[1]This ship has been differently stated to have been the Liverpool and the Pearl. We follow what we think the best authorities.
[1]
This ship has been differently stated to have been the Liverpool and the Pearl. We follow what we think the best authorities.
[2]The prize-officer of the Lexington was a young American, of a highly respectable family, then an acting lieutenant in the English navy. His prisoners seized an occasion to rise, at a moment when he had gone below for an instant, in consequence of which he was dismissed the service; living the remainder of his life, and dying, in his native country.
[2]
The prize-officer of the Lexington was a young American, of a highly respectable family, then an acting lieutenant in the English navy. His prisoners seized an occasion to rise, at a moment when he had gone below for an instant, in consequence of which he was dismissed the service; living the remainder of his life, and dying, in his native country.
[3]It is a curious feature of the times, that, the French ordering the Americans to quit their ports with their prizes, the latter were taken out a short distance to sea and sold, Frenchmen becoming the purchasers, and finding means to secure the property.
[3]
It is a curious feature of the times, that, the French ordering the Americans to quit their ports with their prizes, the latter were taken out a short distance to sea and sold, Frenchmen becoming the purchasers, and finding means to secure the property.
[4]This sword has, quite recently, become the subject of public discussion, and of some private feeling, under circumstances not wholly without interest to the navy and the country. At page 63, vol. 2, of Mackenzie’s Life of Paul Jones, is the following note, viz.:
[4]
This sword has, quite recently, become the subject of public discussion, and of some private feeling, under circumstances not wholly without interest to the navy and the country. At page 63, vol. 2, of Mackenzie’s Life of Paul Jones, is the following note, viz.:
“This sword was sent by Jones’ heirs to his valued friend, Robert Morris, to whose favor he had owed his opportunities of distinguishing himself. Mr. Morris gave the sword to the navy of the United States. It was to be retained and worn by the senior officer, and transmitted at his death, to his successor. After passing through the hands of Commodore Barry,and one or two other senior officers, it came into possession of Commodore Dale, and now remains in his family, through some mistake in the nature of the bequest, which seems to require that it should either be restored to the navy in the person of its senior officer, or else revert to the heirs of Mr. Robert Morris, from one of whom the writer has received this information.”That Captain Mackenzie has been correctly informed as to a portion of the foregoing statement, is as probable as it is certain he has been misled as to the remainder. It would have been more discreet, however, in a writer to have heard both sides, previously to laying such a statement before the world. A very little inquiry might have satisfied him that Commodore Dale could not have held any thing as the senior officer of the navy, since he never occupied that station. We believe the following will be found to be accurate.Of the manner in which Commodore Barry became possessed of this sword we know nothing beyond report, and the statement of Captain Mackenzie. We understand that a female member of the Morris family gives a version of the affair like that published in the note we have quoted, but the accuracy of her recollections can hardly be put in opposition to theactsof such men as Barry and Dale.The sword never passed through the hands “of one or two other senior officers,” as stated by Captain Mackenzie, at all. It was bequeathed by Commodore Barry to Commodore Dale, in his will, and in the following words, viz.“Item, I give and bequeath to my good friend Captain Richard Dale,mygold-hilted sword, as a token of my esteem for him.”We have carefully examined the will, inventory, &c. of Commodore Barry. The first is dated February 27, 1803; the will is proved and the inventory filed in the following September, in which month Commodore Barry died. Now, Commodore Dale was not in the navy at all, when this sword was bequeathed to him, nor when he received it. Dale resigned in the autumn of 1802; and he never rose nearer to the head of the list of captains, than to be the third in rank; Barry, himself, and Samuel Nicholson, being his seniors, when he resigned.The inventory of Commodore Barry’s personal property is very minute, containing articles of a value as low as one dollar. It mentionstwoswords, both of which are specifically bequeathed—viz. “mygold-hilted” and “mysilver-hilted sword.” No allusion is made in the will to any trust. Only these two swords were found among the assets, and each was delivered agreeably to the bequest. The gold-hilted sword was known in the family, as the “Paul Jones sword,” and there is not the smallest doubt Commodore Barry intended to bequeath this particular sword, in full property, to Commodore Dale.Let us next look to the probabilities of the case. The heirs of Paul Jones, who left no issue, gave the sword to Robert Morris, says Captain Mackenzie, as a mark of gratitude. This may very well be true. But Mr. Morris “gave the sword to the navy of the United States,” to be retained and worn by its senior officer. It would have been a more usual course to have lodged the sword in the Navy Department, had such been the intention. That Commodore Barry did not viewhispossession of the sword in this light, is clear enough by his will. He gave it,withoutrestraint of any sort, to a friend who was not in the navy at all, and who never had been its senior officer. This he did, in full possession of his mind and powers, six months before he died, and under circumstances to render any misconception highly improbable.Can we find any motive for the bequest of Commodore Barry? It was not personal to himself, as the sword went out of his own family. Theother swordhe gave to a brother-in-law. “Paul Jones’ sword” was bequeathed to a distinguished professional friend—to one who, of all others, next to Jones himself, had the best professional right to wear it—to “Paul Jones’ first lieutenant.” Commodore Dale did leave sons, and some in the navy; and the country will believe that the one who now owns the sword has as good a moral right to wear it, as the remote collaterals of Jones, and a much better right than the senior officer of the navy, on proof as vague as that offered. Hislegalright to the sword seems to be beyond dispute.In the inventory of Commodore Barry’s personals, this sword is thus mentioned, viz.—“a very elegant gold-hilted sword—$300.” The other sword is thus mentioned, viz.—“a handsome silver-hilted, do. $100.”
“This sword was sent by Jones’ heirs to his valued friend, Robert Morris, to whose favor he had owed his opportunities of distinguishing himself. Mr. Morris gave the sword to the navy of the United States. It was to be retained and worn by the senior officer, and transmitted at his death, to his successor. After passing through the hands of Commodore Barry,and one or two other senior officers, it came into possession of Commodore Dale, and now remains in his family, through some mistake in the nature of the bequest, which seems to require that it should either be restored to the navy in the person of its senior officer, or else revert to the heirs of Mr. Robert Morris, from one of whom the writer has received this information.”
That Captain Mackenzie has been correctly informed as to a portion of the foregoing statement, is as probable as it is certain he has been misled as to the remainder. It would have been more discreet, however, in a writer to have heard both sides, previously to laying such a statement before the world. A very little inquiry might have satisfied him that Commodore Dale could not have held any thing as the senior officer of the navy, since he never occupied that station. We believe the following will be found to be accurate.
Of the manner in which Commodore Barry became possessed of this sword we know nothing beyond report, and the statement of Captain Mackenzie. We understand that a female member of the Morris family gives a version of the affair like that published in the note we have quoted, but the accuracy of her recollections can hardly be put in opposition to theactsof such men as Barry and Dale.
The sword never passed through the hands “of one or two other senior officers,” as stated by Captain Mackenzie, at all. It was bequeathed by Commodore Barry to Commodore Dale, in his will, and in the following words, viz.
“Item, I give and bequeath to my good friend Captain Richard Dale,mygold-hilted sword, as a token of my esteem for him.”
We have carefully examined the will, inventory, &c. of Commodore Barry. The first is dated February 27, 1803; the will is proved and the inventory filed in the following September, in which month Commodore Barry died. Now, Commodore Dale was not in the navy at all, when this sword was bequeathed to him, nor when he received it. Dale resigned in the autumn of 1802; and he never rose nearer to the head of the list of captains, than to be the third in rank; Barry, himself, and Samuel Nicholson, being his seniors, when he resigned.
The inventory of Commodore Barry’s personal property is very minute, containing articles of a value as low as one dollar. It mentionstwoswords, both of which are specifically bequeathed—viz. “mygold-hilted” and “mysilver-hilted sword.” No allusion is made in the will to any trust. Only these two swords were found among the assets, and each was delivered agreeably to the bequest. The gold-hilted sword was known in the family, as the “Paul Jones sword,” and there is not the smallest doubt Commodore Barry intended to bequeath this particular sword, in full property, to Commodore Dale.
Let us next look to the probabilities of the case. The heirs of Paul Jones, who left no issue, gave the sword to Robert Morris, says Captain Mackenzie, as a mark of gratitude. This may very well be true. But Mr. Morris “gave the sword to the navy of the United States,” to be retained and worn by its senior officer. It would have been a more usual course to have lodged the sword in the Navy Department, had such been the intention. That Commodore Barry did not viewhispossession of the sword in this light, is clear enough by his will. He gave it,withoutrestraint of any sort, to a friend who was not in the navy at all, and who never had been its senior officer. This he did, in full possession of his mind and powers, six months before he died, and under circumstances to render any misconception highly improbable.
Can we find any motive for the bequest of Commodore Barry? It was not personal to himself, as the sword went out of his own family. Theother swordhe gave to a brother-in-law. “Paul Jones’ sword” was bequeathed to a distinguished professional friend—to one who, of all others, next to Jones himself, had the best professional right to wear it—to “Paul Jones’ first lieutenant.” Commodore Dale did leave sons, and some in the navy; and the country will believe that the one who now owns the sword has as good a moral right to wear it, as the remote collaterals of Jones, and a much better right than the senior officer of the navy, on proof as vague as that offered. Hislegalright to the sword seems to be beyond dispute.
In the inventory of Commodore Barry’s personals, this sword is thus mentioned, viz.—“a very elegant gold-hilted sword—$300.” The other sword is thus mentioned, viz.—“a handsome silver-hilted, do. $100.”
THE SERENADE.
Beneath a bower, where poplar branches longEmbracing wove Seclusion o’er the abodeOf hermit sage, what time the full moon rode’Mid spectre clouds her star-paved streets along,Rose on the listening air a plaintive song,Sweet as the harmony of an angel’s lyre,And soft as sweet; breathed heavenward from a quireOf Beauty, hid the encircling shades among.Of mysteries high, I ween, that sage had dreamed—Who now, upstarting, clasps his hands to hearThemystic notes of Nature’s Anthemclear,Which holiest bards have heard and heavenly deemed!’Tis even thus as to that sage it seemed—’Tis Beauty makes the dreams of Wisdom, dear!
Beneath a bower, where poplar branches longEmbracing wove Seclusion o’er the abodeOf hermit sage, what time the full moon rode’Mid spectre clouds her star-paved streets along,Rose on the listening air a plaintive song,Sweet as the harmony of an angel’s lyre,And soft as sweet; breathed heavenward from a quireOf Beauty, hid the encircling shades among.Of mysteries high, I ween, that sage had dreamed—Who now, upstarting, clasps his hands to hearThemystic notes of Nature’s Anthemclear,Which holiest bards have heard and heavenly deemed!’Tis even thus as to that sage it seemed—’Tis Beauty makes the dreams of Wisdom, dear!
Beneath a bower, where poplar branches longEmbracing wove Seclusion o’er the abodeOf hermit sage, what time the full moon rode’Mid spectre clouds her star-paved streets along,Rose on the listening air a plaintive song,Sweet as the harmony of an angel’s lyre,And soft as sweet; breathed heavenward from a quireOf Beauty, hid the encircling shades among.Of mysteries high, I ween, that sage had dreamed—Who now, upstarting, clasps his hands to hearThemystic notes of Nature’s Anthemclear,Which holiest bards have heard and heavenly deemed!’Tis even thus as to that sage it seemed—’Tis Beauty makes the dreams of Wisdom, dear!
Beneath a bower, where poplar branches long
Embracing wove Seclusion o’er the abode
Of hermit sage, what time the full moon rode
’Mid spectre clouds her star-paved streets along,
Rose on the listening air a plaintive song,
Sweet as the harmony of an angel’s lyre,
And soft as sweet; breathed heavenward from a quire
Of Beauty, hid the encircling shades among.
Of mysteries high, I ween, that sage had dreamed—
Who now, upstarting, clasps his hands to hear
Themystic notes of Nature’s Anthemclear,
Which holiest bards have heard and heavenly deemed!
’Tis even thus as to that sage it seemed—
’Tis Beauty makes the dreams of Wisdom, dear!
THE WIDOW OF NEWBURY.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “HENRI QUATRE.”
———
’Twas the eve of Newbury fair, and the time near the close of the long reign of Harry the Eighth, after monasteries were suppressed. Reform stalked through the land—all things were turned topsy-turvy—abbots and monks beggared, that poor lords might thrive—priests permitted marriage, and nuns driven from their pleasant retreats, were forced to spin for a livelihood. But amid the greater marvels, the townspeople of Newbury had often leisure to ask why Mistress Avery remained so long a widow.
Sitting in her embowered porch, watching the cavalcade of merchants, buffoons and jugglers, on their way to the encampment and site of the morrow’s revels, she attracted many a longing eye. The merchant, whose wandering vocation led him from ancient Byzantium to the shores of the Thames, who came to Newbury to exchange rich silks and foreign jewelry for broadcloth, as he rode by the capacious square tenement, with its deep, embayed windows of dark chesnut-wood, and caught a glimpse of the fair owner, sighed when contrasting his own desolate, wandering lot with that of the fortunate wooer of the rich, comely widow. Mistress Avery was relict of the richest clothier of Newbury, who, dying, left her in sole possession of looms, lands, tenements and leases. Handsome, young, brisk, with riches unquestionable, she attracted tender regards from all quarters—even the proud gentry of Berkshire, with genealogical tree rooting from Norman marauder, far back as the conquest, disdained not an alliance garnished with broad manors, woods of a century’s growth, and goodly array of tenements, of which our widow held fee-simple. But when pressed successively by belted knight and worshipful esquire, she courteously declined their offers, alleging she was bent on marrying one of her own class in life, (if she should change condition,) one who could take upon himself, without degradation, the task of superintending the looms. High born swains repulsed, the field was open to gallants of lowlier rank. But these faring no better, and incurring the ridicule of neighbors, suitors became shy and reserved, seeking to extract token of favor ere they avowed themselves. If the curate called, ’twas merely an inquiry after her soul’s health—the inquiry perhaps linked to a request that she would, from her stores of boundless wealth, add a trifle to the contributions of the poor’s box. The lawyer had his ever ready and undeniable excuses for visiting—leases there were to sign, indentures to cancel. Nor was the tailor barred his plea—was there not much broadcloth yearly fashioned into apparel for lusty serving-man, active apprentice?
Behind Mistress Avery, as she sat gazing at the straggling pageantry, there loitered in hall and doorway the apprentices and domestic servants of the household. Distinguished amongst his companions, by superior stature, stood John Winehcomb, chief apprentice. To him the widow oft turned with remark on passing stranger; the soft regard thrown into her address would have excused boldness in one far less favored by nature than the apprentice, but his answers were submissive, modest, even bashful. An acute observer might perhaps have detected a shade of discontent on the widow’s handsome features, perhaps, as fancifully, attributed it to the coyness and reserve of young Winehcomb; and, indeed, as revolving months lengthened the period of widowhood, there had not been wanting whispers, that ’Prentice John stood a fairer chance with his mistress than all the knights or reputable burgher citizens and yeomen of the county. His appearance certainly did not gainsay the rumor—he had completed his twentieth year, health flushed his cheeks, honesty and intelligence stamped his looks—the features were bold and decided, though of modest expression. In character, he was one of those gifted youths, in whom strict attention and unvarying promptitude supply the place of experience, and who acquire the management and conduct of business, in ordinary cases, rarely entrusted to men of mature years. The clothier, when dying, recommended his spouse to confide business affairs to John—she had done so; in the factory and with the workmen ’Prentice John was all and everything—from his word ’twas useless to appeal.
But when young Winehcomb’s credit with Mistress Avery was canvassed, the gossips were at a loss to affix on decisive marks of favor or tenderness. ’Tis true, he accompanied her to church, but so did the other apprentices—walked by her side, sat next his mistress during prayers, his arm was accepted, his hand arranged the cushions—but then, was he not chief apprentice, would it not be slighting to prefer the services of a junior? Look narrowly at his conduct—there were none of the characteristics of a favored swain, no semblance of behavior indicating one presumptuous of the honor, nor could the absence of these tokens be attributed to natural timidity in the presence of the sex, for at country meetings and fairs, where hoydenish romping was the usual diversion of youth, John participated in rustic gallantries. Yet, sooth to say, though the gossips were at fault, they were not wrong in their conjectures; the widow was deeply in love with ’Prentice John, for his sake had dismissed high-born suitors, wealthy citizens, and, we need hardly say, (though scrupulously regardful of reputation,) had given him many hints, which, alas! he was slow to understand. It might be inexperience, want of self-confidence, or innate modesty, which withheld the youth from tracing her encouragement to its real motive; but from whatever cause, Mistress Avery, who had a very high opinion of her own personal attractions, knew he must be perfectly well acquainted with her riches, was greatly perplexed with his diffidence, his want of susceptibility, and concluded the apprentice must be in love elsewhere to withstand such allurements.
One while, racked with jealousy, determined in very spite and vexation to accept the offer of the first suitor, the next hour affection gained the ascendancy, and she resolved to declare her love. But pride took fire and caused a tumult in the heart, of which young Winehcomb, the unconscious origin, was little aware. How provoking the calmness of his replies, the quiet gaze which met her impassioned glance! Oft with difficulty she refrained from bestowing a hearty cuff on the cold youth, object of fond desire—as often, and with greater difficulty, did she refrain from tenderer salute. To-morrow shall put this wilful-headed boy to the test! If his heart be engaged, it is more than likely he has made an assignation, which I will frustrate! So thought Mistress Avery, revolving a scheme to bring young Diffidence on his knees, or to a direct confession that he loved another. Under pretence of making inquiries respecting the description of merchandise then passing the house, borne on a long train of pack-horses, under conduct of merchants of foreign aspect, the widow beckoned the apprentice (who was standing at respectful distance, beneath the threshold, with his fellow apprentices) to approach her chair, placed outside the house under cover of the overarching porch.
“John!” said the dame, fixing her large eyes on the youth, “I warrant there is store enough of trinkets and finery in yon bales to satisfy the wants of every maiden in Newbury. Happy the youth whose wages are unspent, for to-morrow, by ’r Lady! he might buy the love of the most hard-hearted damsel. Certes, no swain need die of love, if he have money in his purse!”
“If the love were bought by those foreign pedlar wares, it would not be much for a Newbury lad to boast of,” replied the young man, blushing—for the gaze of his mistress was keen and ardent.
“Are the lads of Newbury then so disinterested, Master John,” exclaimed the widow. “Well! I will put one, at least, to the proof. I must walk through the fair, if only to chat with my tenants’ wives from Spene and Thatcham, and shall need your protection, for these strange foreigners may be rude, and Cicely is such a coward she would run away.”
Mrs. Avery was rather baffled by the result of her own feint; for, contrary to expectation, she could discover neither chagrin nor disappointment; the apprentice answered cheerfully, he should be proud to attend on his honored mistress, and would not forget a good cudgel, more than a match for any foreigner’s steel—nay, to ensure her from insult, he would bring all his fellow apprentices. This was more than the lady desired. She was again puzzled, and declined, rather pettishly, the extra corps of gallants, volunteered by the apprentice, more especially, as she affirmed that it was contrary to the letter and spirit of their indentures, which guaranteed festival and fair-days to be at their own disposal. But they would gladly abandon the privilege to do her service, rejoined the pertinacious and simple youth, with ill-timed assiduity.
“Fool!” muttered the widow between her teeth, but not so indistinctly as to pass unheard by the apprentice, who immediately drew back abashed.
A bright morrow gladdened the hearts of the good folk of Newbury. The morn was occupied in the sale and purchase of commodities—the staple article of the town was readily exchanged for foreign merchandise, or broad Spanish pieces, as suited the inclination of the parties dealing. These were busy hours for young Winehcomb and his associates, but amply redeemed by the gayety and attractive dissipation of the afternoon. In walking through the fair, Mistress Avery leaned on the youth’s arm, an honor envied the apprentice by many an anxious, would-be suitor. Ere growing tired of the drollery of the jugglers, mountebanks and buffoons, or the more serious spectacle of the scenic moralites, they encountered Master Luke Milner, the attorney, who thought the opportunity should not be thrown away of endeavoring to gain the widow’s good graces. Master Luke believed his chance very fair—he was of good family, on the youthful side of thirty, but exceedingly foppish, after the style of the London gallants, but caricatured—too many ribbons on doublet, too many jewels on beaver, shoes garnished with roses large as sunflowers. “The worshipful attorney will never do for me,” thought Mistress Avery! She had often thought so, and was blind to many courtesies and compliments which the learned man ventured to throw in with his legal opinions. But now she had a part to play, a stratagem to practice on the feelings of young Winehcomb. Love, like hunger, will break through every restraint; she scrupled not making the lawyer’s vanity subservient to her policy, and, accordingly, listened to his flattery with more than ordinary attention, keeping an eye, the while, on ’Prentice John, to observe the effect of the legal gallant’s honeyed speeches. Alas! for poor, love-stricken Mistress Avery—no burning jealousy flushed the cheek of John—lightened in his eye, or trembled through his frame! Hearing the conversation grow each moment more interesting and tender, believing himself one too many, he politely retired to a respectful distance. Was he so cold and insensible, the handsome blockhead? soliloquized Mistress Avery, heedless of the lawyer’s flowing speeches—I will break the indentures—banish him the house! The wretch!
Not cold, not insensible, Mistress Avery, for see! Even whilst he loiters, there approaches a party from the village of Spene, with whom our apprentice is intimate—he laughs, chats with the young men and maidens, and finally, as the mirth grows more uproarious, salutes a very handsome, fresh colored, smart young damsel. The dame, who witnessed the scene, stung with jealousy, believing her suspicions confirmed, broke off abruptly, whilst Master Luke was at the veryacmeof his tender theme; leaving the astonished gallant, cap in hand, to the derision of acquaintance, who sarcastically advised him to repair the loss by writ of error.
——
Though the widow took no notice of the incident which aroused her jealousy, John was made sensible he had incurred her displeasure. She walked silent, moody, reserved, scarcely replied to his remarks; her large, dark eye flashed anger, but the apprentice, though awed, was struck with its beauty, more struck than he had ever been. It was a new sensation he experienced. He inwardly deprecated the threatened wrath, wondered by what sad mischance he had incurred it, was more tremblingly alive to her resentment, than when oft-times—during the course of apprenticeship—conscious of deserving it. A strange, uneasy feeling began to haunt him—he was sensible of loss of favor, and though, after taxing memory, unconscious of merited disgrace—was surprised, inquieted, by the deep dejection of spirits under which he labored. It seemed as though he had incurred a loss, of which he knew not the extent till now. His arm trembled, and she snappishly rebuked his unsteadiness; he again encountered her glance—it was wild, angry, fierce, yet he felt he could have looked forever.
They were opposite one of those temporary taverns, erected for the accommodation of the higher classes frequenting the fair—tricked out with gaudy splendor, yet affording delicious viands, choice wines to wearied strollers. It so happened that, passing by the open doorway, their progress was arrested by Master Nathaniel Buttress, the wealthy tanner—mean, avaricious, advanced in years, yet ardently longing to add the widow’s possessions to his own accumulated riches. With studied bow, and precise flourish of beaver, he bade Mistress Avery good day, and followed up the salute by invitation to sip a glass of sack, the fashionable beverage of the time. At fair-season, there was not the slightest impropriety, either in the offer, or its acceptation—it was quite in the usual license of these festivals. But ’Prentice John was doubly surprised; in the first place, that the miserly tanner (his niggardliness was proverbial) should have screwed up courage to treat any one with the high-priced nectar—and that his arm, which he gallantly offered, should have been accepted with alacrity by the fair dame, who, our apprentice was aware, had oft made devious circuits, on many occasions, to elude a meeting. Young Winehcomb found himself, lacquey-fashion, following in the rear. He was deeply mortified—such circumstance had never happened before—yet, though vexed, the annoyance was only secondary to extreme surprise at the character of his own feelings. He had valued highly the good will, kind words, and occasional gifts of the lady, as proofs of favor, founded on his honesty, diligence and promptitude, or, at least, without deeply analizing his feelings, believed that in such spirit he received them. But now, smarting under disgrace, it seemed as though lost favor was dear for its own sake—bereft of smiles to which he had been insensible till the present hour, he was unhappy, miserable. ’Prentice John had great difficulty in withholding his cudgel from the tanner’s back, but though he gave him not a beating, he mentally promised one. Master Buttress, elated with good fortune, was more vain-glorious than cautious; unlike prudent lover, uncertain of continuance of sudden favor, dreading loss of vantage ground, snatched by eager rivals, he escorted the dame to a conspicuous seat, whence they could behold the fair, from whence his favored lot was visible to all. The ready drawers, ere ardor called, hastened to place before the guests a tray laden with costly delicacies, crowned with silver flagon full of the favorite potation. Young Winehcomb, who sat apart, though partaking the dainties, was maddened to behold his mistress listen so complacently to the addresses of the veteran suitor. Could she be serious? And if she were—what then? Was she not absolute mistress of herself, her wealth—and was he so specially concerned in her choice? This self-questioning elicited the conviction, startling though true, that he was deeply, personally concerned. He was, then, undeniably in love with his mistress! Was the passion of sudden growth, the birth of the present hour? Alas! no—it had been long smouldering unconsciously—nay, if he doubted, memory flashed innumerable, though till now, unnoticed facts proving its existence—and he had foolishly let slip the golden chance of wooing till too late—till his advantages were the prey of a successful rival!—his own affection only brought to light by the torch of jealousy. Such was the cruel, torturing position of young Winehcomb. ’Twas aggravated in being obliged to listen to the tanner’s flattery, to witness its favorable reception. Nay, worse—he became conscious that Mistress Avery remarked his inquietude, his ill-suppressed hatred of Master Nathaniel, as her eye was often for a moment bent on him. He was convinced she took pleasure in his torments, for on these occasions her manner—though strictly within the rigid limits of propriety—invariably was more marked and tender toward the detested, fulsome niggard. He had heard, alas! such was the custom of the sex. Often was ’Prentice John resolved on leaving the lovers to their own conversation, but restrained anger on reflecting it was his duty to be present with and protect Mistress Avery, till she quitted the fair and returned home. Nor did he relish the notion of leaving the field altogether to the tanner—jealousy united with sense of duty in detaining the youth.
Master Buttress was in rare good humor; he could not deem otherwise but that he was the fortunate, chosen man, and he found leisure in the intervals of fits of gallantry, to conjure flitting visions of broad manor added to broad manor, tenement to tenement, and to picture the future Master—nay, Worshipful Master Nathaniel Buttress, richest gentleman in the county of Berkshire. The only damp on his high spirits was the present outlay; he had been drawn into expenses far beyond usual habits; had never been guilty of similar extravagance; the veriest prodigal of London could not have ordered a more costly board; and that tall, rosy-cheeked lad imbibed the precious sack with the avidity of a sponge, and never looked a tithe the better humored, but sat grinning menaces at him—the donor of the feast! Well! well! all should soon be remedied, and the disagreeable, lanky apprentice turned adrift.
“But who is that now passing the tavern; is it not Master Luke Milner, the attorney? How enviously he looks! he has the reputation of having pressed hard his own suit, but in vain! If I invite him, he will gladly come—drink the widow’s health—and it will save me half the reckoning!” So reasoned the tanner. The lawyer accepted the invitation, though a slight shade of displeasure, he could not wholly dispel, flushed his brow. Master Luke entered, bowing lowly to the widow. Drawing a chair, near as good manners admitted, to the fair dame, he carefully deposited scented gloves and jeweled beaver on adjoining bench, and, in sitting, showed anxiety to display a trim foot, though rather overshadowed by the large roses. The tanner soon perceived that avarice had induced a grievous oversight, for the widow was not quite won. It was both unaccountable and annoying—how perverse these women are! she seemed now disposed to extend as much favor to Master Luke as she had previously exhibited to Master Buttress. ’Prentice John was pleased and distressed at the scene—glad of the tanner’s discomfiture, he was enraged at the other’s success. The elder suitor had shown indifference to the presence of the apprentice, viewed him as a necessary appendage to the widow’s state, or, at worst, a tax on his purse to the extent of sack imbibed; but our lawyer, nearer John’s own age, and gifted with keener eye than his rival, liked not young Winehcomb’s vicinity, his prying, resolute gaze.
“Mistress Avery,” said the lawyer blandly, “our young friend appears uneasy; nor do I wonder, for more than once, in the fair, did I hear red, pouting lips lament the absence of Jack Winehcomb. I pray thee, suffer the lad to stroll where he lists; Master Nathaniel and your unworthy servant, with permission, will zealously protect the pride and boast of Newbury.”
If John had broken any engagement by attendance on her, replied the dame—and a keen smile, part malicious, part searching, lit up the widow’s features as she gazed on the disconcerted youth—let him seek Cicely, who was not far off, to take his place, and he had full permission to absent himself. ’Prentice John, though vexed and out of countenance, said he had no other engagement than duty enjoined, and he was entirely at his mistress’ command.
“Then I must not spoil Cicely’s holiday,” remarked the widow. The apprentice was doubtful whether she spoke in displeasure or not—the tone of voice and expression of countenance were equivocal. A quiet smile, which played for an instant around her mouth, when he declared he had no engagement, presaged returning favor, but the horizon was again clouded. Mistress Avery, turning to the gallants, said the youth should have his own way, that for herself she never found his presence irksome—he was so stupid, she might talk treason in his company without danger—what she was obliged to say was generally misunderstood. Stupid! misunderstood! Were there, in these words, more meant than met the ear? Had he been so blind, so deaf? Meanwhile the situation of the rivals was far from pleasant; the tanner had introduced an enemy within the fortress, whom he could neither dislodge nor compete with; the lawyer was angry that he had not the field to himself; whilst fair Mistress Avery, with impartial justice, hung the scales of favor suspended. Neither could now positively declare he was the chosen swain. Half suppressed taunts, and sarcasm clothed in ceremonious language, threatened more open bickering, when Master Luke, with due regard to a lady’s feelings, besought her to pardon their absence for a few minutes, as he suddenly recollected an affair important to the welfare of his friend, Master Buttress. The dame was condescending, declared she had too much regard for Master Nathaniel to deem their absence a slight, under the circumstances; so the lawyer, affecting to produce a leathern note-case, retired with his rival. The apprentice felt his situation awkward, but he was presently relieved; Mistress Avery bade him follow the gentlemen unperceived, and if they drew weapons, or otherwise exhibited hostilities, immediately interfere to prevent mischief. Concealed by the angle of a canvass booth, he listened, unseen, to the wordy strife. The lawyer was cool, sarcastic, overbearing; the tanner, fiery and threatening. Presuming on youth, good figure, and flowing rhetoric, the former contemned the pretensions of the elder rival, whom he affirmed had nothing to recommend him but wealth not needed; why, therefore, pursue a rivalry, when he could not lay claim to one certain token of affection? And the man of law began enumerating the distinguishing marks of favor which Dame Avery, spite of prudent, cautious, self-restraint, could not avoid exhibiting as soon as he entered the tavern. The tanner’s replication was in the same style. If these be marks of affection, thought the listener, what would they say to my pretensions if I told all? And ’Prentice John, as he listened and commented on what he heard, grew a wiser, more knowing youth.
“If thou wert a younger man, Master Nathaniel,” said the lawyer, “there would be no need for these mutual taunts. We have a readier mode of settling—”
“Curse thy youth, and thee too,” exclaimed the tanner; “ ’cause thou art a vain, braggart fop, with thy galloon and thy large cabbage roses, think’st to brave it over me?—there!—and there!” And so saying, the valiant tanner dealt successive cuffs on Master Luke’s doublet, and drawing weapon, awaited the attack. Their rapiers—for the tanner, though following a handicraft, yet, as owning broad lands, deemed himself entitled to wear a weapon and dub himself gentleman—immediately crossed, but the alert apprentice, with stout cudgel, threw himself between and struck down their guard.
“Good sirs! good sirs! forbear!” cried one hastening to assist young Winehcomb. ’Twas the curate of Spene. The belligerents immediately sheathed their weapons, muttering future vengeance. The holy man requested to know the cause of quarrel, and offered to act as umpire. This, after demur and consideration, was agreed to. Hearing each in turn, he proposed, as more becoming their respective characters than fighting, that the case should be stated to Mistress Avery—the election left to the fair widow. As each deemed himself the favored candidate, and, indeed, with good cause, for our dame had been gracious to both, the curate’s proposal was accepted, and his eloquence solicited to open the pleadings. The party thereupon returned to the tavern, the apprentice not the least interested actor in the drama.
The curate of Spene, though grave and sententious, threw into his speech an under current of humor andbonhommie, which touched off the pretensions of each suitor with dramatic effect and felicity. Neither could question his impartiality, nor had he, as he affirmed, secret preponderance either way; both were esteemed friends, both had received the offices of the church at his hands, both had listened to his Sabbath exhortations. Which of the twain reigned in the lady’s heart, to him he should offer congratulation; to the other he could fairly say, that he merited the honor for which he had unsuccessfully striven.
There was a pause, a deep silence. The blushing widow must now speak, declare herself, decide her own fate, and with it the fortunes of the suitors. How ardently did ’Prentice John long for one of the many opportunities of pleading his passion, oft thrown in his way, so heedlessly neglected! Would she indeed make an election? then, farewell, Newbury! in some far distant land would he hide his disgrace, forget his folly.
Mistress Avery said the gentlemen had certainly given her cause long to remember Newbury Fair; yet they could not expect her mind made up on so momentous a question of a sudden; besides, it was now Wednesday, which had ever been an unlucky day with the Averys, but to-morrow (Thursday) week they should have a decisive answer—her preference made known—provided, and it was the only stipulation besides secrecy, they both refrained pressing their amorous suits in the interim.
So ended the conference, and as the rivals, with the curate, gallantly bade the lady adieu (having promised obedience in every particular) ’Prentice John, in a paroxysm of anger and remorse, made firm resolve that he would challenge to mortal combat the favored suitor, beat him within an inch of life if he refused to fight, upbraid the widow for secretly fomenting a passion which she laughed at, and flee, forever, the town of Newbury.
“You forget, John, I shall need your arm through the press,” exclaimed the dame reproachfully. The apprentice started; he had been leaning against the bench, lost in bitter reverie; he saw not his mistress was waiting. Uttering an indistinct apology, he escorted the lady from the tavern in time to witness that the tanner had been sufficiently adroit to palm off half the expense of the entertainment on his rival. Whether this was omen of higher fortune, the sequel will show.
They scarcely spoke during the remainder of the walk, nor even after reaching home. ’Prentice John was reserved, melancholy, brooding over bitter reflections; the dame, sly, observant, oft casting furtive glances at young Winehcomb, seemingly, as he thought, indulging secret pleasure on beholding his misery. On the morrow they were together in the compting-room; it was his duty to produce entries of the bales of cloth sold during the business-period of the Fair; to account for the same in bullion, or according to the terms of sale.
“These for thyself, John,” said the widow, placing a few gold pieces on the table, whilst she proceeded to place, under triple lock, the remainder. They remained untouched. The third lock of the huge iron chest duly shot, the dame arose, was surprised on beholding the money still lying unappropriated; John looking like man under sentence of death.
“Have I grown niggardly, Master Winehcomb?” exclaimed the widow, “speak, if you would have more.”
John replied by asking if she thought the ten pieces sufficient to equip him, and pay passage to Cadiz, where he heard an expedition was fitting out, in which many Englishmen had volunteered. Mistress Avery, with a calmness which confirmed his despair, replied in the negative, but demanded why he should think of starting for Cadiz, ere, indeed, his indentures were determined. The apprentice declared wildly, if she married either tanner or lawyer, he would depart, even with no more than the ten pieces, and for his reasons—he was not then sufficiently master of himself to detail them!
“But, John,” said the widow, in a tone of expostulation, whilst a smile lurked in the eyes and round the mouth, “what am I to do if I say No? they press me so hard!”
The Newbury apprentice, at his mistress’ feet, taught the answer she should give. On the following Monday, Master John Winehcomb was united in marriage with Mistress Avery—the wedding celebrated by the grandest entertainment ever beheld in the county of Berkshire, the fame whereof spread even as far as the court of bluff Harry. If lacking splendor in any particular, the omission was owing to the short time for preparation, as no expense was spared. The unfortunate suitors, of course, understood the affair from common report, and thought it unnecessary to seek their fate at the widow’s domicil, when they could learn it from every man, woman and child in the town. They were invited to the wedding feast, but wisely declined, as the story of their strange wooing was already abroad.
It was the custom, in those days, for the bridegroom to salute the bride on the cheek, in the church, after the ceremony was performed.
“And you are ready to swear, Master John,” whispered the dame as the bridegroom approached, “that you never saw that damsel before Fair-day, whom you kissed at the Fair?”
“No—nor since!” replied he, believing it a hint for his future conduct.
Master Winehcomb lived happily—his wealth increased so quickly, with the increasing demand for the staple article of Newbury, that when the Earl of Surrey marched against James the Fourth of Scotland, who was then ravaging the borders, the rich clothier accompanied the expedition with a retinue of one hundred servants and artisans, clothed and armed at his own expense. The memory of John Winehcomb and his rich and handsome spouse was long preserved in their native town.
SONNETS.
———
BY MISS ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
———
I.I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;That only men incredulous of despair,Half taught in anguish, through the midnight airBeat upward to God’s throne in loud accessOf shrieking and reproach. Full desertnessIn hearts, as countries, lieth silent, bareUnder the blenching, vertical eye-glareOf the free chartered heavens. Be still! expressGrief for thy dead in silence like to Death!Most like a monumental statue setIn everlasting watch and moveless wo,Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.Touch it, spectator! Are its eyelids wet?If it could weep it could arise and go!
I.I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;That only men incredulous of despair,Half taught in anguish, through the midnight airBeat upward to God’s throne in loud accessOf shrieking and reproach. Full desertnessIn hearts, as countries, lieth silent, bareUnder the blenching, vertical eye-glareOf the free chartered heavens. Be still! expressGrief for thy dead in silence like to Death!Most like a monumental statue setIn everlasting watch and moveless wo,Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.Touch it, spectator! Are its eyelids wet?If it could weep it could arise and go!
I.
I.
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;That only men incredulous of despair,Half taught in anguish, through the midnight airBeat upward to God’s throne in loud accessOf shrieking and reproach. Full desertnessIn hearts, as countries, lieth silent, bareUnder the blenching, vertical eye-glareOf the free chartered heavens. Be still! expressGrief for thy dead in silence like to Death!Most like a monumental statue setIn everlasting watch and moveless wo,Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.Touch it, spectator! Are its eyelids wet?If it could weep it could arise and go!
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
In hearts, as countries, lieth silent, bare
Under the blenching, vertical eye-glare
Of the free chartered heavens. Be still! express
Grief for thy dead in silence like to Death!
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless wo,
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it, spectator! Are its eyelids wet?
If it could weep it could arise and go!
II.When some belovéd voice, which was to youBoth sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,And silence against which you dare not cryAches round you with an anguish dreadly new—What hope, what help? What music will undoThat silence to your sense? Not friendship’s sigh,Not reason’s labored proof, not melodyOf viols, nor the dancers footing through;Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales,Whose hearts leap upward from the cypress treesTo Venus’ star! nor yet the spheric lawsSelf-chanted—nor the angels’ sweet “all hails,”Met in the smile of God! Nay, none of these!Speak, Christ at His right hand, and fill this pause.
II.When some belovéd voice, which was to youBoth sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,And silence against which you dare not cryAches round you with an anguish dreadly new—What hope, what help? What music will undoThat silence to your sense? Not friendship’s sigh,Not reason’s labored proof, not melodyOf viols, nor the dancers footing through;Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales,Whose hearts leap upward from the cypress treesTo Venus’ star! nor yet the spheric lawsSelf-chanted—nor the angels’ sweet “all hails,”Met in the smile of God! Nay, none of these!Speak, Christ at His right hand, and fill this pause.
II.
II.
When some belovéd voice, which was to youBoth sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,And silence against which you dare not cryAches round you with an anguish dreadly new—What hope, what help? What music will undoThat silence to your sense? Not friendship’s sigh,Not reason’s labored proof, not melodyOf viols, nor the dancers footing through;Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales,Whose hearts leap upward from the cypress treesTo Venus’ star! nor yet the spheric lawsSelf-chanted—nor the angels’ sweet “all hails,”Met in the smile of God! Nay, none of these!Speak, Christ at His right hand, and fill this pause.
When some belovéd voice, which was to you
Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,
And silence against which you dare not cry
Aches round you with an anguish dreadly new—
What hope, what help? What music will undo
That silence to your sense? Not friendship’s sigh,
Not reason’s labored proof, not melody
Of viols, nor the dancers footing through;
Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales,
Whose hearts leap upward from the cypress trees
To Venus’ star! nor yet the spheric laws
Self-chanted—nor the angels’ sweet “all hails,”
Met in the smile of God! Nay, none of these!
Speak, Christ at His right hand, and fill this pause.
III.What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil!Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vinesFor all the heat o’ the sun, till it declines,And Death’s mild curfew shall from work assoil.God did anoint thee with his odorous oilTo wrestle, not to reign—and he assignsAll thy tears over like pure crystallinesUnto thy fellows, working the same soil.To wear for amulets. So others shallTake patience, labor, to their heart and hand,From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer,And God’s grace fructify through thee to all!The least flower with a brimming cup may standAnd share its dew-drop with another near.
III.What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil!Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vinesFor all the heat o’ the sun, till it declines,And Death’s mild curfew shall from work assoil.God did anoint thee with his odorous oilTo wrestle, not to reign—and he assignsAll thy tears over like pure crystallinesUnto thy fellows, working the same soil.To wear for amulets. So others shallTake patience, labor, to their heart and hand,From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer,And God’s grace fructify through thee to all!The least flower with a brimming cup may standAnd share its dew-drop with another near.
III.
III.
What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil!Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vinesFor all the heat o’ the sun, till it declines,And Death’s mild curfew shall from work assoil.God did anoint thee with his odorous oilTo wrestle, not to reign—and he assignsAll thy tears over like pure crystallinesUnto thy fellows, working the same soil.To wear for amulets. So others shallTake patience, labor, to their heart and hand,From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer,And God’s grace fructify through thee to all!The least flower with a brimming cup may standAnd share its dew-drop with another near.
What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil!
Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines
For all the heat o’ the sun, till it declines,
And Death’s mild curfew shall from work assoil.
God did anoint thee with his odorous oil
To wrestle, not to reign—and he assigns
All thy tears over like pure crystallines
Unto thy fellows, working the same soil.
To wear for amulets. So others shall
Take patience, labor, to their heart and hand,
From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer,
And God’s grace fructify through thee to all!
The least flower with a brimming cup may stand
And share its dew-drop with another near.
IV.The woman singeth at her spinning-wheelA pleasant song, ballad or barcarolle,She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,Far more than of her flax; and yet the reelIs full, and artfully her fingers feel,With quick adjustment, provident control,The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll,Out to the perfect thread. I hence appealTo the dear Christian church—that we may doOur Father’s business in these temples mirk,So swift and steadfast, so intent and strong—While so, apart from toil, our souls pursueSome high, calm, spheric tune—proving our workThe better for the sweetness of our song.
IV.The woman singeth at her spinning-wheelA pleasant song, ballad or barcarolle,She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,Far more than of her flax; and yet the reelIs full, and artfully her fingers feel,With quick adjustment, provident control,The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll,Out to the perfect thread. I hence appealTo the dear Christian church—that we may doOur Father’s business in these temples mirk,So swift and steadfast, so intent and strong—While so, apart from toil, our souls pursueSome high, calm, spheric tune—proving our workThe better for the sweetness of our song.
IV.
IV.
The woman singeth at her spinning-wheelA pleasant song, ballad or barcarolle,She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,Far more than of her flax; and yet the reelIs full, and artfully her fingers feel,With quick adjustment, provident control,The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll,Out to the perfect thread. I hence appealTo the dear Christian church—that we may doOur Father’s business in these temples mirk,So swift and steadfast, so intent and strong—While so, apart from toil, our souls pursueSome high, calm, spheric tune—proving our workThe better for the sweetness of our song.
The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel
A pleasant song, ballad or barcarolle,
She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,
Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel
Is full, and artfully her fingers feel,
With quick adjustment, provident control,
The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll,
Out to the perfect thread. I hence appeal
To the dear Christian church—that we may do
Our Father’s business in these temples mirk,
So swift and steadfast, so intent and strong—
While so, apart from toil, our souls pursue
Some high, calm, spheric tune—proving our work
The better for the sweetness of our song.
SONNET.
———
BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.
———
I dreamed last night, that I myself did layWithin the grave—and after stood and wept—My spirit sorrowed where its ashes slept—’Twas a strange dream, and yet meseems it mayPrefigure that which is akin to truth—How sorrow we o’er perish’d dreams of youth!High hopes, and aspirations doom’d to beCrush’d, and o’er-mastered by earth’s destiny!Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth—And that deluding faith so loath to part,That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart;Oh, ’tis the ashes of such things, that wringTears from the eyes! Hopes like to these depart,And we bow down in dread, o’er-shadowed by death’s wing.
I dreamed last night, that I myself did layWithin the grave—and after stood and wept—My spirit sorrowed where its ashes slept—’Twas a strange dream, and yet meseems it mayPrefigure that which is akin to truth—How sorrow we o’er perish’d dreams of youth!High hopes, and aspirations doom’d to beCrush’d, and o’er-mastered by earth’s destiny!Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth—And that deluding faith so loath to part,That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart;Oh, ’tis the ashes of such things, that wringTears from the eyes! Hopes like to these depart,And we bow down in dread, o’er-shadowed by death’s wing.
I dreamed last night, that I myself did layWithin the grave—and after stood and wept—My spirit sorrowed where its ashes slept—’Twas a strange dream, and yet meseems it mayPrefigure that which is akin to truth—How sorrow we o’er perish’d dreams of youth!High hopes, and aspirations doom’d to beCrush’d, and o’er-mastered by earth’s destiny!Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth—And that deluding faith so loath to part,That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart;Oh, ’tis the ashes of such things, that wringTears from the eyes! Hopes like to these depart,And we bow down in dread, o’er-shadowed by death’s wing.
I dreamed last night, that I myself did lay
Within the grave—and after stood and wept—
My spirit sorrowed where its ashes slept—
’Twas a strange dream, and yet meseems it may
Prefigure that which is akin to truth—
How sorrow we o’er perish’d dreams of youth!
High hopes, and aspirations doom’d to be
Crush’d, and o’er-mastered by earth’s destiny!
Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth—
And that deluding faith so loath to part,
That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart;
Oh, ’tis the ashes of such things, that wring
Tears from the eyes! Hopes like to these depart,
And we bow down in dread, o’er-shadowed by death’s wing.
MALINA GRAY.
———
BY ANN S. STEPHENS.
———
(Concluded from page 278.)