under a flag of truce, to avoid him; her lover was afterward
killed by a cannon-ball, in his tent, and she died unwedded.
Another was sought by two aspirants, who came in the same ship to
woo her, the one from Philadelphia, the other from New York. She
refused them both, and they sailed southward together; but, the
wind proving adverse, they returned, and one lingered till he won
her hand. Still another lover was forced into a vessel by his
friends, to tear him from the enchanted neighborhood; while
sailing past the house, he suddenly threw himself into the
water,--it must have been about where the end of the wharf now
rests,--that he might be rescued, and carried, a passive Leander,
into yonder door. The house was first the head-quarters of the
English commander, then of the French; and the sentinels of De
Noailles once trod where now croquet-balls form the heaviest
ordnance. Peaceful and untitled guests now throng in summer where
St. Vincents and Northumberlands once rustled and glittered; and
there is nothing to recall those brilliant days except the
painted tiles on the chimney, where there is a choice society of
coquettes and beaux, priests and conjurers, beggars and dancers,
and every wig and hoop dates back to the days of Queen Anne.

Sometimes when I stand upon this pier by night, and look across
the calm black water, so still, perhaps, that the starry
reflections seem to drop through it in prolonged javelins of
light instead of resting on the surface, and the opposite
lighthouse spreads its cloth of gold across the bay,--I can
imagine that I discern the French and English vessels just
weighing anchor; I see De Lauzun and De Noailles embarking, and
catch the last sheen upon their lace, the last glitter of their
swords. It vanishes, and I see only the lighthouse gleam, and the