CHAPTER II.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXI. December, 1842 No. 6.

Contents

Fiction and Literature

Richard Dale

The Widow of Newbury

Malina Gray

Truth

The Persecutor’s Daughter

A Race for a Sweetheart

Harry Cavendish

The Ladies’ Library

The Hasty Marriage

Review Of New Books

Editor’s Table

Poetry

The Serenade

Sonnets

Sonnet

Noon

True Affection

The Farewell

The Holynights

The Pastor’s Visit

To the Night-Wind in Autumn

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

[Illustration: Painted by E. Prentice, Engraved by H.S. Sadd

_Awaiting the Husband’s Return_

_Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine._

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXI. PHILADELPHIA: DECEMBER, 1842. No. 6.

* * * * *

RICHARD DALE.

BY J. FENIMORE COOPER, AUTHOR OF “THE SPY,” “THE PIONEERS,” ETC.

Among the many brave men who early contributed to render the navy of the

republic popular and respectable, the gallant seaman whose name is

placed at the head of this article is entitled to a conspicuous place;

equally on account of his services, his professional skill, and his

personal merit. Although his connection with the marine, created under

the constitution of 1789, was of short continuance, it left a durable

impression on the service; and, if we look back to the dark period of

the Revolution, we find him contending in some of the fiercest combats

of the period, always with heroism, and not unfrequently with success.

Circumstances, too, have connected his renown with one of the most

remarkable naval battles on record; a distinction of itself which fully

entitles him to a high place among those who have fought and bled for

the independence of their country, in stations of subordinate authority.

Richard Dale was born in the colony of Virginia, on the 6th November,

1756. His birthplace was in the county of Norfolk, and not distant from

the well known port of the same name. His parents were native Americans,

of respectable standing, though of rather reduced circumstances. His

father, dying early, left a widow with five children, of whom the

subject of this memoir was the eldest. Some time after the death of his

father, his mother contracted a second marriage with a gentleman of the

name of Cooper, among the issue of which were two well known

ship-masters of Philadelphia.

Young Dale manifested an inclination for the sea at a very early period

of life. The distrust of a parental control that has no foundation in

nature, and which is apt to be regarded with jealousy, stimulated if it

did not quicken this desire, and we find him at the tender age of

twelve, or in 1768, making a voyage between Norfolk and Liverpool, in a

vessel commanded by one of his own uncles. On his return home, he

appears to have passed nearly a twelve-month on shore; but his desire to

become a sailor still continuing, in the spring of 1770 he was regularly

apprenticed to a respectable merchant and ship-owner, of the borough of

Norfolk, named Newton. From this moment his fortune in life was cast,

and he continued devotedly employed in the profession until his

enterprise, prudence and gallantry enabled him finally to retire with

credit, an unblemished name, and a competency.

During his apprenticeship, Dale appears to have been, most of the time,

employed in the West India trade. Every sailor has his chances and

hair-breadth escapes, and our young mariner met with two, at that period

of his life, which may be thought worthy of notice. On one occasion he

fell from the spars stowed on the belfry into the vessel’s hold, hitting

the kelson, a distance of near twenty feet; escaping, however, without

material injury. A much greater risk was incurred on another. While the

vessel to which he belonged was running off the wind, with a stiff

breeze, Dale was accidentally knocked overboard by the jib sheets, and

was not picked up without great difficulty. He was an hour in the water,

sustaining himself by swimming, and he ever spoke of the incident as one

of more peril than any other in a perilous career.

When nineteen, or in 1775, Dale had risen to the station of chief mate

on board a large brig belonging to his owner. In this situation he

appears to have remained industriously engaged during the few first

months of the struggle for independence; the active warfare not having

yet extended itself as far south as his part of the country. Early in

1776, however, the aspect of things began to change, and it is probable

that the interruption to commerce rendered him the master of his own

movements.

Virginia, in common with most of the larger and more maritime colonies,

had a sort of marine of its own; more especially anterior to the

Declaration of Independence. It consisted principally of bay craft, and

was employed in the extensive estuaries and rivers of that commonwealth.

On board of one of these light cruisers Dale was entered as a

lieutenant, in the early part of the memorable year 1776. While in this

service, he was sent a short distance for some guns, in a river craft;

but falling in with a tender of the Liverpool frigate, which ship was

then cruising on the Cape Henry station, he was captured and carried

into Norfolk. These tenders were usually smart little cruisers, another,

belonging to the same frigate, having been taken shortly before, by the

U. S. brig Lexington, after a sharp and bloody conflict. Resistance in

the case of Dale was consequently out of the question, his capture

having been altogether a matter of course.

On reaching Norfolk, our young officer was thrown on board a

prison-ship. Here he found himself in the midst of those whom it was the

fashion to call “loyal subjects.” Many of them were his old school-mates

and friends. Among the latter was a young man of the name of Bridges

Gutteridge, a sailor like himself, and one who possessed his entire

confidence. Mr. Gutteridge, who it is believed subsequently took part

with his countrymen himself, was then employed by the British, in the

waters of the Chesapeake, actually commanding a tender in their service.

The quarrel was still recent; and honorable, as well as honest men,

under the opinions which prevailed in that day, might well be divided as

to its merits. Mr. Gutteridge had persuaded himself he was pursuing the

proper course. Entertaining such opinions, he earnestly set about the

attempt of making a convert of his captured friend. The usual arguments,

touching the sacred rights of the king—himself merely a legalized

usurper, by the way, if any validity is to be given to the claims of

hereditary right to the crown—and the desperate nature of the “rebel

cause,” were freely and strenuously used, until Dale began to waver in

his faith. In the end, he yielded and consented to accompany his friend

in a cruise against the vessels of the state. This occurred in the month

of May, and, hostilities beginning now to be active, the tender soon

fell in with a party of Americans, in some pilot boats, that were

employed in the Rappahannock. A warm engagement ensued, in which the

tender was compelled to run, after meeting with a heavy loss. It was a

rude initiation into the mysteries of war, the fighting being of a

desperate, and almost of a personal character. This was one of those

combats that often occurred about this period, and in those waters, most

of them being close and sanguinary.

In this affair, Dale received a severe wound, having been hit in the

head by a musket ball; with this wound he was confined several weeks at

Norfolk, during which time he had abundance of leisure to reflect on the

false step into which he had been persuaded, and to form certain

healthful resolutions for the future. To use his own words, in speaking

of this error of his early life, he determined “never again to put

himself in the way of the bullets of his own country.” This resolution,

however, it was necessary to conceal, if he would escape the horrors of

a prison-ship, and he “bided his time,” fully determined to take service

again under the American flag, at the first fitting opportunity.

In the peculiar state of the two countries at the time, and with the

doubtful and contested morality of the misunderstanding, there was

nothing extraordinary in this incident. Similar circumstances occurred

to many men, who, with the best intentions and purest motives, saw, or

fancied they saw, reasons for changing sides in what, in their eyes, was

strictly a family quarrel. In the case of Dale, however, the feature

most worthy of comment was the singleness of mind and simple integrity

with which he used to confess his own error, together with the manner in

which he finally became a convert to the true political faith. No

narrative of the life of this respectable seaman would be complete,

without including this temporary wavering of purpose; nor would any

delineation of his character be just, that did not point out the candor

and sincerity with which he, in after life, admitted his fault.

Dale was only in his twentieth year when he received this instructive

lesson from the “bullets of his countrymen.” From that time, he took

good care not to place himself again in their way, going, in June or

July, to Bermuda, on a more peaceable expedition, in company with

William Gutteridge, a relative of his beguiling friend. On the return

passage, the vessel was captured by the Lexington, the brig just

mentioned, then a successful cruiser, under the orders of Capt. John

Barry; an officer who subsequently died at the head of the service. This

occurred just after the Declaration of Independence, and Dale

immediately offered himself as a volunteer under the national flag. He

was received and rated as a midshipman within a few hours of his

capture. This was the commencement of Dale’s service in the regular navy

of his native country. It was also the commencement of his acquaintance

with the distinguished commander of the Lexington, whose friendship and

respect he enjoyed down to the day of the latter’s death. While the brig

was out, our midshipman had another narrow escape from death, having,

together with several others, been struck senseless by lightning during

a severe thunder storm.

Barry made the capture just mentioned near the end of his cruise, and he

soon after went into Philadelphia, which place Dale now saw for the

first time. Here Barry left the Lexington to take command of the

Effingham 28, a ship that never got to sea, leaving our new midshipman

in the brig. Capt. Hallock was Barry’s successor, and he soon rated

Dale, by this time an active and skilful seaman, a master’s mate. Early

in the autumn, the Lexington sailed for Cape François, on special duty.

On her return, in the month of December, she fell in with the Pearl

frigate,[1] and was captured without resistance, carrying an armament of

only a few fours.

As it was blowing very fresh at the moment this capture was made, the

Pearl took out of the prize four or five officers, threw a small crew on

board, and directed the brig to follow her. By some accounts Dale was

left in the Lexington, while by others he was not. A succinct history of

the events of his life, written by a connection under his own eye, and

which is now before us, gives the latter version of the affair, and is

probably the true one. At all events, the remaining officers and crew of

the Lexington rose upon the captors in the course of the night, retook

the brig, and carried her into Baltimore.[2]

The English landed several of their prisoners on Cape Henlopen, in

January, 1777, under some arrangement that cannot now be explained,

though probably it was connected with an exchange for the men taken and

carried away in the prize. Among these was Dale, who made the best of

his way to Philadelphia, when he received orders to proceed to

Baltimore; which he obeyed, and rejoined his brig, the command of which

had now been transferred to Capt. Henry Johnston.

The next service on which the Lexington was employed was in the European

seas. In March, she sailed from Baltimore for Bordeaux, with despatches.

On her arrival, this brig was attached to a small squadron under the

orders of Capt. Lambert Wickes, who was in the Reprisal 16, having under

his command also the Dolphin 10, Capt. Samuel Nicholson. This force of

little vessels accomplished a bold and destructive cruise, making the

entire circuit of Ireland, though it was eventually chased into a French

port by a line-of-battle ship. Its object was the interception of

certain linen-ships, which it missed; its success, however, in the main,

was such as to excite great alarm among the English merchants, and to

produce warm remonstrances to France, from their government.

At this time France was not at war with England, although she secretly

favored and aided the cause of the revolted colonies. The appearance of

American cruisers in the narrow seas, however, gave rise to so many

complaints, as to induce the French government, in preference to pushing

matters to extremities, temporarily to sequester the vessels. The

Lexington was included in this measure, having been detained in port

more than two months; or, until security was given that she would quit

the European seas. This was done, and the brig got to sea again on the

18th September, 1777.[3]

It is probable that the recent difficulties had some effect on the

amount of the military stores on board all three of the American

vessels. At all events, it is certain that the Lexington sailed with a

short supply of both powder and shot, particularly of the latter. The

very next day she made an English cutter lying-to, which was approached

with a confidence that could only have proceeded from a mistake as to

her character. This cutter proved to be a man-of-war, called the Alert,

commanded by Lieutenant, afterward Admiral Bazely, having a strong crew

on board, and an armament of ten sixes.

In the action that ensued, and which was particularly well fought on the

part of the enemy, the Americans were, in a measure, taken by surprise.

So little were the latter prepared for the conflict, that not a match

was ready when the engagement commenced, and several broadsides were

fired by discharging muskets at the vents of the guns. The firing killed

the wind, and there being considerable sea on, the engagement became

very protracted, during which the Lexington expended most of her

ammunition.

After a cannonading of two hours, believing his antagonist to be too

much crippled to follow, and aware of his own inability to continue the

action much longer, Capt. Johnston made sail, and left the cutter, under

favor of a breeze that just then sprung up. The Lexington left the Alert

rapidly at first, but the latter having bent new sails, and being the

faster vessel, in the course of three or four hours succeeded in getting

alongside again, and of renewing the engagement. This second struggle

lasted an hour, the fighting being principally on one side. After the

Lexington had thrown her last shot, had broken up and used all the iron

that could be made available as substitutes, and had three of her

officers and several of her men slain, besides many wounded, Capt.

Johnston struck his colors. The first lieutenant, marine officer, and

master of the Lexington were among the slain.

By this accident Dale became a prisoner for the third time. This

occurred when he wanted just fifty days of being twenty-one years old.

On this occasion, however, he escaped unhurt, though the combat had been

both fierce and sanguinary. The prize was taken into Plymouth, and her

officers, after undergoing a severe examination, in order to ascertain

their birthplaces, were all thrown into Mill Prison, on a charge of high

treason. Here they found the common men; the whole being doomed to a

rigorous and painful confinement.

Either from policy or cupidity, the treatment received by the Americans,

in this particular prison, was of a cruel and oppressive character.

There is no apology for excessive rigor, or, indeed, for any constraint

beyond that which is necessary to security, toward an uncondemned man.

Viewed as mere prisoners of war, the Americans might claim the usual

indulgence; viewed as subjects still to be tried, they were rightfully

included in that healthful maxim of the law, which assumes that all are

innocent until they are proved to be guilty. So severe were the

privations of the Americans on this occasion, however, that, in pure

hunger, they caught a stray dog one day, skinned, cooked and ate him, to

satisfy their cravings for food. Their situation at length attracted the

attention of the liberal; statements of their wants were laid before the

public, and an appeal was made to the humanity of the English nation.

This is always an efficient mode of obtaining assistance, and the large

sum of sixteen thousand pounds was soon raised; thereby relieving the

wants of the sufferers, and effectually effacing the stain from the

national escutcheon; by demonstrating that the sufferers found a

generous sympathy in the breasts of the public. But man requires more

than food and warmth. Although suffering no longer from actual want and

brutal maltreatment, Dale and his companions pined for liberty—to be

once more fighting the battles of their country. Seeing no hopes of an

exchange, a large party of the prisoners determined to make an attempt

at escape. A suitable place was selected, and a hole under a wall was

commenced. The work required secrecy and time. The earth was removed,

little by little, in the pockets of the captives, care being had to

conceal the place, until a hole of sufficient size was made to permit

the body of a man to pass through. It was a tedious process, for the

only opportunity which occurred to empty their pockets, was while the

Americans were exercising on the walls of their prison, for a short

period of each day. By patience and perseverance they accomplished their

purpose, however, every hour dreading exposure and defeat.

When all was ready, Capt. Johnston, most of his officers, and several of

his crew, or, as many as were in the secret, passed through the hole,

and escaped. This was in February, 1778. The party wandered about the

country in company, and by night, for more than a week; suffering all

sorts of privations, until it was resolved to take the wiser course of

separating. Dale, accompanied by one other, found his way to London,

hotly pursued. At one time the two lay concealed under some straw in an

out-house, while the premises were searched by those who were in quest

of them. On reaching London, Dale and his companion immediately got on

board a vessel about to sail for Dunkirk. A press-gang unluckily took

this craft in its rounds, and suspecting the true objects of the

fugitives, they were arrested, and, their characters being ascertained,

they were sent back to Mill Prison in disgrace.

This was the commencement of a captivity far more tedious than the

former. In the first place they were condemned to forty days’

confinement in the black hole, as the punishment for the late escape;

and, released from this durance, they were deprived of many of their

former indulgences. Dale himself took his revenge in singing “rebel

songs,” and paid a second visit to the black hole, as the penalty. This

state of things, with alternations of favor and punishment, continued

quite a year, when Dale, singly, succeeded in again effecting his great

object of getting free.

The mode in which this second escape was made is known, but the manner

by which he procured the means he refused to his dying day to disclose.

At all events, he obtained a full suit of British uniform, attired in

which, and seizing a favorable moment, he boldly walked past all the

sentinels, and got off. That some one was connected with his escape who

might suffer by his revelations is almost certain; and it is a trait in

his character worthy of notice, that he kept this secret, with

scrupulous fidelity, for forty-seven years. It is not known that he ever

divulged it even to any individual of his own family.

Rendered wary by experience, Dale now proceeded with great address and

caution. He probably had money, as well as clothes. At all events, he

went to London, found means to procure a passport, and left the country

for France, unsuspected and undetected. On reaching a friendly soil, he

hastened to l’Orient, and joined the force then equipping under Paul

Jones, in his old rank of a master’s mate. Here he was actively employed

for some months, affording the commodore an opportunity to ascertain his

true merits, when they met with something like their just reward. As

Dale was now near twenty-three, and an accomplished seaman, Jones, after

trying several less competent persons, procured a commission for him

from the commissioners, and made him the first lieutenant of his own

ship, the justly celebrated Bon Homme Richard.

It is not our intention, in this article, to enter any farther into the

incidents of this well known cruise, than is necessary to complete the

present subject. Dale does not appear in any prominent situation, though

always discharging the duties of his responsible station, with skill and

credit, until the squadron appeared off Leith, with the intention of

seizing that town—the port of Edinburgh—and of laying it under

contribution. On this occasion, our lieutenant was selected to command

the boats that were to land, a high compliment to so young a man, as

coming from one of the character of Paul Jones. Every thing was ready,

Dale had received his final orders, and was in the very act of

proceeding to the ship’s side to enter his boat, when a heavy squall

struck the vessels, and induced an order for the men to come on deck,

and assist in shortening sail. The vessels were compelled to bear up

before it, to save their spars; this carried them out of the firth; and,

a gale succeeding, the enterprise was necessarily abandoned. This gale

proved so heavy, that one of the prizes actually foundered.

This attempt of Jones, while it is admitted to have greatly alarmed the

coast, has often been pronounced rash and inconsiderate. Such was not

the opinion of Dale. A man of singular moderation in his modes of

thinking, and totally without bravado, it was his conviction that the

effort would have been crowned with success. He assured the writer,

years after the occurrence, that he was about to embark in the

expedition with feelings of high confidence, and that he believed

nothing but the inopportune intervention of the squall stood between

Jones and a triumphant _coup de main_.

A few days later, Jones made a secret proposal to his officers, which

some affirm was to burn the shipping at North Shields, but which the

commanders of two of his vessels strenuously opposed, in consequence of

which the project was abandoned. The commodore himself, in speaking of

the manner in which this and other similar propositions were received by

his subordinates, extolled the ardor invariably manifested by the young

men, among whom Dale was one of the foremost. Had it rested with them,

the attempts at least would all have been made.

On the 19th September occurred the celebrated battle between the Serapis

and the Bon Homme Richard. As the proper place to enter fully into the

details of that murderous combat will be in the biography of Jones, we

shall confine ourselves at present to incidents with which the subject

of this memoir was more immediately connected.

The Bon Homme Richard had finally sailed on this cruise with only two

proper sea-lieutenants on board her. There was a third officer of the

name of Lunt, who has been indifferently called a lieutenant and the

sailing-master, but who properly filled the latter station. This

gentleman had separated from the ship in a fog, on the coast of Ireland,

while in the pursuit of some deserters, and never rejoined the squadron.

Another person of the same name, and believed to be the brother of the

master, was the second lieutenant. He was sent in a pilot-boat,

accompanied by a midshipman and several men, to capture a vessel in

sight, before Jones made the Baltic fleet coming round Flamborough Head.

This party was not able to return to the Bon Homme Richard, until after

the battle had terminated. In consequence of these two circumstances,

each so novel in itself, the American frigate fought this bloody and

arduous combat with only one officer on board her, of the rank of a

sea-lieutenant, who was Dale. This is the reason why the latter is so

often mentioned as _the_ lieutenant of the Bon Homme Richard, during

that memorable fight. The fact rendered his duties more arduous and

diversified, and entitles him to the greater credit for their proper

performance.

Dale was stationed on the gun-deck, where of course he commanded in

chief, though it appears that his proper personal division was the

forward guns. Until the ships got foul of each other, this brought him

particularly into the hottest of the work; the Serapis keeping much on

the bows, or ahead of the Bon Homme Richard. It is known that Jones was

much pleased with his deportment, which, in truth, was every way worthy

of his own. When the alarm was given that the ship was sinking, Dale

went below himself to ascertain the real state of the water, and his

confident and fearless report cheered the men to renewed exertions.

Shortly after, the supply of powder was stopped, when our lieutenant

again quitted his quarters to inquire into the cause. On reaching the

magazine passage he was told by the sentinels that they had closed the

ingress, on account of a great number of strange and foreign faces that

they saw around them. On further inquiry, Dale discovered that the

master at arms, of his own head, had let loose all the prisoners—more

than a hundred in number—under the belief that the ship was sinking.

Dale soon saw the danger which might ensue, but finding the English much

alarmed at the supposed condition of the ship, he succeeded in mustering

them, and setting them at work at the pumps, where, by their exertions,

they probably prevented the apprehended calamity. For some time, at the

close of the action, all his guns being rendered useless, Dale was

employed principally in this important service. There is no question

that without some such succor, the Richard would have gone down much

earlier than she did. It is a singular feature of this every-way

extraordinary battle, that here were Englishmen, zealously employed in

aiding the efforts of their enemies, under the cool control of a

collected and observant officer.

At length the cheerful intelligence was received that the enemy had

struck. Dale went on deck, and immediately demanded Jones’ permission to

take possession of the prize. It was granted, and had he never

manifested any other act of personal intrepidity, his promptitude on

this occasion, and the manner in which he went to work, to attain his

purpose, would have shown him to be a man above personal considerations,

when duty or honor pointed out his course. The main-yard of the Serapis

was hanging a-cock-bill, over the side of the American ship. The brace

was shot away, and the pendant hung within reach. Seizing the latter,

Dale literally swung himself off, and alighted alone on the quarter-deck

of the Serapis. Here he found no one but the brave Pierson, who had

struck his own flag; but the men below were still ignorant of the act.

We may form an opinion of the risk that the young man ran, in thus

boarding his enemy at night, and in the confusion of such a combat, for

the English were still firing below, by the fact that Mr. Mayrant, a

young man of South Carolina, and a midshipman of the Bon Homme Richard,

who led a party after the lieutenant, was actually run through the thigh

by a boarding pike, and by the hands of a man in the waist below.

The first act of Dale, on getting on the quarter deck of the Serapis,

was to direct her captain to go on board the American ship. While thus

employed, the English first lieutenant came up from below, and finding

that the Americans had ceased their fire, he demanded if they had

struck. “No, sir,” answered Dale, “it is this ship that has struck, and

you are my prisoner.” An appeal to Capt. Pierson confirming this, the

English lieutenant offered to go below and silence the remaining guns of

the Serapis. To this Dale objected, and had both the officers passed on

board the Bon Homme Richard. In a short time, the English below were

sent from their guns, and full possession was obtained of the prize.

As more men were soon sent from the Bon Homme Richard, the two ships

were now separated, the Richard making sail, and Jones ordering Dale to

follow with the prize. A sense of fatigue had come over the latter, in

consequence of the reaction of so much excitement and so great

exertions, and he took a seat on the binnacle. Here he issued an order

to brace the head yards aback, and to put the helm down. Wondering that

the ship did not pay off, he directed that the wheel-ropes should be

examined. It was reported that they were not injured, and that the helm

was hard down. Astonished to find the ship immovable under such

circumstances, there being a light breeze, Dale sprang upon his feet,

and then discovered, for the first time, that he had been severely

wounded, by a splinter, in the foot and ankle. The hurt, now that he was

no longer sustained by the excitement of battle, deprived him of the use

of his leg, and he fell. Just at this moment, Mr. Lunt, the officer who

had been absent in the pilot-boat, reached the Richard, and Dale was

forced to give up to him the command of the prize. The cause of the

Serapis’ not minding her helm was the fact that Capt. Pierson had

dropped an anchor under foot when the two ships got foul; a circumstance

of which the Americans were ignorant until this moment.

Dale was some time laid up with his wound, but he remained with Jones in

his old station of first lieutenant, accompanying that officer, in the

Alliance, from the Texel to l’Orient. In the controversy which ensued

between the commodore and Landais, our lieutenant took sides warmly with

the first, and even offered to head a party to recover the Alliance, by

force. This measure not being resorted to, he remained with Jones, and

finally sailed with him for America, as his first lieutenant, in the

Ariel 20, a ship lent to the Americans, by the King of France.

The Ariel quitted port in October, 1780, but encountered a tremendous

gale of wind off the Penmarks. Losing her masts, she was compelled to

return to refit. On this occasion Dale, in his responsible situation of

first lieutenant, showed all the coolness of his character, and the

resources of a thorough seaman. The tempest was almost a hurricane, and

of extraordinary violence. The Ariel sailed a second time about the

commencement of the year 1781, and reached Philadelphia on the 18th

February. During the passage home, she had a short action, in the night,

with a heavy British letter-of-marque, that gave her name as the

Triumph; and which ship is said to have struck, but to have made her

escape by treachery. Jones, who was greedy of glory, even fancied that

his enemy was a vessel of war, and that he had captured a vessel of at

least equal force. This was not Dale’s impression. He spoke of the

affair to the writer of this article, as one of no great moment, even

questioning whether their antagonist struck at all; giving it as his

belief she was a quick-working and fast-sailing letter-of-marque. He

distinctly stated that she got off by out-manœuvring the Ariel, which

vessel was badly manned, and had an exceedingly mixed and disaffected

crew. It is worthy of remark that, while two articles, enumerating the

services of Dale, have been written by gentlemen connected with himself,

and possessing his confidence, neither mentions this affair; a proof, in

itself, that Dale considered it one of little moment.

The account which Dale always gave of the meeting between the Ariel and

Triumph—admitting such to have been the name of the English ship—so

different from that which has found its way into various publications,

on the representation of other actors in that affair, is illustrative of

the character of the man. Simple of mind, totally without exaggeration,

and a lover, as well as a practicer, of severe truth, he was a man whose

representations might be fully relied on. Even in his account of the

extraordinary combat between the Richard and Serapis, he stripped the

affair of all its romance, and of every thing that was wonderful;

rendering the whole clear, simple and intelligible as his own thoughts.

The only narratives of that battle, worthy of a seaman, have been

written rigidly after his explanations, which leave it a bloody and

murderous fight, but one wholly without the marvelous.

On his arrival at Philadelphia, after an absence of four years, more

than one of which had been spent in prison, Dale was just twenty-four

years and two months old. He was now regularly put on the list of

lieutenants, by the marine committee of Congress; his former authority

proceeding from the agents of the government in Europe. It is owing to

this circumstance that the register of government places him so low as a

lieutenant. Dale now parted from Paul Jones, with whom he had served

near two years; and that, too, in some of the most trying scenes of the

latter’s life. The commodore was anxious to take his favorite lieutenant

with him to the America 74; but the latter declined the service, under

the impression it would be a long time before the ship got to sea. He

judged right, the America being transferred to the French in the end,

and Jones himself never again sailing under the American flag.

The name of Dale will inseparably be connected with the battle of the

Richard and Serapis. His prominent position and excellent conduct

entitle him to this mark of distinction, and it says much for the

superior, when it confers fame to have been “Paul Jones’ first

lieutenant.” We smile, however, at the legends of the day, when we

recall the account of the “Lieutenants Grubb” and other heroes of

romance, who have been made to figure in the histories of that renowned

combat, and place them in contrast with the truth-loving, sincere, moral

and respectable subject of this memoir. The sword which Louis XVI.

bestowed on Jones, for this victory, passed into the hands of Dale, and

is now the property of a gallant son, a fitting mark of the services of

the father, on the glorious occasion it commemorates.[4]

Dale was employed on board a schooner that was manned from the Ariel,

after reaching Philadelphia, and sent down the Delaware to convoy

certain public stores. The following June, he joined the Trumbull 28,

Captain Nicholson, as her first lieutenant. The Trumbull left the capes

of the Delaware on the 8th August, 1781, being chased off the land by

three of the enemy’s cruisers. The weather was squally and night set in

dark. In endeavoring to avoid her pursuers, the Trumbull found herself

alongside of the largest, a frigate of thirty-two guns, and an action

was fought under the most unfavorable circumstances. The Trumbull’s

fore-topmast was hanging over, or rather through her forecastle, her

crew was disorganized, and the vessel herself in a state of no

preparation for a conflict with an equal force; much less with that

actually opposed to her. The officers made great exertions, and

maintained an action of more than an hour, when the colors of the

American ship were struck to the Iris 32, and Monk 18. The former of

these vessels had been the American frigate Hancock, and the latter was

subsequently captured in the Delaware, by Barney in the Hyder Ally.

This was the fourth serious affair in which Dale had been engaged that

war, and the fourth time he had been captured. As he was hurt also in

this battle, it made the third of his wounds. His confinement, however,

was short, and the treatment not a subject of complaint. He was taken

into New York, paroled on Long Island, and exchanged in November.

No new service offering in a marine which, by this time, had lost most

of its ships, Dale obtained a furlough, and joined a large

letter-of-marque called the Queen of France, that carried twelve guns,

as her first officer. Soon after he was appointed to the command of the

same vessel. In the spring of 1782, this ship, in company with several

other letters-of-marque, sailed for France, making many captures by the

way. The ship of Dale, however, parted from the fleet, and, falling in

with an English privateer of fourteen guns, a severe engagement

followed, in which both parties were much cut up; they parted by mutual

consent. Dale did not get back to Philadelphia until February of the

succeeding year, or until about the time that peace was made.

In common with most of the officers of the navy, Lieutenant Dale was

disbanded, as soon as the war ceased. He was now in the twenty-seventh

year of his age, with a perfect knowledge of his profession, in which he

had passed more than half his life, a high reputation for his rank, a

courage that had often been tried, a body well scarred, a character

beyond reproach, and not altogether without “money in his purse.” Under

the circumstances, he naturally determined to follow up his fortunes in

the line in which he had commenced his career. He became part owner of a

large ship, and sailed in her for London, December, 1783, in the station

of master. After this, he embarked successfully in the East India trade,

in the same character, commanding several of the finest ships out of the

country. In this manner he accumulated a respectable fortune, and began

to take his place among the worthies of the land in a new character.

In September, 1791, Mr. Dale was married to Dorothy Crathorne, the

daughter of another respectable ship-master of Philadelphia, and then a

ward of Barry’s. With this lady he passed the remainder of his days, she

surviving him as his widow, and dying some years later than himself. No

change in his pursuits occurred until 1794, when the new government

commenced the organization of another marine, which has resulted in that

which the country now possesses.

Dale was one of the six captains appointed under the law of 1794, that

directed the construction of as many frigates, with a view to resist the

aggressions of Algiers. Each of the new captains was ordered to

superintend the construction of one of the frigates, and Dale, who was

fifth in rank, was directed to assume the superintendence of the one

laid down at Norfolk, virtually the place of his nativity. This ship was

intended to be a frigate of the first class, but, by some mistake in her

moulds, she proved in the end to be the smallest of the six vessels then

built. It was the unfortunate Chesapeake, a vessel that never was in a

situation to reflect much credit on the service. Her construction,

however, was deferred, in consequence of an arrangement with Algiers,

and her captain was put on furlough.

Dale now returned to the China trade, in which he continued until the

spring of 1798. The last vessel he commanded was called the Ganges. She

was a fine, fast ship, and the state of our relations with France

requiring a hurried armament, the government bought this vessel, in

common with several others, put an armament of suitable guns in her,

with a full crew, gave her to Dale, and ordered her on the coast as a

regular cruiser.

In consequence of this arrangement, Capt. Dale was the first officer who

ever got to sea under the pennant of the present navy. He sailed in May,

1798, and was followed by the Constellation and Delaware in a few days.

The service of Dale in his new capacity was short, however, in

consequence of some questions relating to rank. The captains appointed

in 1794 claimed their old places, and, it being uncertain what might be

the final decision of the government, as there were many aspirants, Dale

declined serving until the matter was determined. In May, 1799, he

sailed for Canton again, in command of a strong letter-of-marque, under

a furlough. On his return from this voyage he found his place on the

list settled according to his own views of justice and honor, and

reported himself for service. Nothing offered, however, until the

difficulties with France were arranged; but, in May, 1801, he was

ordered to take command of a squadron of observation about to be sent to

the Mediterranean.

Dale now hoisted his broad pennant, for the first and only time, and

assumed the title by which he was known for the rest of his days. He was

in the prime of life, being in his forty-fifth year, of an active, manly

frame, and had every prospect before him of a long and honorable

service. The ships put under his orders were the President 44, Capt.

James Barron; Philadelphia 38, Capt. Samuel Barron; Essex 32, Capt.

William Bainbridge; and Enterprise 12, Lieut. Com. Sterrett. A better

appointed, or a better commanded force, probably never sailed from

America. But there was little to do, under the timid policy and

defective laws of the day. War was not supposed to exist, although

hostilities did; and vessels were sent into foreign seas with crews

shipped for a period that would scarcely allow of a vessel’s being got

into proper order.

The squadron sailed June 1st, 1801, and reached Gibraltar July 1st. The

Philadelphia blockaded the Tripolitan admiral, with two cruisers, in

Gibraltar, while the other vessels went aloft. A sharp action occurred

between the Enterprise and a Tripolitan of equal force, in which the

latter was compelled to submit, but was allowed to go into her own port

again, for want of legal authority to detain her. Dale appeared off

Tripoli, endeavored to negotiate a little about an exchange of

prisoners, and did blockade the port; but his orders fettered him in a

way to prevent any serious enterprises. In a word, no circumstances

occurred to allow the commodore to show his true character, except as it

was manifested in his humanity, prudence and dignity. As a superior, he

obtained the profound respect of all under his orders, and to this day

his name is mentioned with regard by those who then served under him. It

is thought that this squadron did much toward establishing the high

discipline of the marine. In one instance only had Dale an opportunity

of manifesting his high personal and professional qualities. The

President struck a rock in quitting Port Mahon, and for some hours she

was thought to be in imminent danger of foundering. Dale assumed the

command, and one of his lieutenants, himself subsequently a flag officer

of rare seamanship and merit, has often recounted to the writer his

admiration of the commodore’s coolness, judgment, and nerve, on so

trying an occasion. The ship was carried to Toulon, blowing a gale, and,

on examination, it was found that she was only saved from destruction by

the skilful manner in which the wood ends had been secured.

The vigilance of Dale was so great, however, and his dispositions so

skilful, that the Tripolitans made no captures while he commanded in

those seas. In March, 1802, he sailed for home, under his orders,

reaching Hampton Roads in April, after a cruise of about ten months. The

succeeding autumn, Com. Dale received an order to hold himself in

readiness to resume the command from which he had just returned. Ever

ready to serve his country, when it could be done with honor, he would

cheerfully have made his preparations accordingly, but, by the order

itself, he ascertained that he was to be sent out without a captain in

his own ship. This, agreeably to the notions he entertained, was a

descent in the scale of rank, and he declined serving on such terms.

There being no alternative between obedience and resignation, he chose

the latter, and quitted the navy. At this time, he was the third captain

on the list, and it is no more than justice to say, that he stood second

to no other in the public estimation.

Dale never went to sea again. Possessed of an ample fortune, and

possessing the esteem of all who knew him, he commanded the respect of

those with whom he differed in opinion touching the question which drove

him from the navy. With the latter he never quarreled, for, at the

proper period, he gave to it his two elder sons. To the last he retained

his interest in its success, and his care of mariners, in general,

extended far beyond the interests of this life.

Many years previously to his death, Com. Dale entered into full

communion with the Protestant Episcopal Church, of which he proved a

consistent and pious member. Under the newly awakened feelings which

induced this step, he was the originater of a Mariner’s Church, in

Philadelphia, attending it in person, every Sunday afternoon, for a long

succession of years. He was as free with his purse, too, as with his

time; and his charities, though properly concealed, were believed to be

large and discriminating. With some it may be deemed a matter of moment,

with all it should be a proof of the estimation in which Dale was held

by certainly a very respectable part of his fellow citizens, that he was

named to be the first president of the Washington Benevolent Society; an

association that soon degenerated to serve the ends of party politics,

whatever may have been the design that influenced the few with which it

originated.

The evening of the life of Dale was singularly peaceful and happy. It

was as calm as its morning had been tempestuous. It is true he had to

weep for the loss of his first-born son, a noble youth, who died of

wounds received in the action between his old ship, the President, and a

British squadron; but he had given the young man to his country, and

knew how to bear up under the privation. He died, himself, in the

seventieth year of his age, in his dwelling at Philadelphia, February

26th, 1826; departing in peace with God and man, as he fondly trusted

himself, and as those who survive have every reason to hope.

By his marriage with Miss Crathorne, Com. Dale had several children,

five of whom lived to become men and women, viz. three sons and two

daughters. Of the former, Richard, the eldest, fell, at an early age, a

midshipman on board the President. John Montgomery, the second, is now a

commander in the navy, having served with Warrington, in the last

English war. This gentleman is married to a lady of the well known

family of Willing. Edward Crathorne, the youngest son, is a merchant of

Philadelphia. He is married and has children. The eldest daughter,

Sarah, married T. M’Kean Pettit, Esq., a judge of the District Court, in

Philadelphia, and is dead, leaving issue. Elizabeth, the youngest, is

the wife of Com. George Campbell Reed, of the navy, and has no issue.

In considering the character of Dale, we are struck with its simple

modesty and frank sincerity, quite as much as with its more brilliant

qualities. His courage and constancy were of the highest order,

rendering him always equal to the most critical duties, and never

wearying in their performance. Such a man is perfectly free from all

exaggeration. As he was not afraid to act when his cooler judgment

approved, he had no distrusts to overcome ere he could forbear, as

prudence dictated. Jones found him a man ready and willing to second all

his boldest and most hazardous attempts, so long as reason showed the

probabilities of success; but the deed done, none more thoroughly

stripped it of all false coloring, or viewed it in a truer light than he

who had risked his life in aiding to achieve it.

The person of Dale was in harmony with his moral qualities. It was

manly, seaman-like, and of singularly respectable bearing. Simplicity,

good faith, truth and courage were imprinted on his countenance, which

all who were thrown into his company soon discovered was no more than

the mirror of his mind. The navy has had more brilliant intellects,

officers of profounder mental attainments, and of higher natural gifts,

but it has had few leaders of cooler judgment, sounder discretion, more

inflexible justice, or indomitable resolution. He was of a nature, an

experience, and a professional skill to command respect and to inspire

confidence, tributes that were cheerfully paid by all who served under

his orders. The writer of this article has had extensive opportunities

of hearing character discussed among the sea-officers of his country;

few escape criticism, of some sort or other, for their professional

acts, and fewer still, as men; yet he cannot recall a single instance in

which he has ever heard a whisper of complaint against the public or

private career of Richard Dale. This total exemption from the usual

fortunes of the race may, in part, be owing to the shortness of the

latter’s service in the present marine, and to the limited acquaintance

of his cotemporaries, but it is difficult to believe that it is not

chiefly to be ascribed to the thoroughly seaman-like character of the

officer, and to the perfect truth and sterling probity of the man.

-----

[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.

[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.:

“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 the _acts_ of

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, _my_ gold-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

mentions _two_ swords, both of which are specifically

bequeathed—viz. “_my_ gold-hilted” and “_my_ silver-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 view _his_ possession of the sword in

this light, is clear enough by his will. He gave it, _without_

restraint 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. The _other sword_ he 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. His

_legal_ right 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 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

The _mystic notes of Nature’s Anthem_ clear,

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 very _acme_ of 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.

CHAPTER II.

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 and _bonhommie_, 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 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 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 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-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 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.)