THE ROMANCE OF BESSIE WARREN 103 



" 'Tis the wink of the eye, 'tis the draught of a breath 

 From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 

 From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud — 

 Oh! Why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" 



One wonders whether the Elizabeth Willett resting there could 

 be the Elizabeth Warren whose romance, full of pathos and sorrow 

 has been handed down from parent to child for more than a 

 century, and who is said to be sleeping in an unmarked grave 

 somewhere in the neighborhood. 



Whether Elizabeth Warren really existed in life, or was merely 

 the fanciful creation of a romancer can not be authentically stated, 

 as historical research has failed to reveal her identity. 



Tradition tells us that when Elizabeth Warren was the belle 

 of Hunt's Point, that section was considerably smaller than it is 

 today — there were the meeting house, the blacksmith's shop, the 

 "King's Arms," and a dozen or two cottages. These were all, but 

 in those days such pioneer buildings constituted no mean village. 



Elizabeth was the daughter of old Simon Warren, the landlord 

 of the "King's Arms" and she entered her maturity at a time when 

 the air was overcast with rumors of approaching trouble. Already 

 the first sign of that unrest which was to culminate in the Revolu- 

 tion, was plain to all who had eyes to see and ears to hear; and 

 it was said that there was no better place to observe these symp- 

 toms than in the tap-room of Warren's inn. 



Warren came of that New England stock which had turned 

 England topsy-turvy, and which was later to suffer severely for it, 

 tho with ultimate happy results. The English consequently 

 had no more bitter enemy in all the restless Colony than Simon 

 Warren. To his place it was, therefore, that young hot-heads of 

 the neighborhood resorted when they desired to discuss the manner 

 in which they were to rid themselves of the insufferable yoke of 

 the Mother Country. 



One evening at the close of a stormy day, a mud-bespattered 

 traveler entered the "King's Arms" and sat long before the fire 

 with old Simon, while pretty Bessie, the landlord's daughter, 

 brought them many a foaming tankard to help the talk along. 



Now, it never occurred to the hospitable Simon that the polite 

 stranger he was entertaining was a British spy who had been sent 

 to feel the pulse of the Colonies. Having discovered that Simon's 



