curtain
-of shade over the drive and lawn. Dr. Nason,<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>
-writing in 1865, records the circumference of the
-largest two of these as twelve feet each, but doubtless
-by this time they have reached the conventional
-girth of twenty-five.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 396px;">
-<img src="images/i-149.jpg" width="396" height="471" alt="Great Elms,
-Hopkinton" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Since Dr. Nason’s time the old box of Sir Harry’s
-borders, described as having a height of ten
-or twelve feet, has nearly disappeared except a few
-plants remaining before the house, and on the terraces
-built by Sir Harry’s slaves. One who knew
-some of the descendants of Agnes and Frankland
-well says that, in her youthful days, the young
-girls were wont to gather this box, for Christmas
-greens, with which to deck the old church. A
-bright, sunny day will serve to dispel the terrible
-ghost of Dr. Nason’s early days, and the bewitched
-pump no longer displays its weird waywardness,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a><br /><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a><br /><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>
-but yields, instead, a cool, refreshing
-draught.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 172px;">
-<img src="images/i-151.jpg" width="172" height="200" alt="Shirley Place" />
-</div>
-
-<p>The pilgrim to the places that knew Agnes
-would naturally first visit Marblehead, her birthplace;
-yet, on my quest, I reached it last. Others,
-in a similar pilgrimage, would go first where fancy
-or opportunity leads; and this is the true spirit of
-roaming. So next to Roxbury, to visit Shirley
-Place. The reader remembers how delightfully
-Mr. Bynner introduced
-Mrs. Shirley into his romance,
-and will recall his
-story of Agnes’s ride there,
-in the collector’s coach.
-In my boyhood days in
-Roxbury, the old mansion
-was called the Eustis
-House, and it stood in a
-great field given over to
-goats and burdocks. There are those living
-who remember it when Madam Eustis still lived
-there. This grand dame wore a majestic turban;
-and the tradition still lingers of madam’s
-pet toad, on gala days decked with a blue ribbon.
-Now the old house is sadly dilapidated. It is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
-shorn of its piazzas, the sign “To Let” hangs
-often in the windows, and the cupola is adorned
-with well-filled clothes-lines. Partitions have cut
-the house into tenements. One runs right through
-the hall, but the grand old staircase and the smaller
-one are still there, and the marble floor, too, in the
-back hall. A few of the carved balusters are missing,
-carried away by relic-hunters.</p>
-
-<p>“’Tis a great city,” said Goody Surriage, as
-she peered at Colonial Boston, over the shoulders
-of Agnes and Mrs. Shirley. Now, it is truly a
-great city, wreathed in smoke and steam; and all
-about are churches, school-houses, and factories,
-while the “broomstick train” of Dr. Holmes’
-fancy whirls along, close by the ancient mansion.
-The engraving is from a sketch made many years
-ago. Since then the old house has been entirely
-surrounded by modern dwelling-houses. The pilgrim
-who searches for it will leave the Mt. Pleasant
-electric car at Shirley Street.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 585px;">
-<img src="images/i-153.jpg" width="585" height="420" alt="The Royall House Medford" />
-</div>
-
-<p>In Medford is a house often visited by Sir Harry
-and Agnes, known as the Royall House. This
-house, also, to-day shelters more than a single
-tenant. Here is a little drawing of this home of
-hospitality, which was forsaken so hastily by its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a><br /><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a><br /><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
-fleeing owner, the Colonel, alarmed by the too
-near crack of the guns at Lexington. “A Tory
-against his will; it was the frailty of his blood,
-more than the fault of his judgment.” The electric
-cars from Boston to Medford pass the door of
-the old mansion, as it stands near the corner of
-Royall Street. Medford has a picturesque town
-square; and it is only a pleasant walk to the Craddock
-House, built in 1632, now converted into a
-museum, and thus, after many vicissitudes, rescued
-from the usual fate of ancient landmarks.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 390px;">
-<img src="images/i-155.jpg" width="390" height="304" alt="Medford Square" />
-</div>
-
-<p>And now to Marblehead, by road or by rail as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
-one chooses. Perhaps the pleasantest route is
-from Lynn or Salem by electric car. By either
-route, the ride is a pleasure, and although little
-remains to tell of Agnes in her girlhood, there is
-much that is quaint and picturesque; and to visit
-the old town is well worth one’s time. Arrived at
-Marblehead, the visitor walking down the main
-road to Orne Street, and ascending the hill to the
-old burying-ground, will see by the wayside the
-old houses, “set catty-cornered,” as the quaint old
-saying is, and the bright gardens. Now upstairs
-and now down run the streets, and likely enough<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
-the visitor will meet “many an old Marbleheader,”
-pictures in themselves.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 389px;">
-<img src="images/i-156.jpg" width="389" height="279" alt="Street leading to Moll Pitcher's" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 393px;">
-<img src="images/i-157.jpg" width="393" height="342" alt="Moll  Pitcher's House and the Graveyard" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Just where the road turns to skirt the burying-ground
-at the left, is Moll Pitcher’s house. Whittier
-draws the portrait of our New England witch
-in one of his poems, handling her no more gently
-than he does her fellow-townsman, old Floyd Ireson.
-This house is the home of her youth; as a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
-witch, she flourished in Lynn. I have often heard
-stories of her predictions, and one of my cherished
-possessions is a small square of yellow quilted silk,
-which once formed a part of Moll’s brave array.</p>
-
-<p>Across the way stood the Fountain Inn. Here,
-upon its site, and overlooking the harbor, are two
-cottages, in front of which is the well of the old
-hostelry, from whence Agnes drew the draught of
-water which she offered to Sir Harry. This fountain
-has been recently brought to light, and still
-refreshes the traveller as of yore. Beneath the
-apple-trees which shade it is found a restful seat,
-from which one may look out over a scene of singular
-beauty. As often as one looks upon this scene,
-it meets the eye with an added charm.</p>
-
-<p>We little realize the beauty of our sea. In summer
-time it is ofttimes as blue as the waters of the
-Mediterranean, a dark, intense blue, broken by
-purple patches, by beautiful streaks of emerald,
-dotted with warm, glowing rocks, and accentuated
-by snowy, foaming breakers. Below the hill, to the
-left, are some fishermen’s huts, surrounded by nets,
-drying in the sunshine, boats ashore, old lobster-pots,
-and anchors, all in picturesque confusion,
-ready to be sketched and painted.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span></p>
-
-<p>Away up above the well and the cottages, is the
-old burying-ground, with restful benches here as
-well. Here, one can look across the little harbor
-to old Fort Sewall, and here, just at the base of
-the fort, so says Mr. Bynner, is the probable site
-of the home of Agnes Surriage.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 380px;">
-<img src="images/i-159.jpg" width="380" height="221" alt="Some fisherman's hats" />
-</div>
-
-<p>A walk to the old fort is full of interest. Many
-shady spots are there, in which to rest, and watch
-the waves breaking on the rocks below. From
-this point it is but a step to the terminus of the
-electric cars, at the foot of Circle Street. In this
-street, upon the right, is old Floyd Ireson’s house,
-dark and weather-beaten. But the tourist is advised
-not to ask too many questions concerning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
-him, of the old Marbleheaders; for it is a tender
-point with them, and it is whispered that Mr.
-Whittier’s ballad is more fraught with fancy than
-with fact.</p>
-
-<p>From this point, it is interesting to walk up the
-hill, following the windings and turnings of the
-street. Let the traveller not fail to look into the
-queer old back-yards, and at the gardens, filled
-with old-fashioned flowers, gorgeous in their splendor,
-nor to turn and view the prospect toward the
-town. The quaint streets here are filled with old
-and picturesque houses. Some are fine examples
-of colonial architecture, and some are interesting
-as the birthplaces of eminent men. These places
-should be preserved and marked with appropriate
-tablets.</p>
-
-<p>Now cross over to the hill on which sits the
-Abbott memorial. Here are many stately old
-houses, well worth the attention of the sight-seer.
-The electric cars or the steam railway are near at
-hand, on the other side of the hill, and to return
-to Boston by way of Salem is a pretty ride.</p>
-
-<p>So much for Agnes and Marblehead. Her
-stately house at the North End in Boston, from
-the windows of which she watched the battle of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a><br /><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a><br /><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>
-Bunker Hill, has long since gone; but Copp’s Hill
-burying-ground, the Old North Church, Paul Revere’s
-house, and many other old houses are still
-there.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 412px;">
-<img src="images/i-161.jpg" width="412" height="543" alt="Circle Street and “Old Flud Orson’s” House" />
-</div>
-
-<p>And now, of Martha Hilton. Portsmouth was
-her home and the scene of her brilliant matrimonial
-campaign. This is one of the most picturesque
-of our New England towns. Aldrich’s “An Old
-Town by the Sea” should be read by the pilgrim
-on his way. No one loves the old town more, or
-knows it better than he. Much remains, here, to
-tell of Martha Hilton, but a day well suffices to
-see it all. A short walk from the railway-station
-is a pleasant, old-fashioned market square. At
-times it is filled with wagons of hay and loads of
-wood, while, all about, is a subdued bustle. From
-this square leads Pleasant Street, well named, and,
-only a few steps away, it is crossed by State Street,
-once Queen Street, at the foot of which once
-stood Stavers’ Inn, the “Earl of Halifax.” It was
-in the doorway of this inn that Mistress Stavers
-“fied” Martha Hilton <i>circa anno Domini</i> 1754.
-No print or picture of this old inn is known to exist.
-Beyond State Street is Court Street, with interesting
-old houses, and some of the ancient<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
-flagging here and there. On the cross streets is
-more of this, with sometimes a gutter in the middle
-of the street. All of this portion of the town is
-interesting, dirty, primitive, and full of memories.
-Parallel with Pleasant Street are Washington and
-Water streets, from which, at right angles, run a
-dozen lanes, not a whit altered since Martha’s
-time. Here is where the sailors in pig-tails and
-petticoats used to gather. At the corner of Water
-and Gardiner streets, let the visitor notice the great
-golden linden, overshadowing a house as old and
-as lovely as the tree itself.</p>
-
-<p>The neighborhood is full of old houses, with hip
-roofs and gables. The Point of Graves, a stone’s
-throw away, is sadly neglected. Children sometimes
-play on a large, flat tombstone, and curiosity-seekers
-skip from one headstone to another, in
-search of the oldest date. The old stones are
-sculptured with grim skulls and cross-bones, or
-with humorous cherubs. One thinks of the days
-Tom Bailey spent here, when he was a blighted
-being. Let us hope that it was a more secluded
-spot then than now.</p>
-
-<p>Close by is Manning Place, very short, and at
-the corner is the square, strong house, built prior<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a><br /><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a><br /><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
-to 1670, where Benny Wentworth and his sires
-were born. A grand place this once was, with
-its lawn extending to Puddle Dock. Once this
-was a fair inlet, but now no one will dispute the
-rightfulness of its name.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 470px;">
-<img src="images/i-165.jpg" width="470" height="599" alt="This is where the sailors in pigtails and petticoats used to be" />
-</div>
-
-<p>From this point it is a pleasant walk to the old
-Wentworth mansion, where Martha came, slaved
-and conquered, even receiving as her guest the
-Father of his country. Skirt around the Point of
-Graves, and follow along the water side, by the
-Gardiner House and its big linden, over the bridge,
-and past the Proprietors’ burying-ground; everywhere
-it is picturesque. From thence let the
-traveller follow the left fork of the road in full
-view of the river for a portion of the way, and
-thence pass through pine groves and between great
-bowlders, until, with a sudden descent, a fair prospect
-seaward bursts upon the vision. At one’s
-feet, toward the left, is the old house, “malformed
-and delightful.” I well remember when it was
-venerable in appearance and in its rooms were to
-be seen the old spinet, the Strafford portrait, and
-many other things so delightful to the antiquary.
-But, alas! it now is “spick-span” in yellow and
-white paint, and set back in a well-groomed lawn.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
-<img src="images/i-168.jpg" width="500" height="429" alt="St. John's Portsmouth" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 413px;">
-<img src="images/i-169.jpg" width="413" height="563" alt="The Gardiner House and the Linden" />
-</div>
-
-<p>The visitor will, of course, wish to see St. John’s.
-It has an interesting interior. Here is the old
-plate, the “Vinegar” Bible, and other quaint and
-curious things. The steeple is modern. All about
-are fine old houses and great spreading trees.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a><br /><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a><br /><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
-Stoodley’s, too, one will wish to see, where the gallant
-captain “fiddled far into the morning.” It
-is the brick building, marked “Custom House,”
-and it stands at the corner of Daniel and Penhallow
-streets.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 427px;">
-<img src="images/i-171.jpg" width="427" height="327" alt="Stoodley's" />
-</div>
-
-<p>These are the principal points of interest connected
-with the life of Martha Hilton, but Portsmouth
-old and quaint affords much more to which
-the eye of the lover of the antique will surely
-turn.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 403px;">
-<img src="images/i-172.jpg" width="403" height="300" alt="Plymouth the home of Priscilla" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 392px;"><a id="illus173"></a>
-<img src="images/i-173.jpg" width="392" height="536" alt="a country road" />
-</div>
-
-<p>Every one visits Plymouth, the home of Priscilla.
-There is little need to dwell upon this place here.
-A Plymouth pilgrimage, if by sea, is easy and
-pleasant. Of guide-books there is no lack, and all
-that remains of the Puritan maiden’s time is readily
-found. Even Plymouth Rock is carefully enclosed;
-and rightly, too, else it would long since
-have been carried away in fragments. On the
-hill is the old burying-ground, from which fine
-views may be had of the old town and of the harbor
-where the “Mayflower” lay at anchor, the
-sweeping coast here low in sandy dunes, now high in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a><br /><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a><br /><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
-bolder bluffs. The electric car is here also, which
-takes one the length of the town and far beyond,
-passing the Memorial Hall, where are so many
-relics of old colony days. Plymouth, indeed, is
-easily to be seen. It is the Mecca, to-day, of many
-pilgrims. What has been done for Plymouth, I
-have tried to do for the other old towns into whose
-histories are woven the lives of our heroines. Many
-of these old houses will soon have passed away.
-Many have disappeared within a few years past.
-Let us hope, however, that the little now left to us
-will long remain, and especially may we hope will
-be preserved all that serves to remind us of these
-Three Heroines of New England Romance.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 133px;"><a id="illus175"></a>
-<img src="images/i-175.jpg" width="133" height="127" alt="The End" />
-</div>
-
-<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3>
-
-<div class="footnote">
-
-<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1">[1]</a> “Sir Charles Henry Frankland, or Boston in the Colonial
-Times.” Elias Nason, M. A. Albany, N. Y.: J.
-Munsell.</p></div></div>
-
-<hr class="full" />
-
-<div class="tnote"><p><b>Transcriber’s Note:</b> Repeated major section titles were removed. Varied
-hyphenation was retained as printed. The list of illustrations and
-the captions on the illustrations varied widely. This was retained.
-The illustrations were moved to stop them interrupting the middle of
-paragraphs so the page numbers in the list will often not match the
-actual location of the illustration mentioned.</p></div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
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