University of Virginia Library

The Hidden Treasure.

John Wentworth, Royal Governor, the last
That in New Hampshire bore vice-regal sway,
Held court at Wolfeboro', by a lake, remote
From care of office, then made onerous
By the fierce restlessness of those he ruled,
Who caught the living spirit of the hour,
And threatened in the mood of discontent.
Portsmouth was turbulent, although respect
Checked violence 'gainst harm to genial John,
For all owned kindly fealty to him,
Although detesting his authority.
He was of Boston lineage and Harvard brand,
A generous, courtly, cultivated man,
Of tastes refined, with every wish awake
The people of his care to benefit.
Broad roads he builded and new ways devised
To give New Hampshire her predestined rank;
And Dartmouth felt the kindness of his heart
In many offices of generous care.
But “Royal Governor!” his title chafed
The temper of his people, and he flew
To this, his sylvan realm, for peace and rest.
He haply found it, did his buxom dame,
Widow of Atkinson, in ten days wed,
Post nubila at Atkinson's demise,
(What time, in going from the nuptial rites,
Did Arthur Brown, the rector, fall down stairs,
And, tributary to the season, break an arm),
Admit of peace domestic, breach of which
Were worse than din of direst politics.
His stately manse stood smiling by the shore,
A pile of goodly station, since destroyed
By fire which licked it to its cellar walls.
Broad avenues connected with the road,
O'erarched by sturdy trees, while, back of all,
And far on every side, stretched hill o'er hill,
Giving incentive to the lively chase,
Where game abounded and adventure becked
The daring huntsman to his best essay.
A hospitable, cheerful home it was.
Amenities of old-time neighborhood
Existed thereabout without a check,
And one could scarcely dream the cloud suspent
So soon to merge the land in hostile flood!
'Twas spring-time, and the glory of the year
Was seen on verdant upland, vale, and mead;
The trees were rife with blossom, and the spray
Mellifluous with birds, while the green sod
Sparkled and glowed in jewelling of flowers.
Gay pleasure-boats went gliding o'er the lake,
Their white sails gleaming in the ruddy sun,
While from the teeming bosom of the wave
Were struggling drawn bright finny denizens,
To stir the taste with gustatory thrills—
When murmurs came, at first, of Lexington,
And the bold stand the yeomanry had made
'Gainst that prerogative which Wentworth held;
And then the full-toned clarion's fearful breath
Proclaiming that the hour of strife had come!
The land was rising, kingly rule was broke,
And gloomy eyes were bent on courtly John,
Though well content that he should e'er remain,
Could he of his commission be divest.
Then came the secret order to depart.
The Governor, too far from Barclay's ships,
Packed bag and baggage for a speedy flight.
The coach of state, rolled to the mansion door,
Hid by the night, received a weighty load:
Gay Lady Wentworth and the precious plate,
With its armorial bearings, and such cash
As then in argent sheen the coffers lined,
The Governor the last, who backed himself,
In stately silence, by my lady's side.
Mount quickly, coachman! footman, take your place!
On rolls the coach in cumbrous tardiness,
And from the window Wentworth looks his last
On his broad acres, with a painful sigh,
While Lady Wentworth dreams of ball and rout
'Neath better auspices and loyal skies.
But heavy grew the way; the horses strove
And foamed with wearying effort to advance,
Until, quite failing, they no effort made.
The treasure must be left, or else the dame,
Its half-equivalent—forbid the thought!—
And there, beneath the solemn midnight stars,
The earth received in trust the precious store.
No more delay. The harborage was gained.
In Portsmouth, safe beneath the royal guns,
Did Wentworth tarry till rebellion took
Such sturdy presence that it was not safe
For royal governor to linger there;
And so he passed forever from the scene:
He ne'er regained the treasure hid in earth,
And no man knoweth whereabouts 'twas hid.
The path he went, traditional alone,
Affords no clue to its dark resting-place,
Though many seekers have essayed the task—
Running down through the century of years—
Of finding the so-much-desired prize.
And even now, at times, dim lights are seen
At night, when honest folks should be in bed,
Dancing about the meadow and the wood,
In hands of seekers for the buried pelf,
Led on by those who claim that they can see
Through all the mysteries of heaven and earth.
The earth is honeycombed with punctures made
By prodding iron bars; but over all
A monumental disappointment reigns.
Perhaps John Wentworth guards the spot himself,
Not yet selected his adopted heir.