Chapter II: Part 2

(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.

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_.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] “Sir Charles Henry Frankland, or Boston in the Colonial Times.” Elias Nason, M. A. Albany, N. Y.: J. Munsell.

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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.