Idish Anges Surriage. And when the [coach door 
finally closed and the eager horses started on their 
“othe you imagine her looking back, with a vague 
in her lovely eyes and a sudden loneliness in 
eart as she saw the shaking form of Goody Sur- 
, before the corner was quickly reached and turned? 
. , overnight, the whole course of ‘her quiet, un- 
at * life was changed. She passed from days of 
1 ae poverty to an environment of ease and culture, 
flower of sturdy Marblehead was quick to take 
oot in her new surroundings. Agnes was an apt pupil 
acy learned the graces and accomplishments nec- 
ssary to a lady of that time. Her remarkable voice 
acted much attention and the beauty of Sir Harry 
nkland’s ward became the oft discussed subject of 
versation in the aristocratic circles of the pompous 
-village-like Boston of that early day. 
Then her schooldays were over and the circle that 
welcomed and encouraged the beautiful fishergirl, 
tent upon her studies, whenever she chanced to be 
eht within its fashionable precincts, turned its back 
| with Puritanic firmness refused to countenance her 
essence in Sir Harry Frankland’s ‘house. 
About this time her mother died. Her father had 
died some years before and Goody Surriage had _ re- 
Y ered. Agnes went down to Marblehead and wa; 
sreeted coldly by her stepfather, while her family and 
former neighbors had no welcome for Sir Harry’s lady. 
In vain she tried to approach them. All her overtures 
are met with repulse and even her use of the old dia- 
lect brought no responsive warmth to their manner. 
Heartbroken, she left the house and proceeded to her 
carriage, which she thad left at the corner. It was only 
a few steps, but stones and decaying fish hurled by 
boisterous small boys and cries of, ‘“There’s old Ag 
Surriage, squael ’er up,” made the short journey to the 
coach door a horror. 
Poor, little fishermaid! Educated beyond and away 
trom her own people, driven fron her own home and 
ostracized by the town of her adoption, with no mother to 
counsel and champion, her’s was, indeed, a sorry lot! 
But through it all Sir Harry remained steadfastly 
loyal. He gave her his heart’s unfailing devotion and 
showered her with attentions and luxuries, but his pride 
of birth refused her the only boon that could make his 
gifts valuable. Her’s was a lonely life. She went no- 
where and met no visitors to Sir Harry’s house. Steadily 
she failed and faded until, in desperation, he bought a 
tract of land in the country, in what is now the town of 
Hopkinton, Massachusetts, and built there a commodious 
manor house. Its grounds were beautiful and extetsive, 
after the style of ancestral homes across the water, and 
here the two lived an Arcadian life and Agnes knew a 
measure of happiness. Their tastes were in perfect har- 
“mony, so we are told. They rode together, read together 
the frequent consignments of books from England and 
here the aristocrats of Boston were not so averse to 
visiting them. At least, Sir Harry did not lack guests, 
for his ‘hospitality was famous and the not over-busy 
-gallants of Boston often rode out to enjoy it. 
. Then came the call of duty from across the seas. 
Sir Harry was wanted in his English home and he went, 
taking Agnes with him. Evidently, he was not of the 
type that loves and rides away, but he must have been 
strangely obtuse to dream that England would condone 
what colonial Boston had condemned. For Agnes it was 
a nightmare, for in spite of his lordship’s forcibly ex- 
pressed indignation, his beautiful ward was treated with 
the utmost disdain. 
_ Again they went into exile, this time touring the 
| 
id 
i. 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE and Reanatie: 57 
continent for several months, and finally took up their 
abode in Lisbon, then the Mecca of European pleasure- 
seekers. Here was a colony of wealthy English mer- 
chants, and immediately Frankland entered into the gay 
round of pleasure. 
All Saints’ Day in the year 1755 was glorious with 
sunshine and the city of Lisbon was astir “from end to 
end in celebration of the feast. It was then, while the 
churches were filled with worshippers, that the earth 
surged and quivered like a sea and the shocks of the 
great earthquake rent caverns in the streets. 
Sir Harry, who was riding with a- lady, was buried 
beneath the ruins of a nearby building. The horses 
and his companion were killed and through what seemed 
to be ages the helpless baronet read the blurred record 
of his selfish, pleasure-loving past and there he vowed that 
if God would deliver him he would make amends, 
In the meantime, the distracted Agnes, who had 
fled from her house at the first quakings, searched the 
streets. Was it fate or love’s own instinct that guided her 
to the place where a loved voice was weakly calling for 
aid! She worked with superhuman strength and went 
for help when her own efforts were unav ailing. Bruised 
in body and soul, Frankland was finally delivered. 
Then Agnes had her rew ard, for as soon as it could 
be accomplished, they were married there in Lisbon, 
where the Divine message had been written and read. 
They returned to engl: and and now, as Lady Frank- 
land, she was received as a heroine and her beauty and 
charm soon won for her the love of. ‘her husband's 
family. 
Later they came to Boston again and Sir Harry's 
ostracized ward was welcomed in the person of the Lady 
Agnes Frankland. Like a princess in her rightful domain 
she reigned over the aristocratic North End and her’s 
became the life of a happy whose 
woman deeds are 
always unrecorded. 
Once more they went to Lisbon and Sir Harry’s 
health failing, they proceede to England, where he died 
shortly after in 1768. Lady Frankland returned to her 
country estate in Hopkinton and lived a quiet life with 
her sister and sister’s children until the flame of righteous 
indignation on the part of the colonies made a mighty 
conflagration of patriotism that swept before it all Tories 
and sympathizers of Great Britain. As the widow of 
an officer of the Crown, Lady Agnes was speedily judged 
a royalist and betook herself to the safety of England, 
but not before she had been detained as a suspect by an 
over-zealous patriot. Before her departure she wit- 
nessed from her own home in the North End the famous 
Battle of Bunker Hill. 
She never returned to the land of her birth, and 
while many of those who knew her in childhood are 
laid away on old Burial Hill, the once barefooted fisher- 
man’s daughter lies in an English grave, marked doubt- 
less, by enduring granite. 
And now, although we would fain conclude with 
picture of a widowhood devoted to the memory of the 
gallant Frankland, we must tell you that Agnes married 
again and this time a wealthy banker of Chichester, John 
Drew, Esq. But this union was short, for she died 
within a year at the age of fifty-seven, about two score 
years after Sir Harry had found her scrubbing the stairs 
of the inn that is now but a memory, with no evidence 
of its being but this old well, known as the Agnes Sur- 
riage well, and from which. on that far-away, sun- 
shiny morning her beautiful voice rose to enchant the 
knightly visitor to the inn. 
This is Marblehead’s fairy tale, but there are many 
others and before you leave Barnegat you should trace 
