 | LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. Myrtis |  |
LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON.
And by the meadow trenches blow the first sweet cuckoo flowers;
The wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows grey,
And I'm to be Queen of the May, mother—I'm to be Queen of the May.
The building rook will caw from the wind-swept, tall elm tree,
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
And the swallow will come back again, with summer o'er the wave,
But I shall lie alone, mother, in my far mouldering grave.”
Tennyson.
“Mother,” said the sweet voice of a young and
happy girl, “shall I pass for a May queen of the olden
time? A deal of trouble have I, and my tire-woman
had to study out and fit up this antique costume.”
The Countess of Lincoln might be forgiven for the
flush of maternal pride that passed over her usually
pallid and serious face as she gazed on the exquisite
beauty of the joyous creature before her.
“Go to your grand-mother, my love; she can instruct
you in all the mysteries of the toilet of her
own day. Though, if your dress should be somewhat
of the composite order, it is surely not unbecoming.”
With buoyant step the fair being glided through
the lofty halls of the baronial castle, and bowed her
graceful form before the stately countess dowager,
whose hair was silvered by time, though the fire of
her dark, aristocratic eye was but slightly changed.
“Heyday, my Lady Arabella! Queen of the May
indeed! Come nearer, and let me arrange your
shoulder-knots. There should have been more starch
in your standing ruff. Turn round, and walk before
well as could be expected. A merlin on your hand,
too! Indeed, where did you obtain that fine bird?”
“I supposed that a falcon was indispensable to the
array of a fine lady of the last century.”
“True; but I think I asked you where you obtained
it.”
“It has been trained for the occasion, and was lent
me by a friend of the family.”
“Trained—for—the—occasion—and lent—by—a
friend—of the family! What possible need can there
be of blushing, my Lady Arabella, about a goshawk
and a friend of the family? I wish, however, that
you could have seen some of the belles of my day.
Why, I might have lent you some rich ornaments, had
you condescended to apply to me.”
“Dear grand-mother, have you forgotten how often
I consulted you about the dress worn by the queens
of May in the times of Mary and Elizabeth?”
“No, child, no; I gave you the best advice I could.
I was never fond of this kind of mummery for noblemen's
daughters; it savors too much of the common
people. Would that you had been taught the courtly
science of hawking. That was a right royal sport.
Majestically indeed did Queen Elizabeth ride; and
well do I remember when my Lord Montacute entertained
her at his castle—for I had also the honor
to be invited—how she would take with her falcon
several birds before breakfast. One morning early,
a cross-bow being delivered into her hand, with due
deer in the paddock, and was back before you would
think of rising. Truly, after she was seventy years
of age, she delighted in the chase, and managed her
steed and falcon as well as ever. How many of
you, dainty, fair-weather dames, will do as much?”
Arabella had been trained to listen with a martyr's
patience to the repetition of old-world stories; but
now, as soon as she perceived that she might be released,
bending with respectful observance, she bounded
away like a young gazelle.
The park, to which she hastened, was like shorn
velvet; and the feet of those high-born ladies tripped
there as gayly as those of the peasant girl who feels
the breath of spring in her heart, and exults, she
knows not why. A select party were assembled, and,
amid songs and flower strewings, a crown of fresh
blossoms was placed on the head of the chosen Queen
of May. A sumptuous entertainment was spread in
bowers erected for that purpose, and under the kingly
oaks.
Afterward the servants, in their best attire, danced
around the lofty May-pole, and partook of refreshments
bounteously distributed. It was the pleasure
of the young Earl of Lincoln to retain some of the
festivals of the olden time, and to make his domestics
happy. He felt that their toils were thus lightened,
and their homes rendered more dear.
On his arm leaned his widowed mother. Near
them stood a man of middle age and thoughtful aspect.
of his father, through whose financial talents
the ancestral estate, formerly impaired, had become
unencumbered and rich in revenue.
“Seest thou, my lord,” he said, in a somewhat
quaint tone, “the comely countenance of the damsel
who hath just crowned the Lady Arabella? She is
the daughter of the pious Lord Say. Heretofore I
have spoken of her unto thee. Right happy would
be the young nobleman who should win her to his
house and heart.”
Color deepened on the cheek of the earl, and he
turned to speak to a young man in the group, of lofty
form, with a broad, pure forehead. Still the words
fell on an almost unconscious ear, so fixed was the
gazer's eye upon every movement of the Lady Arabella,
who, with perfect grace, and the lightness of a
happy heart, sported among her companions. When
the revels drew near a close, she waved her hand,
and the bird flew from it to his; and, though the
smile that accompanied the deed spoke only the language
of girlish and guileless simplicity, yet to him
it was beautiful and priceless.
When another May shed its gifts on the earth,
the loveliness of that fair creature had come forth
into rarer and more exquisite ripeness. It had taken
a different and higher character. Deeper thoughts
sat upon the brow, and a more serene happiness;
the thought gave proof of an earthly love, the happiness
of a heavenly piety. Both these guests had become
glance, in the varying rose-tint of the alabaster
cheek; the other, in forgetfulness of self, in high resolve,
in tireless charity, in every meek and sweet
modification of womanly duty.
Month after month glided away on swift and
blissful pinions. Pure love clad earth in brightness,
and the faith of the Gospel made it as the gate
of heaven.
Winter resumed its sway. Ample fires diffused
warmth through the spacious apartments appropriated
to the Countess Dowager of Lincoln, and the
evening lamp revealed her in close conversation with
the young earl.
“My lord, I have no doubt that this reference to
me is but an idle ceremony. Young people make
up their minds about matrimony, and then consult
their elders, merely to give countenance to their
choice. Yet I must say, that I deem you no very
vigilant guardian of the noble blood of our house.
Your own meek bride, the daughter of the Lord Say,
I like well. The marriage of Frances with Sir Ferdinando
Gorges I approved; but I never sanctioned
that of Susan with Mr. Humphrey; and now it seems
you advocate the suit of another commoner, and that
to the most beautiful of your sisters.”
“Mr. Johnson, madam, is my friend. His love is
reciprocated by Arabella. It was not the question
of their union which I wished to submit to you, but
one still more trying. You know, dear and honored
liberty is invaded, and portents of revolution are
abroad. Attention has been turned to our American
colonies as a place of refuge in case these fears should
be realized. It has been deemed expedient that
they receive accessions of men of wealth, influence,
and education. Such are ready to proceed thither.
Among them, Mr. Johnson has received a high appointment
in the government of New England. He
has accepted, and, of course—”
“Of course what, my Lord of Lincoln? Of course,
Arabella is to have a hut on that bleak shore, and,
should she chance to escape the perils of the sea, may
either die of starvation, or be scalped and eaten by
savages. Has her mode of life fitted her for such
hardships?”
“It has not; but in her soul is a heroic courage,
a holy desire to do good. My revered father, your
beloved son, would have strengthened her in this self-devotion.
Methinks I hear his voice from the mansions
of celestial joy, `Daughter, go, and the Lord
be with thee.”'
A chord was touched, to which the heart of the
aged countess ever responded. The image of her
son still ruled her spirit with a magician's power.
Her voice grew tremulous as she inquired,
“Has the mother consented?”
“She freely gives her darling to the great duties
which she has chosen, and to God, in whom she has
believed. Let her cheerful resignation be our example.
to receive your blessing, ere you retire to repose?”
He left the room, and soon re-entered, leading his
sister. She knelt at the feet of her father's mother,
and buried her face in the deep, rich folds of her
garment. The pride of the aged countess was vanquished
by this affectionate and lamb-like deportment.
Tears coursed down her withered cheeks as
she laid both her hands upon her head, and whispered,
“God bless thee, my poor child! God Almighty
bless thee!”
Spring began to breathe upon the frosts; but she
wrought tardily, as if her heart was elsewhere, or as
if she even bore traitorous likeness to the winter she
had promised to subdue. The sigh of her fitful winds
added sadness to the parting scene in the castle of
the Earl of Lincoln. There a young bride, around
whom the spell of loveliness was wrapped as a mantle,
bade adieu to the objects of her earliest love.
She had taken her last look from every window on
each feature of the landscape; she had stood under
the ancestral oaks, and blessed them for the many
times they had taken her lovingly under their canopy;
and lingered among her flower-beds, though
only the snow-drop and the crocus came forth to bid
her farewell.
And now, the last hour had come. Inexpressibly
tender, yet calm as a seraph, was her parting from
the aged countess, and her brothers and sisters;
had mingled, while she aided in their education, clung
sobbing to her garments. A second time she threw
her arms around her eldest brother.
“My noble brother, thou hast been to me as a father.
Heaven reward thee!”
Still she paused. The most bitter drop in the cup
remained. She evidently shrank from it. Yet it
was but for a moment, and that moment was a prayer.
Then she flung herself upon the neck of her mother.
Long and tearful was that embrace. And then the
beautiful being raised her head like a lily from the
rain-storm. There was a murmured solace, each
to the other, as they parted,
“In that brighter world, sweet soul, in that brighter
world!”
Ships were riding at anchor on a thronged shore.
There were tender partings, sad separations of “linked
spirits” ere the sails spread, and glided gracefully
along their path of waters. Then burst forth a strain
of music, solemn, sonorous, the hymn of the pilgrims.
It grew sweeter and more faint on the distance. A
freshening gale swept its cadence from the listeners
on the strand. But the enthusiasm of the moment
died not away, among those voyagers to the far western
world. Unblenching spirits were there, stayed
upon omnipotent strength.
In a recess of the cabin of the principal ship sat
the bride of Johnson. He knelt beside her. Her
face, veiled by its wealth of tresses, rested upon his
of a holy trust.
“Think not, my love, that my heart misgave me,
because it so clung in the last embrace to her who
watched over my cradle; for, as my Redeemer liveth,
I had rather thus follow thee over the sea to a
home in the wilderness, than, without thee, to dwell
in the courts of princes. Where thou diest will I
die, and there will I be buried.”
As she spoke, her tender tones gathered depth,
and light streamed through her eyes from the altar
of a fervent soul. The voice of him who responded
was choked with emotion.
“The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught
but death part thee and me. Yet the vow of the Moabitess
is weak. Death shall not separate us. It
will be but the dawn of a brighter day, of an eternal
union.”
Slowly the patient vessels ploughed the deep.
The second moon was approaching its wane. Its
rays silvered the broad Atlantic. Many of the
emigrants paced the deck, gazing upon the quiet
scene.
“See,” said Johnson, whose arm supported the
fragile form of his wife, “how every rising billow
takes a portion of brightness, and bowing its laden
crest, is seen no more.”
“Methinks we are long upon these waters,” uttered
a deep, manly voice. Turning, they saw Winthrop,
the appointed Governor of the Massachusetts, standing
leaned.
“Were my Margaret thus by my side, Johnson, I
might moralize like you about the tossing ocean, and
still keep my happiness secure.”
“I see not here your son, young Henry Winthrop,”
said the Lady Arabella. “I thought he was to have
been of our company.”
“He was left behind when we sailed from the
Cowes. Doubtless, he is now upon the wide sea in
some one of the fourteen vessels that compose our
fleet. I regret the mistake that separated him from
me.”
“An eye that never slumbers will look with a
fatherly care upon both.”
“Ever ready art thou, with sweet and devout consolations,
my Lady Arabella. But a parent hath
many cares which the newly-wedded comprehend
not.”
“Truly, Henry Winthrop is a sprightly youth, and
of an amiable spirit.”
“From his very accomplishments, his faults do
grow. He is warm-hearted and trustful. Impatient
is he, also, and balanceth not means with ends. He
hath been some time married, and yet is he but a boy.
Had he the gravity and discretion of John, my first-born,
I should feel no anxiety though he were a voyager
among strangers, or even with evil men.”
“Do you not often think of your babes, sporting
under the shady trees of their fair home at Groton?”
“I see them in my dreams; their little voices
come to me like the chirping of young birds. And
at midnight my prayer goes upward that He who
forgetteth not the raven's nest will keep them and
their loving, brooding mother.”
“See how the Talbot seems to sleep upon the waters,”
said Dudley, joining their group. “I saw the
Ambrose when the sun went down, looming up, large
and high, like a living thing. A sharp look-out do I
keep upon our three companions, pioneers as we are
in this expedition. But none cut the waves with such
dignity as the Arabella. Feels she not the honor of
the name she bears?”
“I have ever thought,” said the Lady Arabella,
“that her old name, the Eagle, was fitter for an admiral-ship,
because the king of birds doth bear himself
so nobly. But look how the Jewel, our light-bearer,
runs before us toward yon dark-lined cloud,
like a glow-worm.”
“The evening air grows chill, my love,” said Johnson.
“It would be safest to be sheltered from it;”
and he wrapped his cloak around her as she descended,
with a nursing tenderness.
“I like not that circle around the waning moon,”
said Winthrop to the captain.
“It bodes no good, governor. God grant us soon
to see the fair New England coast.”
The next morning lowering clouds skirted the
horizon. Winds muttered in the distance, and slowly
rose, as if for vengeful deeds. The ships tossed
when lightnings pierced its sable canopy. Every
timber creaked and groaned. It would seem that
the ships themselves, in pain, mourned the misery of
those whom, having received to their bosom, they
were too weak to succor.
To the uninitiated, the tumult of a storm at sea is
ever appalling. Shut below, they hear the fearful
conflict of blast with billow, the moan of the smitten
vessel, the shriek of the commander's trumpet, the cry
and confusion of the people, who are at their wits'
end. The “thunder of the captain's, and the shouting,”
alarm the poor novices, and the crashing of every
spar is to them as a death signal. Neither are
their apprehensions quieted, if, venturing to look
above, they see the sailors running hither and thither
with their dim lights, or climbing, with spectral
aspect, among the slippery shrouds.
In the cabin of the Arabella, friends and families
were clustering together. From many an agonized
group rose the wail of grief, the weeping of childhood,
or the voice of prayer.
“Husband,” said the Lady Arabella, “if our bed
is now in the deep, our spirits shall go up together,
and so be forever with the Lord. Glorious hope!
How much sweeter to me than the thought of having
thee first taken, and living on lonely years of bitterness
without thee.”
“Would to God, my dearest, in this most awful
hour, thy calmness was mine. Would that no strong
sin, rose up to trouble the soul.”
He clasped her closer to his bosom, as though he
would fain shield her from the surge, which they expected
soon to ingulf them.
“Why dost thou withdraw from me, love? It is
impossible for thee to stand, while the ship so terribly
rolls and plunges.”
She pointed him to a female who lay in the deep
sickness of fear, and whose wailing infant had fallen
from her arms. She desired to receive it in her own,
and Johnson laid it there. She pressed its little chill
cheek to hers, and lulled it with a low, whispered
melody. The poor innocent moaned for a while,
then, clinging closer to its protector, seemed ready
to pass into a peaceful dream.
“Dearest, let me take the child, or restore it to its
mother. Its weight oppresses you.”
“Oh no, so please you, let it rest here. See, the
poor mother is almost as helpless as itself. How its
little hand clasps mine! It will be pleasanter to die
giving comfort to something, even the humblest creature.
How much pleasanter than worn out with disease,
and distressing others by groans and agony.
Is it not so, my love?”
But he who was thus addressed, lingering on her
pure, heavenly smile, answered not. His heart was
absorbed in her, and in her danger. The hope of
life was not perfectly renounced, and the being who
made it most dear filled every thought.
All that night, and through the next day, the tempest
raged. Then its violence abated, and the sob
of the sea, for many hours, was like that of a spent
maniac. The storm-driven vessels sought to draw
near each other, to consult how their rent sails, shattered
cordage, and broken masts, might be best repaired.
The sun of the third day rose cloudless from the
deep. It was the Sabbath. What soothing repose,
what unutterable gratitude did it bring to hearts so
long agitated and sorrowing.
The deck of the Arabella was cleared for divine
service. Two clergymen, the Rev. Mr. John Wilson,
and the Rev. Mr. George Phillips, were of their
company. One led the devotions of the people in a
long and fervent prayer, the other rose to speak from
the words of the Psalmist,
“He maketh a storm, a calm; so He bringeth
them to their desired haven.”
After opening, and applying the beautiful passage
to their recent danger and deliverance, he exclaimed,
“What favored orator hath such magnificent sounding-board
as your preacher? What proud cathedral
hath such canopy as you blue, unsullied, immeasurable
skies?
“Who hath such an audience? The huge billows,
and the domineering waves that lash them, and the
monsters of the deep that play around us; the whale,
lifting up his huge bulk like an island, and the shark
us, did not God stay him.
“Again, I say, who hath such an audience? Exiles
from the home of their fathers; crusaders, without
the red cross banner, not stirred up by monkish
eloquence to fight the infidels for the tomb of Christ,
but going to tell the roving and red-browed heathen,
that Jesus died. I see before me the governor and
deputy-governor of the future colony, the worshipful
assistants, who are to share in the cares of government,
the pillars of the Church, the parents of an
unborn nation, the babe born upon the waters, the
mother who is to nurse her offspring in a land unknown;
pilgrims, strangers, yet princely heirs of an
inheritance that fadeth not away.”
With a freedom from constraint, which their situation
justified, he spoke tenderly of their native realm,
of Charles, their monarch, then in the fifth year of
his troubled reign, and expatiated on the past, the
present, and the future, till the tears of memory and
of hope mingled on many a lifted brow. His hearers
shrank not from the multiplied heads of his discourse,
nor were anxious lest its length should weary
them, but treasured up the “precious word of doctrine
as seed that was to fructify in their souls,” living
bread that could sustain them in the wilderness.
Still long days and wearisome nights were appointed
to the voyagers. How often was the desired coast
hailed in imagination only to resolve itself into a
cloud again. Once, at the peep of dawn, a cry from
rush of footsteps. Pale, haggard faces saw the object
of their desire, and brightened with joy.
Soon after was a clapping of hands, and a cry of
young voices, “The bird! the bird!” A pigeon from
the shore folded its weary wing, and alighted among
the shrouds. The children regarded it with delight,
as, turning its head from side to side, it revealed the
changing shades of its irised neck. They crumbled
their stale bread, which the long voyage had rendered
scanty, and strove to allure to nearer companionship
this pretty aerial messenger from the New
World.
“Oh! wife, dearest one,” said Johnson, “scent you
not the sweet land breeze?”
“It comes to me like the breath of my own garden,
where I sported with my little sisters. It lifts a
weight from my spirit.” And she clasped her thin,
white hands in silent devotion.
They came to anchor in a narrow strait, between
islands whose green copses and thickets, seemed to
eyes which had so long gazed but upon sea and sky,
like the waving shades of Gerizzim to the Israelites.
“Is not this one of the happiest days of our lives?”
said Dudley, as the barque cut the waters which was
to bear them to their new home. “Seventy-five days'
confinement on ship-board is long enough for a landsman.”
“How count you, Governor Dudley?” asked the
Lady Arabella. “I scarcely dare to question your
of June, 1630, I make but sixty-seven days.”
“Ah! dear lady, you are thinking of your loverlike
walks with Isaac Johnson amid the picturesque
scenery of the Isle of Wight, where you stopped to
refresh yourselves. But remember, only a few partook
that privilege. We, poor matter-of-fact people,
who went not on shore since we weighed anchor
at the Coves on the 29th of March, have we not been
these seventy-five good days and nights on the salt
sea? Cupid may make his notes on a rose-leaf, or
a butterfly's wing, but deprived husbands, or still
sadder bachelors, must needs notch our records on
the dull log-book of lonely hearts.”
Salem, where they landed, was pleasant, even in
its scarce-unfolded rudiments. Endicot and his people,
had labored there diligently, and judiciously.
Their welcome to the new-comers was warm, and
they gladly lent every aid in their power, to comfort
and accommodate them. One by one, the other vessels
of the fleet arrived. In the course of that year,
seventeen were sent from the mother country, with
rich accessions to the colony.
A fortnight had elapsed since the arrival of the Arabella,
when a group were observed coming from
the water with slow, sad step. Evidently they were
bearing the dead. Suppressed murmurs rose here
and there: “The poor governor! such a beautiful
young man! only yesterday arrived—drowned in
bathing! Who can bear the news to his father?”
There lay his son, whom but the day before he had
welcomed in the bloom of health. For a moment he
was pale as the clay over which he bent. The bereavement
sank into his soul, and he sought his God.
He was long in solitary prayer. From that time he
spoke not of his sorrow. He gave himself day by
day to those cares for the colony which, from his
high station, devolved on him. But at night, in his
lone recess, the image of the fair youth, with his dripping
locks, cut down in a moment, came over him,
and the cry of “Oh, Henry! my son! my son!”
showed how the unbending magistrate melted in the
agonized father.
Rude were the habitations that sheltered the early
colonists. In one of these, with a countenance lighted
up by cheerfulness and love, Lady Arabella Johnson
received her husband on his return from a short
but toilsome journey. Such comforts as she could
procure were around them; and, while she presided
at their rude table, she listened with delighted interest
to the narrative of his expedition.
“Separation from you but for one day, how painful,
dearest Arabella. Earnestly did I long for you
by my own side, July 30th, amid those solemn exercises
in which we made covenant with God. It was
beneath the lofty canopy of a broad-spreading oak in
Charlestown that our pastor, John Wilson, prayed
and preached with a holy fervor. Then he, with the
Governors Winthrop, Dudley, and myself, taking solemn
It was a season to repay us for every hardship, every
toil, yea, to lift the soul gloriously above the earth.
How I regret that the laborious traveling in this uncleared
land, prevents thy participation in scenes thou
wouldst so much enjoy.”
But there existed a deeper reason why the affectionate
wife should not accompany her husband. It
was written on her wasting brow, in the strange and
fitful brilliance of her eye. Still he, who was most
of all concerned in this change, was the last to perceive
it. Her sweet smile, her animated manner,
whenever he was near, deceived him. He, indeed,
could not fail to observe the emaciation of her frame;
but he imputed it to the long, tedious voyage, an effect,
in some degree, common to them all. Zealously,
and with the sleepless ingenuity of love, he strove
to shelter her from every privation. It affected him
sometimes even to tears, to see her sustain the strong
contrasts between her present and former modes of
life, with a spirit as lucid and playful as the sunbeam.
But, as the summer verged toward its close, he
became alarmed at a debility which she could no
longer conceal. Then his apprehensions wrought
painfully with regard to the approaching winter.
“I shall rear thee a bower, my love, which no blast
can penetrate. The imperishable heart of yon mighty
forest-trees shall be its walls, and I will line it with
the warmest fur of the beaver. Winter shall not
build thee.”
“Be not anxious about me, dearest husband. This
rude hut is more precious to me than the proudest
castle without thee. I bless God for having brought
me to this New World.”
He was troubled at the paleness of her brow, and
drew her head to rest upon his bosom, as he said,
“I am ever hoping for the day when thou canst
travel with me to the beautiful tri-mountain, where
I trust to persuade the governor to establish our
principal city. As yet there is no residence upon
it save the lonely cottage of William Blackstone.
But the softness of its peninsular verdure, and its
swell above the blue waters, is picturesque beyond
description.”
Raising upward, and fixing her eyes, she murmured,
“Behold, I see a more goodly mountain. Are
not yonder the `trees of lign-aloes, which the Lord
hath planted?' Or are they the groves by my father's
house, under whose shade I reposed, and
through whose boughs the trembling moonbeams
looked down?”
Startled at her hollow tone, the fearful thought
for the first time swept over his soul, that the young
and beautiful wife was about to go home to the country
of perfect love.
It was so. That strong pressure of her hand was
the death-clasp. There was no farewell save a moan,
in which the spirit had no part. It seemed but the
made music, or the sigh of a closed instrument, vibrating
for a moment after melody had forsaken it.
And there sat the survivor, with the precious burden
in his arms, the marble cheek resting against his
own. Expect us not to describe his grief, nor the
mourning of the colony over its benefactress and its
pride.
The desolated one lifted feebly his head from the
grave of his idol, to discharge the duties that devolved
upon him. The welfare of a young country struggling
into existence, and the relief of poverty and
sorrow, were his cares. He sustained them faithfully,
and in the spirit of meekness, but for pleasure on
earth he sought not.
It was on the 7th of September, 1631, that the
beautiful site of his selection received the name of
Boston. He was present at its baptism. But so
changed! It was evident to all observers that he
only endured life. For every service of liberality
or piety he girded himself, but his heart was with
the treasure that had flown.
Ere another autumnal moon had filled its horn, the
turf where he had projected a garden and a bower
for his beloved companion, was laid upon his breast.
The father of Boston gave to its Chapel-burying-ground
the first hallowed dust.
The lives of our colonial ancestors abound not
in romantic adventure. Yet they are rich in example,
and in such traces as the heart cherishes with
and distant wastes of time, hath come down to us,
burning like a “bright, particular star,” as the founder
of Athens, let not his name be forgotten who planted
in the western wild our crowning city, the Athens
of New England.
| LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. Myrtis | |