But when we reflect that Jamestown was the general resort of persons from all sections of the colony, and that the tavern accommodations were but small, we need not be surprised at a state of things so different from the glad and gratuitous welcome of our own day.

Such, briefly and imperfectly described, was old Jamestown, the first capital of Virginia, as it appeared in 1676, to the little party of travellers, whose fortunes we have been following, as they rode into Stuart street, late in the evening of the day on which they left Windsor Hall. The arrival, as is usual in little villages, caused quite a sensation. The little knot of idlers that gathered about the porch of the only regular inn, desisted from whittling the store box, in the demolishing of which they had been busily engaged—and looked up with an impertinent stare at the new comers. Mine host bustled about as the carriage drove up before the door, and his jolly red face grew redder by his vociferous calls for servants. In obedience to his high behest, the servants came—the hostler, an imported cockney, to examine the points of the horses committed to his care, and to measure his provender by their real worth; the pretty Scotch chambermaid to conduct the ladies to their respective rooms, and a brisk and dapper little French barber to attack the colonel vehemently with a clothes-brush, as though he had hostile designs upon the good man's coat.

Bernard, in the meantime, having promised to come for Virginia, and escort her to the famous birth-night ball, rode slowly towards the palace; now and then casting a haughty glance around him on those worthy gossips, who followed his fine form with their admiring eyes, and whispered among themselves that “Some folks was certainly born to luck; for look ye, Gaffer, there is a young fribble, come from the Lord knows where, and brought into the colony to be put over the heads of many worthier; and for all he holds his head so high, and sneers so mighty handsome with his lip, who knows what the lad may be. The great folk aye make a warm nest for their own bastards, and smooth the outside of the blanket as softly as the in, while honester folks must e'en rough it in frieze and Duffield. But na'theless, I say nothing, neighbor.”

CHAPTER XIV.

The ball at Sir William Berkeley's palace was of that character, which, in the fashionable world, is described as brilliant; and was long remembered by those who attended it, as the last scene of revelry that was ever known in Jamestown. The park or lawn which we have described was brilliantly illuminated with lamps and transparencies hung from the trees. The palace itself was a perfect blaze of light. The coaches of the cavaliers rolled in rapid succession around the circular path that led to the palace, and deposited their fair burdens, and then rolled rapidly away to await the breaking up of the ball. Young beaux, fairly glittering with gold embroidery, with their handsome doublets looped with the gayest ribbons, and their hair perfumed and oiled, and plaited at the sides in the most captivating love-knots; their cheeks beplastered with rouge, and their moustache carefully trimmed and brushed, passed gracefully to and fro, through the vast hall, and looked love to soft eyes that spake again. And those young eyes, how brightly did they beam, and how freshly did the young cheeks of their lovely owners blush, even above the rouge with which they were painted, as they met the admiring glance of some favored swain bent lovingly upon them! How graceful, too, the attitude which these fair maidens assumed, with their long trails sweeping and fairly carpetting the floor, or when held up by their tapering fingers, how proudly did they step, as they crossed the room to salute the stately and dignified, but now smiling Lady Frances Berkeley—and she the queenly centre of that vast throng, leaning upon the arm of her noble and venerable husband, with what grace and dignity she bowed her turbaned head in response to their salutations; and with what a majestic air of gratified vanity did she receive the courteous gratulations of the chivalrous cavaliers as they wished her many returns of the happy day, and hoped that the hours of her life would be marked by the lapse of diamond sands, while roses grew under her feet!

Sir William Berkeley, of whose extraordinary character we know far more than of any of the earlier governors of Virginia, was now in the evening of his long and prosperous life. “For more than thirty years he had governed the most flourishing country the sun ever shone upon,”[25] and had won for himself golden opinions from all sorts of people. Happy for him, and happy for his fame, if he had passed away ere he had become “encompassed,” as he himself expresses it, “with rebellion, like waters.” To all he had endeared himself by his firmness of character and his suavity of manner. In 1659, he was called, by the spontaneous acclaim of the people of Virginia, to assume the high functions of the government, of which he had been deprived during the Protectorate, and, under his lead, Virginia was the first to throw off her allegiance to the Protector, and to declare herself the loyal realm of the banished Charles. Had William Berkeley died before the troublous scenes which now awaited him, and which have cast so dark a shadow upon his character, scarce any man in colonial history had left so pure a name, or been mourned by sincerer tears. Death is at last the seal of fame, and over the grave alone can we form a just estimate of human worth and human virtue.

In person he was all that we delight to imagine in one who is truly great. Age itself had not bent his tall, majestic figure, which rose, like the form of the son of Kish, above all the people. His full black eye was clear and piercing, and yet was often softened by a benevolent expression. And this was the true nature of his heart, formed at once for softness and for rigour. His mouth, though frequently a pleasant smile played around it, expressed the inflexible firmness and decision of his character. No man to friends was more kind and gentle; no man to a foe was more relentless and vindictive. The only indication of approaching age was in the silver colour of his hair, which he did not conceal with the recently introduced periwig, and which, combed back to show to its full advantage his fine broad brow, fell in long silvery clusters over his shoulders.

Around him were gathered the prominent statesmen of the colony, members of the Council and of the House of Burgesses, conversing on various subjects of political interest. Among those who chose this rational mode of entertainment was our old friend, Colonel Henry Temple, who met many an old colleague among the guests, and everywhere received the respect and attention which his sound sense, his sterling worth, and his former services so richly deserved.

The Lady Frances, too, withdrawing her arm from that of her husband, engaged in elegant conversation with the elderly dames who sought her society; now conversing with easy dignity with the accomplished wives of the councillors; now, with high-bred refinement, overlooking the awkward blunders of some of the plainer matrons, whose husbands were in the Assembly; and now smiling good-humouredly at the old-fashioned vanity and assumed dignity of Mrs. Temple. The comparison of the present order of things with that to which she had been accustomed in her earlier days, formed, as usual, the chief theme of this good lady's discourse. But, to the attentive observer, the glance of pride with which from time to time she looked at her daughter, who, with graceful step and glowing cheek, was joining in the busy dance, plainly showed that, in some respects at least, Mrs. Temple had to acknowledge that the bright present had even eclipsed her favourite past.

Yes, to the gay sound of music, amid the bright butterflies of fashion, who flew heartlessly through the mazes of the graceful dance, Virginia Temple moved—with them, but not of them. She had not forgotten Hansford, but she had forgotten self, and, determined to please her mother, she had sought to banish from her heart, for the time, the sorrow which was still there. She had come to the ball with Bernard, and he, seeing well the effort she had made, bent all the powers of his gifted mind to interest her thoughts, and beguile them from the absorbing subject of her grief. She attributed his efforts to a generous nature, and thanked him in her heart for thus devoting himself to her pleasure. She had attempted to return his kindness by an assumed cheerfulness, which gradually became real and natural, for shadows rest not long upon a young heart. They fly from the blooming garden of youth, and settle themselves amid the gloom and ruins of hoary age. And never had Alfred Bernard thought the fair girl more lovely, as, with just enough of pensive melancholy to soften and not to sadden her heart, she moved among the gay and thoughtless throng around her.

The room next to the ball-room was appropriated to such of the guests as chose to engage in cards and dice; for in this, as in many other respects, the colony attempted to imitate the vices of the mother country. It is true the habit of gaming was not so recklessly extravagant as that which disgraced the corrupt court of Charles the Second, and yet the old planters were sufficiently bold in their risks, and many hundreds of pounds of tobacco often hung upon the turn of the dice-box or the pip[26] of a card. Seated around the old fashioned card-table of walnut, were sundry groups of those honest burgesses, who were ready enough in the discharge of their political functions in the state-house, but after the adjournment were fully prepared for all kinds of fun. Some were playing at gleek, and, to the uninitiated, incomprehensible was the jargon in which the players indulged. “Who'll buy the stock?” cries the dealer. “I bid five”—“and I ten”—“and I fifty.” Vie, revie, surrevie, capote, double capote, were the terms that rang through the room, as the excited gamesters, with anxious faces, sorted and examined their cards. At another table was primero, or thirty-one, a game very much resembling the more modern game of vingt-et-un; and here, too, loud oaths of “damn the luck,” escaped the lips of the betters, as, with twenty-two in their hands, they drew a ten, and burst with a pip too many. Others were moderate in their risks, rattled the dice at tra-trap, and playing for only an angel a game, smoked their pipes sociably together, and talked of the various measures before the Assembly.

Thus the first hours of the evening passed rapidly away, when suddenly the sound of the rebecks[27] ceased in the ball-room, the gaming was arrested in an instant, and at the loud cry of hall-a-hall,[28] the whole company repaired to the long, broad porch, crowding and pushing each other, the unwary cavaliers treading on the long trains of the fair ladies, and receiving a well-merited frown for their carelessness. The object of this general rush was to see the masque, which was to be represented in the porch, illuminated and prepared for the purpose. At one end of the porch a stage was erected, with all the simple machinery which the ingenuity of the youth of Jamestown could devise, to aid in the representation—the whole concealed for the present from the view of the spectators by a green baize curtain.

The object of the masque, imitated from the celebrated court masques of the seventeenth century, which reflected so much honour on rare Ben Jonson, and aided in establishing the early fame of John Milton, was to celebrate under a simple allegory the glories of the Restoration. Alfred Bernard, who had witnessed such a representation in England, first suggested the idea of thus honouring the birth-night of the Lady Frances, and the suggestion was eagerly taken hold of by the loyal young men of the little colonial capital, who rejoiced in any exhibition that might even faintly resemble the revels to which their loyal ancestors, before the revolution, were so ardently devoted.

CHAPTER XV.

With the hope that a description of the sports and pastimes of their ancestors may meet with like favour from the reader, we subjoin the following account of this little masque which was prepared for the happy occasion by Alfred Bernard, aided by the grave chaplain, Arthur Hutchinson, and performed by some of the gay gallants and blooming damsels of old Jamestown. We flatly disclaim in the outset any participation in the resentment or contempt which was felt by these loyal Virginians towards the puritan patriots of the revolution.

The curtain rises and discovers the genius of True Liberty, robed in white, with a wreath of myrtle around her brow; holding in her right hand a sceptre entwined with myrtle, as the emblem of peace, and in her left a sprig of evergreen, to represent the fabled Moly[29] of Ulysses. As she advances to slow and solemn music, she kneels at an altar clothed with black velvet, and raising her eyes to heaven, she exclaims:—

As she speaks, a bright star appears at the farther end of the stage, and ascending slowly, at length stands over the altar, where she kneels. Extending her arm towards the star, she rises and cries in triumph:—

Then enters the embodiment of Puritanism, represented in the peculiar dress of the Roundheads—with peaked hat, a quaint black doublet and cloak, rigidly plain, and cut in the straight fashion of the sect; black Flemish breeches, and grey hose; huge square-toed shoes, tied with coarse leather thongs; and around the waist a buff leather belt, in which he wears a sword. He comes in singing, as he walks, one of the Puritan versions, or rather perversions of the Psalms, which have so grossly marred the exquisite beauty of the original, and of which one stanza will suffice the reader:—

Then standing at some distance from the altar, he rolls up his eyes, till nothing but the whites can be seen, and is exercised in prayer. With a smile of bitter contempt the genius of True Liberty proceeds:—

She waves the sprig of Moly over the head of the Puritan three or four times, who, sensible of the force of the charm, cries out:—

Then, as the charm increases, he continues in a feebler voice:

As he finishes the last line, the heavy roll of thunder is heard, and suddenly the doors of a dungeon in the background fly open, from which emerges the impersonation of Christmas, followed by the Queen of May. Christmas is represented by a jolly, round-bellied, red-nosed, laughing old fellow, dressed in pure white. His hair is thickly powdered, and his face red with rouge. In his right hand he holds a huge mince-pie, which ever and anon he gnaws with exquisite humour, and in his left is a bowl of generous wassail, from which he drinks long and deeply. His brows are twined with misletoe and ivy, woven together in a fantastic wreath, and to his hair and different parts of his dress are attached long pendants of glass, to represent icicles. As he advances to the right of the stage, there descends from the awning above an immense number of small fragments of white paper, substitutes for snow-flakes, with which that part of the floor is soon completely covered.

The Queen of May takes her position on the left. She is dressed in a robe of pure white, festooned with flowers, with a garland of white roses twined with evergreen upon her brow. In her hand is held the May-pole, adorned with ribbons of white, and blue, and red, alternately wrapped around it, and surmounted with a wreath of various flowers. As she assumes her place, showers of roses descend from above, envelope her in their bloom, and shed a fresh fragrance around the room.

The Genius of Liberty points out the approaching figures to the Puritan, and exclaims:

Christmas, yawning and stretching himself, then roars out in a merry, lusty voice:

As he thunders out the last stave of his song, the Queen of May steps forward, and sings the following welcome to Spring:

As she concludes her lay, she places the May-pole in the centre of the stage, and a happy throng of gay young swains and damsels enter and commence the main dance around it. The Puritan watches them at first with a wild gaze, in which horror is mingled with something of admiration. Gradually his stern features relax into a grim smile, and at last, unable longer to restrain his feelings, he bursts forth in a most immoderate and carnal laugh. His feet at first keep time to the gay music; he then begins to shuffle them grotesquely on the floor, and finally, overcome by the wild spirit of contagion, he unites in the dance to the sound of the merry rebecks. While the dance continues, he shakes off the straight-laced puritan dress which he had assumed, and tossing the peaked hat high in the air, appears, amid the deafening shouts of the delighted auditory, in the front of the stage in the rich costume of the English court, and with a royal diadem upon his brow, the mimic impersonation of Charles the Second.

CHAPTER XVI.

The good-natured guests at the Governor's awarded all due, and more than due merit to the masque which was prepared for their entertainment. Alfred Bernard became at once the hero of the evening, and many a bright eye glanced towards him, and envied the fair Virginia the exclusive attention which he paid to her. Some young cavaliers there were, whose envy carried them so far, that they sneered at the composition of the young poet; declared the speeches of Liberty to be prosy and tiresome; and that the song of Christmas was coarse, rugged, and devoid of wit; nay, they laughed at the unnatural transformation of the grim-visaged Puritan into the royal Charles, and referred sarcastically to the pretentious pedantry of the young author, in introducing the threadbare story of Ulysses and the Moly into a modern production—and at the inconsistent jumble of ancient mythology and pure Christianity. Bernard heard them not, and if he had, he would have scorned their strictures, instead of resenting them. But he was too much engrossed in conversation with Virginia to heed either the good-natured applause of his friends, or the peevish jealousy of his young rivals. Indeed, the loyalty of the piece amply atoned for all its imperfections, and the old colonists smiled and nodded their heads, delighted at the wholesome tone of sentiment which characterized the whole production.

The character of Christmas was well sustained by Richard Presley,[35] a member of the House of Burgesses, whose jolly good humour, as broad sometimes as his portly stomach, fitted him in an eminent degree for the part. He was indeed one of those merry old wags, who, in an illustrated edition of Milton, might have appeared in L'Allegro, to represent the idea of “Laughter holding both his sides.”

Seeing Sir William Berkeley and Colonel Temple engaged in earnest conversation, in one corner of the room, the old burgess bustled, or rather waddled up to them, and remaining quiet just long enough to hear the nature of their conversation chimed in, with,

“Talking about Bacon, Governor? Why he is only imitating old St. Albans, and trying to establish a novum organum in Virginia. By God, it seems to me that Sir Nicholas exhausted the whole of his mediocria firma policy, and left none of it to his kinsmen. Do you not know what he meant by that motto, Governor?”

“No;” said Sir William, smiling blandly.

“Well, I'll tell you, and add another wrinkle to your face. Mediocria firma, when applied to Bacon, means nothing more nor less than sound middlings. But I tell you what, this young mad-cap, Bacon, will have to adopt the motto of another namesake of his, and ancestor, perhaps, for friars aye regarded their tithes more favourably than their vows of virtue—and were fathers in the church as well by the first as the second birth.”

“What ancestor do you allude to now, Dick?” asked the Governor.

“Why, old Friar Bacon, who lamented that time was, time is, and time will be. And to my mind, when time shall cease with our young squealing porker here, we will e'en substitute hemp in its stead.”

“Thou art a mad wag, Presley,” said the Governor, laughing, “and seem to have sharpened thy wit by strapping it on the Bible containing the whole Bacon genealogy. Come, Temple, let me introduce to your most favourable acquaintance, Major Richard Presley, the Falstaff of Virginia, with as big a paunch, and if not as merry a wit, at least as great a love for sack—aye, Presley?”

“Yes, but indifferent honest, Governor, which I fear my great prototype was not,” replied the old wag, as he shook hands with Colonel Temple.

“Well, I believe you can be trusted, Dick,” said the Governor, kindly, “and I may yet give you a regiment of foot to quell this modern young Hotspur of Virginia.”

“Aye, that would be rare fun,” said Presley, with a merry laugh, “but look ye, I must take care to attack him in as favourable circumstances as the true Falstaff did, or 'sblood he might embowell me.”

“I would like to own the tobacco that would be raised over your grave then, Dick,” said the Governor, laughing, “but never fear but I will supply you with a young Prince Hal, as merry, as wise, and as brave.”

“Which is he, then? for I can't tell your true prince by instinct yet.”

“There he stands talking to Miss Virginia Temple. You know him, Colonel Temple, and I trust that you have not found that my partiality has overrated his real merit.”

“By no means,” returned Temple; “I never saw a young man with whom I was more pleased. He is at once so ingenuous and frank, and so intelligent and just in his views and opinions on all subjects—who is he, Sir William? One would judge, from his whole mien and appearance, that noble blood ran in his veins.”

“I believe not,” replied Berkeley, “or if so, as old Presley would say, he was hatched in the nest where some noble eagle went a birding. I am indebted to my brother, Lord Berkeley, for both my chaplain and my private secretary. Good Parson Hutchinson seems to have been the guardian of Bernard in his youth, but what may be the real relation between them I am unable to say.”

“Perhaps, like Major Presley's old Friar Bacon,” said Temple, “the good parson may have been guilty of some indiscretion in his youth, for which he would now atone by his kindness to the offspring of his early crime.”

“Hardly so,” replied the Governor, “or he would probably acknowledge him openly as his son, without all this mystery. I have several times hinted at the subject to Mr. Hutchinson, but it seems to produce so much real sorrow, that I have never pushed my inquiries farther. All that I know is what I tell you, that my brother, in whose parish this Mr. Hutchinson long officiated as rector, recommended him to me—and the young man, who has been thoroughly educated by his patron, or guardian, by the same recommendation, has been made my private secretary.”

“He is surely worthy to fill some higher post,” said Temple.

“And he will not want my aid in building up his fortunes,” returned Berkeley; “but they have only been in the colony about six months as yet—and the young man has entwined himself about my heart like a son. My own bed, alas! is barren, as you know, and it seems that a kind providence had sent this young man here as a substitute for the offspring which has been denied to me. See Temple,” he added, in a whisper, “with what admiring eyes he regards your fair daughter. And if an old man may judge of such matters, it is with maiden modesty returned.”

“I think that you are at fault,” said Temple, with a sigh; “my daughter's affections are entirely disengaged at present.”

“Well, time will develope which of us is right. It would be a source of pride and pleasure, Harry, if I could live to see a union between this, my adopted boy, and the daughter of my early friend,” said the old Governor, as a tear glistened in his eye; “but come, Presley, the dancing has ceased for a time,” he added aloud, “favour the company with a song.”

“Oh, damn it, Governor,” replied the old burgess, “my songs won't suit a lady's ear. They are intended for the rougher sex.”

“Well, never fear,” said the Governor, “I will check you if I find you are overleaping the bounds of propriety.”

“Very well, here goes then—a loyal ditty that I heard in old England, about five years agone, while I was there on a visit. Proclaim order, and join in the chorus as many as please.”

And with a loud, clear, merry voice, the old burgess gave vent to the following, which he sung to the tune of the “Old and Young Courtier;” an air which has survived even to our own times, though adapted to the more modernized words, and somewhat altered measure of the “Old English Gentleman:”—

The singer paused, and loud and rapturous was the applause which he received, until, putting up his hand in a deprecating manner, silence was again restored, and with an elaborate impromptu, which it had taken him about two hours that morning to spin from his old brain, he turned to Berkeley, and burst forth again.

Various were the comments drawn forth by the last volunteer stanza of the old loyalist. With lowering looks, some of the guests conversed apart in whispers, for there were a good many in the Assembly, who, though not entirely approving the conduct of Bacon, were favourably disposed to his cause. Sir William Berkeley himself restrained his mirth out of respect for a venerable old man, who stood near him, and towards whom many eyes were turned in pity. This was old Nathaniel Bacon, the uncle of the young insurgent, and himself a member of the council. There were dark rumours afloat, that this old man had advised his nephew to break his parole and fly from Jamestown; but, although suspicion had attached to him, it could never be confirmed. Even those who credited the rumour rather respected the feelings of a near relative, in thus taking the part of his kinsman, than censured his conduct as savouring of rebellion.