IN WIDOW'S WEEDS.
Go; you may call it madness, folly;
You may not chase my gloom away.
There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not, if I could, be gay.
--ROGERS.
Dorothe Stevens was not a woman to take misfortune much to heart. She
watched the ship in which her husband sailed until it vanished from
sight, shed a few tears, heaved a few sighs and went home to see if the
negro slave had prepared breakfast. She smiled next day, and before the
week was past she was quite gay. She said she was not going to repine
and languish in sorrow.
Her conduct shocked the staid Puritans, and her fine apparel was ungodly
in their eyes.
Weeks rolled on, and no news came from the good ship _Silverwing_; but
they might not hear from her for months, and Mrs. Stevens did not borrow
trouble. She did not dream that the ship could possibly be lost, or that
her husband's voyage could be other than prosperous, so she plunged into
a course of extravagance and pleasure that would have ruined a
wealthier man than poor John Stevens.
"I must do something," she declared, "to relieve my mind from thoughts
of my poor, dear, absent husband, for whom I grieve continually."
Once John's mother and sister came to see her; but she was entertaining
some ladies from Greensprings and wholly neglected her visitors. The
grandmother held the baby on her knee, kissed the face, while her tears
fell on it; then silently the two unwelcome visitors departed for their
home, while Mrs. Stevens was so busily engaged with the ladies from
Greensprings that she did not even bid them adieu.
Dark days were in store for Dorothe Stevens. She heeded not the constant
reduction of her money until it was gone. Then she reasoned that her
husband would soon return with a goodly supply, and she began to use her
credit, which had always been good; but she found that the merchants who
once had smiled on her frowned when she came to ask for credit.
"Have you heard from your husband, Dorothe Stevens?" one asked, when she
applied to him for credit.
"No."
"He has been a long time gone."
"Yes; but he will return."
"The _Silverwing_ has not yet reached London."
"How know you that?" she asked, a momentary shadow coming over her face.
"The _Ocean Star_ hath just arrived, but brought no report from the
_Silverwing_."
"It left before the _Silverwing_ arrived. The ship was delayed a little.
It has reached there safely by this time, I am quite sure," and Mrs.
Stevens face grew bright as she made some purchases for which she had
not the money to pay. The merchant sold to her reluctantly, and she,
without dreaming that calamity could possibly befall her, went on
enjoying herself. Ex-Governor Berkeley had invited her to spend a few
days at Greenspring, where she met her husband's friend Hugh Price, with
other gay cavaliers and ladies.
Dorothe was a thorough royalist, and she heard, while at the governor's,
that Cromwell was in poor health, and there was a strong feeling that
the exiled Prince Charles would be recalled to the throne. Berkeley had
invited him to Virginia. Many of England's nobles, flying from
Cromwell's persecutions, had taken refuge with ex-Governor Berkeley, and
no other greater pleasure could Dorothe wish than to be associated
with them.
When she returned to her home, it looked poor and mean in comparison
with the governor's excellent manor house; but troubles thickened.
Bills came pouring in upon her, which she was unable to meet, for she
had not a farthing, and her creditors became clamorous.
"Why don't John come back with the money?" she asked, angry tears
starting from her eyes. "I cannot meet these bills, and he knows I
must live."
"You have been grossly extravagant, Mrs. Stevens," one heartless
creditor returned. He was a merchant who had smiled on her most sweetly
in her prosperous days, and had always welcomed her to his shop. "Had
you economized with the money your husband left, you would not be in
such sore straits."
Mrs. Stevens was shocked and indignant. She wept and asked for time. Ann
Linkon, who had never forgiven Dorothe Stevens for the ducking she had
caused her, now boldly declared that she had all along told the truth
and, shaking her gray head, repeated:
"She is a hussy. She hath driven John to sea and perchance to death. She
is a hussy."
No one attempted to prevent Ann's tongue from wagging, and to the
unfortunate Dorothe it was quite evident that she was no longer the
favorite of Jamestown.
"When John comes back, all will change," she thought; but, alas, the
months crept slowly by, and John came not. There came a rumor which
time confirmed that the _Silverwing_ was lost. Dorothe, who was of a
hopeful nature, would not believe it at first, though the news had a
very disastrous effect to her credit. She was refused at every shop and
store in Jamestown. In her distress she sold such articles as she could
dispense with; but Jamestown was only a frontier hamlet, it had no such
conveniences as pawnbrokers and secondhand clothiers, and what few
articles she could dispose of were sold mainly to freed or indented
servants at ruinous prices.
Dorothe's fashionable friends deserted her. The ladies and cavaliers at
Greenspring became suddenly cold and she remained at home. Her slaves
were taken away, so, finally, was the home, and, with her little
children, she took up her abode in a miserable log cabin, where she
became an object of charity. A year and a half had rolled away; but she
had not wholly given up her husband for dead. The vessel might have
blown out of its course, it might have been captured by pirates, or
Spaniards, and her husband might yet escape.
She had been so cool toward his relatives, that they had not seen her
for a year. She was proud and would have suffered death rather than
appeal to them for aid; but her children--his children, were suffering,
and, as she had to give up even the log cabin to rapacious creditors, at
last she appealed to his mother and sister, whom she had despised.
"You are welcome. Come and share our home," was the response.
Almost heartbroken, yet proud, Dorothe with her children set out for the
distant plantation in the county in which lived the relatives of
her husband.
Political changes were coming, which were to have a marked effect on
Dorothe, who gave up her husband for dead and donned the widow's weeds.
Those changes were the restoration.
In 1658, Cromwell died and named his son Richard as his successor. From
the death of Cromwell until the accession of Charles II., the government
of England was in a state of chaos and was highly revolutionary without
being in a state of actual anarchy. There was in reality no head to the
government. Even the Puritans saw that the inevitable must come, and, in
1660, Charles II. was restored to the throne of England without any
serious jar to the country or colonies. It was late in May, 1660, when
the wandering prince, mounted on a gayly caparisoned steed, entered
London between his brothers, the Dukes of York and Gloucester, and took
up his abode in the palace of Whitehall, while flags waved, bells rang,
cannons roared, trumpets brayed, shouts rent the air and fountains
poured out costly libations of wine as tokens of public joy. After a
twenty years' struggle between royalists and republicans, the monarchy
was restored, and the English people again became subjects of the head
of the Scottish house of Stuarts.
[Illustration: Oliver Cromwell]
The accession of Charles II. soon caused a change in the affairs of
America. The new king assigned to his brother James, Duke of York, the
whole territory of New Netherland, with Long Island and a part of
Connecticut. Charles had no more right to that domain than to the
central province of Spain; but the brutal argument that "might makes
right" justified the royal brothers, in their own estimation, in sending
ships, men and cannon, the "last argument of kings," to take possession
of and hold the territory. Four men-of-war, bearing four hundred, and
fifty soldiers, commanded by Colonel Richard Nicolls, a court favorite,
arrived before New Amsterdam in the latter part of August, 1664.
Governor Stuyvesant had been warned of their approach and tried to
strengthen the fort; but money, men and will were wanting. The
governor's violent temper, with English influence, had alienated the
people, and they were indifferent. Some of them regarded the invaders as
welcome friends. Stuyvesant began to make concessions to the popular
wishes. It was too late; and New Amsterdam became an easy prey to the
English freebooters.
Early in this year, revolutionary movements had taken place among the
English on Long Island, which the governor could not suppress, and the
province was rent by internal discord for several months. A war with the
Indians above the Hudson Highlands had also given the governor much
trouble; but his energy and wisdom had brought it to a close. The
anthems of a Thanksgiving day had died away, and the governor, assured
of peace, had gone to Fort Orange (Albany), when news reached him of the
coming English armament. He hastened back to his capital, and, on
Saturday, the 30th day of August, Nicolls sent to the governor a formal
summons to surrender the fort and city. He also sent a proclamation to
the citizens, promising perfect security of person and property to all
who should quietly submit to English rule.
The Dutch governor hastily assembled his magistrates at the fort to
consider public affairs; but, to his disgust, they favored submission
without resistance. Stuyvesant, true to his superiors and his own
convictions of duty, would not listen to such a proposition, nor allow
the inhabitants to see the proclamation. The Sabbath passed without any
answer to the summons. It was a day of great excitement and anxiety in
Amsterdam, and the people became impatient. On Monday the magistrates
explained to them the situation of affairs, and they demanded a sight of
the proclamation. It was refused, and they were on the verge of open
insurrection, when a new turn in events took place.
Governor Winthrop of Connecticut, who was quite friendly with
Stuyvesant, had joined the English squadron. Nicolls sent him as an
embassador to Stuyvesant, with a letter in which was repeated the demand
for a surrender. The two governors met at the gate of the fort.
Stuyvesant read the letter and promptly refused to comply.
"Inform the Englishman if he wants my fort, he must come amid cannon and
balls to take it," he said. Closing the gate, he retired to the council
chamber and laid the letter before his cabinet and magistrates. After
examining it they said:
"Read the letter to the people, and so get their minds."
The governor stoutly refused. The council and magistrates as stoutly
insisted that he should do so, when the enraged governor, who had fairly
earned the title of "Peter the Headstrong," unable to control his
passion, tore the letter into pieces. The people at work on the
palisades, hearing of this, hastened to the Statehouse, where a large
number of citizens were soon gathered. They sent a deputation to the
fort to demand the letter. Stuyvesant, storming with rage, cried:
"Back to the ramparts! mend the palisades, and we will answer the letter
with cannon."
[Illustration: TOMB OF STUYVESANT.]
The deputies were inflexible, and a fair copy of the letter was made
from the pieces, taken to the Statehouse and read to the inhabitants. At
that time the population of New Amsterdam did not exceed fifteen hundred
souls. Outside of the little garrison, there were not over two hundred
men capable of bearing arms, and it was the utmost folly to resist.
Nicolls, growing impatient, sent a message to the silent
governor saying:
"I shall come for your answer to-morrow with ships and soldiers," and
anchored two war-vessels between the fort and Governor's Island.
Stuyvesant's proud will would not bend to circumstances, and, from the
ramparts of the fort, he saw their preparations for attack, without in
the least relenting, and when men, women and children, and even his
beloved son Balthazzar, entreated him to surrender, that the lives and
property of the citizens might be spared, he replied:
"I had much rather be carried out dead."
At last, however, when the magistrates, the clergy and many of the
principal citizens entreated him, the proud old governor, who had "a
heart as big as an ox, and a head that would have set adamant to scorn,"
consented to capitulate. He had held out for a week. On Monday morning,
the 8th of September, 1664, he led his troops from the fort to a ship on
which they were to embark for Holland, and an hour after, the red cross
of St. George was floating over Fort Amsterdam, the name of which was
changed to Fort James as a compliment to the Duke.
The remainder of New Netherlands soon passed into the possession of the
English, and the city and province were named New York, another
compliment to Prince James, afterward James II. Colonel Nicolls, whom
the duke had appointed as his deputy governor, was so proclaimed by the
magistrates of the city, and all officers within the domain of New
Netherland were required to take an oath of allegiance to the
British crown.
The new governor took up his abode in the Dutch fort, if the strange
structure within the palisades could be called a fort. It contained,
besides the governor's house and barracks, a steep gambrel-roofed church
with a high tower, a windmill, gallows, pillory, whipping-post, prison
and a tall flagstaff. There was generally a cheerful submission to the
conquerors on the part of the inhabitants, and after the turmoil of
surrender a profound quiet reigned in New York.
So passed into the domain of perfected history the Dutch dominion in
America after an existence of fifty years, by that unrighteous seizure
of the territory which had been discovered and settled by the Dutch.
England became the mistress of all the domain stretching along the coast
of the Atlantic Ocean from Florida to Acadie, and westward across the
entire continent; but in New Netherland, in that brief space of half a
century, the Dutch had stamped the impress of their institutions, their
social and religious habits, their modes of thought and peculiarities of
character, so that they remained unconquered in the loftier aspect of
the case. The characteristics of the Dutch of New Netherland were so
indelibly stamped, that, after a lapse of more than two centuries, they
are still marked features of New York society.
Saucy New England underwent fewer changes by reason of the restoration
than all the other colonies. The New Englanders were men and women of
iron who dared everything. They were always cool, cautions, yet bold,
and when they made an effort to gain a right, they always won. They
clung to all their rights and demanded more. The bigotry of the Puritans
of Massachusetts was vehemently condemned at the time of their iron rule
and has been ever since; but their theology and their ideas of church
government were founded upon the deepest heart-convictions of a people
not broadly educated. Having encountered and subdued a savage wilderness
for the purpose of planting therein a church and a commonwealth,
fashioned in all their parts after a narrow but cherished pattern, they
felt that the domain thus conquered was all their own, and that they had
the right to regulate the internal affairs according to their own notion
of things. They boldly proclaimed the right to the exercise of private
judgment in matters of conscience, and so tacitly invited the persecuted
of all lands to immigrate and settle among them. This invitation brought
"unsettled persons," libertines in unrestrained opinions, from abroad to
disseminate their peculiar views. The Puritans, fearing the
disorganization of their church, early took alarm and, with a mistaken
policy, resisted such encroachments upon the domain and into their
society with fiery penal laws implacably executed.
Among the sects of the time dangerous to Puritanism, were the Quakers or
Friends. The first of the sect who appeared conspicuously in New England
were Mary Fisher and Anna Austin, who arrived at Boston in the summer of
1656, when John Endicott was governor. There was no special law against
them; but under a general act against heretics, they were arrested;
their persons were searched to find marks of witchcraft, with which they
were suspected; their trunks were searched, and their books were burned
publicly by the hangman. After several weeks of confinement in prison,
they were sent back to England. Mary Fisher, a violent religious
enthusiast, afterward visited the Sultan of Turkey and, being mistaken
for a crazy woman, was permitted to go everywhere unmolested.
The harsh treatments of the first comers fired the zeal of the more
enthusiastic of the sect in England, who sought martyrdom as an honor
and a passport to the home of the righteous. They flocked to New England
and fearfully vexed the souls of the Puritan magistrates and ministers.
One woman came from London to warn the authorities against persecutions.
Others came to revile, denounce and defy the powers of the church. From
the windows of their houses they would rail at the magistrates, and
mock the institutions of the country, while some fanatical young women
appeared nude on the streets and in the churches, as emblems of
"unclothed souls of the people." Others with loud voices proclaimed that
the wrath of the Almighty was about to fall like destructive lightning
on Boston and Salem. The Quakers of 1659 were quite different from that
honorable body of people of the present age.
Horrified by their blasphemies and indecencies, the authorities of
Massachusetts passed some cruel laws. At first they forbade all persons
"harboring Quakers," imposing severe penalties for each offence, then
followed mild punishment on the Friends themselves. These proving
ineffectual, the Puritans passed laws which authorized the cropping of
the ears, boring the tongues with hot irons, and hanging on the gibbet
offending Quakers.
Even these terrible laws could not keep them away. On a bright October
day in 1659, two young men named William Robinson and Marmaduke
Stevenson, with Mary Dyer, wife of the Secretary of State of Rhode
Island, were led from the Boston jail, with ropes around their necks and
guarded by soldiers, to be hanged on Boston Common. Mary walked between
her companions hand in hand to the gallows, where, in the presence of
Governor Endicott, the two young men were hung. Mary was unmoved by the
spectacle. She was given into the care of her son, who came from Rhode
Island to plead for her life, and went away with him; but the next
spring this foolish woman returned and began preaching and was herself
hung on Boston Common.
The severity of these laws caused a revulsion of public sentiment. The
Quakers stoutly maintained their course, and were regarded by the more
thoughtful as real martyrs for conscience sake, and, in 1661, the severe
laws against them were repealed. Puritanism, which had flourished under
republicanism in England, with the restoration of the Stuarts was
threatened, and doubtless fear of the vengeance of the church party
caused the New Englanders to temper their laws.
A restless spirit on the part of the New Englanders with an uneasy
feeling in regard to the result of the restoration caused many to
emigrate to Carolinia, which was a mysterious, far-away land where
everybody lived at peace. Removed from the grasp of kings and tyrants,
many went to the infant town planted on Old-town Creek, near the south
side of Cape Fear River. However, the Carolinias were growing from
fugitive settlements into commonwealths, and, in 1666, William Drummond,
the friend of John Stevens, was appointed governor of North Carolinia.
Claybourne, who, after a struggle of twenty years, had succeeded in
conquering Maryland, saw, with the decline of the commonwealth of
England, his own hopes go down. In 1658, the Catholics of St. Mary's and
the Puritans of St. Leonard's consulted, and the province was
surrendered to Lord Baltimore. Claybourne had no sooner gained that for
which he had battled, than his power began to crumble beneath his feet,
and he was even ejected from the Virginia council.
The restoration of 1660 produced a most wonderful effect on Virginia.
All was changed in the twinkling of an eye, so to speak. The cavaliers,
who had been sulking for years under the mild rule of the commonwealth,
threw up their hats and cheered from Flower de Hundred to the capes on
the ocean, as only a victorious political party can cheer.
The sentiment of the Virginians in favor of royalty was strong and
abiding; with the restoration of monarchy they had achieved the main
point. The representatives in the colony of the psalm-singing fanatics
of England would have to go now. Silk and lace and curling wigs would be
once more in fashion, the hated close-cropped wretches in black coats
and round hats would fade into the background, and the good old
cavaliers, like the king, would have their own once more.
The king's men became prominent, and their plantations resounded with
revelry. It was thought that Charles II. would grant special favors to
Virginia, as Berkeley had invited him to be their king even before he
was restored to the throne of England. The country is said to have
derived the name of the "Old Dominion" from the fact that the Charles
might have been king of Virginia before he was king of England.
In March, 1660, the planters assembled at Jamestown and enacted:
"Whereas, by reason of the late distractions (which God, in his mercy,
put a suddaine period to), there being in England noe resident absolute
and ge'll confessed power, be it enacted and confirmed: that the supreme
power of the government of this country shall be resident in the
assembly, and that all writts issue in the name of the grand assembly of
Virginia until such command, or commission come out of England as shall
by the assembly be adjudged lawful." The same session declared Sir
William Berkeley governor and captain-general of Virginia. In October of
the same year of the restoration, Sir William Berkeley was commissioned
governor of Virginia by Charles II.
No one in all the colony rejoiced more at the restoration of monarchy
than did Dorothe Stevens. Her fortunes had mended. Her husband's brother
was appointed governor of Carolinia, and, while he was acting in the
capacity of governor, he managed to secure the fortune his grandfather
had left in St. Augustine. It was large, and fully twenty thousand
pounds fell to the heirs of John Stevens, which was a godsend to the
widow, who purchased a fine house in Jamestown and once more entered the
society of the cavaliers and church people.
For twelve years she had been a widow, and now that she was wealthy and
the charm of cavalier society, she began to entertain some serious
thoughts of doffing her widow's weeds.
"It's all because of that cavalier Hugh Price", said Ann Linkon
spitefully. "The hateful thing will wed him, because he is rich and the
king is restored."
The widow left off her weeds and, in silk and lace, with ruffles and
frills, became the gayest of the gay. The flush came to her pale cheek,
and people said she smiled on Hugh Price. It is quite certain that Hugh
Price, after the restoration, was known to be frequently in the society
of his lost friend's wife.