{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_64944/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_64944","id":"gutenberg_64944","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64944","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Massachusetts -- History -- Colonial period, ca. 1600-1775 -- Fiction","Province House (Boston, Mass.) -- Fiction","Short stories, American"],"text":"IN COLONIAL DAYS\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cSeveral Personages descending towards the Door\u201d\n]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                  _In\n                                Colonial\n                                 Days_\n\n\n                                  _By_\n\n                         _NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE_\n\n\n                         _L. C. PAGE & COMPANY_\n\n                                _Boston_\n\n                              _PUBLISHERS_\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Copyright, 1896, by JOSEPH KNIGHT COMPANY Copyright,\n1906, by L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (Incorporated)]\n\n                         _Copyright, 1896, by_\n\n                         JOSEPH KNIGHT COMPANY\n\n                         _Copyright, 1906, by_\n\n                          L. C. PAGE & COMPANY\n\n                             (Incorporated)\n\n                                           Third Impression, March, 1911\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: List of Illustrations by Frank T. Merrill.]\n\n\n\n\n                             ILLUSTRATIONS.\n\n\n                                                                    PAGE\n\n \u201cSeveral Personages descending towards the Door\u201d (_color\n   plate_)                                                _Frontispiece_\n\n COPYRIGHT                                                            iv\n\n LADY READING                                                       viii\n\n HOWE\u2019S MASQUERADE (_Half-title_)                                     ix\n\n YE OLD PROVINCE HOUSE                                                 x\n\n INITIAL                                                               1\n\n THE INDIAN                                                            2\n\n \u201cTHE STORY OF EACH BLUE TILE\u201d                                         3\n\n \u201cGAGE MAY HAVE BEHELD HIS DISASTROUS VICTORY\u201d                         5\n\n THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN                                                 6\n\n THE BALCONY                                                           7\n\n \u201cONE OF THESE WORTHIES\u2014A TALL, LANK FIGURE\u201d                          10\n\n COLONEL JOLIFFE AND GRANDDAUGHTER                                    12\n\n \u201cPLEASE YOUR HONOR, THE FAULT IS NONE OF MINE\u201d                       15\n\n \u201cA STOUT MAN, DRESSED IN RICH AND COURTLY ATTIRE\u201d                    18\n\n \u201cTHE SHAPE OF GAGE, AS TRUE AS IN A LOOKING-GLASS\u201d                   22\n\n \u201cA TALL MAN, BOOTED AND WRAPPED IN A MILITARY CLOAK\u201d                 23\n\n \u201cHE RECOILED SEVERAL STEPS FROM THE FIGURE\u201d (_color\n   plate_)                                                   _facing_ 24\n\n \u201cA STAGE DRIVER SAT AT ONE OF THE WINDOWS READING A\n   PENNY PAPER\u201d                                                       27\n\n EDWARD RANDOLPH\u2019S PORTRAIT (_Half-title_)                            29\n\n YE YOUNG CAPTAINE OF YE CASTLE TELLS YE STORY OF YE\n   PICTURE                                                            35\n\n \u201cSOME OF THESE FABLES ARE REALLY AWFUL\u201d (_color plate_)     _facing_ 38\n\n ALICE BECKONED TO THE PICTURE                                        41\n\n \u201cTHE CHAIRMAN OF THE SELECTMEN WAS ADDRESSING TO THE\n   LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR A LONG AND SOLEMN PROTEST\u201d (_color\n   plate_)                                                   _facing_ 42\n\n \u201cSHE SNATCHED AWAY THE SABLE CURTAIN\u201d                                45\n\n \u201c_Choking with the Blood of the Boston Massacre_\u201d                    47\n\n _Lady Eleanore\u2019s Mantle_ (_Half-title_)                              51\n\n YE BEAUTEOUS LADY ELEANORE COMETH TO BOSTON                          57\n\n \u201cA PALE YOUNG MAN ... PROSTRATED HIMSELF BESIDE THE\n   COACH\u201d (_color plate_)                                    _facing_ 59\n\n GOVERNOR SHUTE DESCENDED THE FLIGHT OF STEPS                         60\n\n A GATHERING OF RANK, WEALTH, AND BEAUTY                              63\n\n \u201cI PRAY YOU TAKE ONE SIP OF THIS HOLY WINE\u201d                          67\n\n \u201cKEEP MY IMAGE IN YOUR REMEMBRANCE\u201d                                  71\n\n \u201cTHE COMMUNICATION COULD BE OF NO AGREEABLE IMPORT\u201d                  73\n\n \u201cYOUNG MAN, WHAT IS YOUR PURPOSE?\u201d                                   77\n\n \u201cWHAT THING ART THOU?\u201d                                               80\n\n \u201cTHAT NIGHT A PROCESSION PASSED BY TORCHLIGHT\u201d (_color\n   plate_)                                                   _facing_ 81\n\n OLD ESTHER DUDLEY (_Half-title_)                                     83\n\n \u201cHEAVEN\u2019S CAUSE AND THE KING\u2019S ARE ONE\u201d                              89\n\n \u201cTAKE THIS KEY AND KEEP IT SAFE\u201d                                     92\n\n \u201cA FEW OF THE STANCH, THOUGH CRESTFALLEN OLD TORIES\u201d                 95\n\n THE KING OF ENGLAND\u2019S BIRTHDAY                                       99\n\n \u201cRECEIVE MY TRUST\u201d (_color plate_)                         _facing_ 101\n\n FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH                                                 104\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration: HOWE\u2019S MASQUERADE.]\n\n[Illustration: Y\u0364 Province House.]\n\n\n\n\n                            IN COLONIAL DAYS\n\n\n\n\n                                   I.\n                           HOWE\u2019S MASQUERADE.\n\n\n[Illustration: One]\n\nOne afternoon, last summer, while walking along Washington Street, my\neye was attracted by a signboard protruding over a narrow archway nearly\nopposite the Old South Church. The sign represented the front of a\nstately edifice, which was designated as the \u201cOLD PROVINCE HOUSE, kept\nby Thomas Waite.\u201d I was glad to be thus reminded of a purpose, long\nentertained, of visiting and rambling over the mansion of the old royal\ngovernors of Massachusetts; and entering the arched passage, which\npenetrated through the middle of a brick row of shops, a few steps\ntransported me from the busy heart of modern Boston into a small and\nsecluded courtyard. One side of this space was occupied by the square\nfront of the Province House, three stories high, and surmounted by a\ncupola, on the top of which a gilded Indian was discernible with his bow\nbent and his arrow on the string, as if aiming at the weathercock on the\nspire of the Old South. The figure has kept this attitude for seventy\nyears or more, ever since good Deacon Drowne, a cunning carver of wood,\nfirst stationed him on his long sentinel\u2019s watch over the city.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe Province House is constructed of brick, which seems recently to have\nbeen overlaid with a coat of light-colored paint. A flight of red\nfreestone steps, fenced in by a balustrade of curiously wrought iron,\nascends from the courtyard to the spacious porch, over which is a\nbalcony, with an iron balustrade of similar pattern and workmanship to\nthat beneath. These letters and figures\u201416 P.S. 79\u2014are wrought into the\niron-work of the balcony, and probably express the date of the edifice,\nwith the initials of its founder\u2019s name. A wide door with double leaves\nadmitted me into the hall or entry, on the right of which is the\nentrance to the bar-room.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cThe story of each blue tile\u201d\n]\n\nIt was in this apartment, I presume, that the ancient governors held\ntheir levees, with vice-regal pomp, surrounded by the military men, the\ncouncillors, the judges, and other officers of the crown, while all the\nloyalty of the province thronged to do them honor. But the room, in its\npresent condition, cannot boast even of faded magnificence. The panelled\nwainscot is covered with dingy paint, and acquires a duskier hue from\nthe deep shadow into which the Province House is thrown by the brick\nblock that shuts it in from Washington Street. A ray of sunshine never\nvisits this apartment any more than the glare of the festal torches\nwhich have been extinguished from the era of the Revolution. The most\nvenerable and ornamental object is a chimney-piece set round with Dutch\ntiles of blue-figured china, representing scenes from Scripture; and,\nfor aught I know, the lady of Pownall or Bernard may have sat beside\nthis fireplace, and told her children the story of each blue tile. A bar\nin modern style, well replenished with decanters, bottles, cigar-boxes,\nand network bags of lemons, and provided with a beer-pump and a\nsoda-fount, extends along one side of the room. At my entrance, an\nelderly person was smacking his lips, with a zest which satisfied me\nthat the cellars of the Province House still hold good liquor, though\ndoubtless of other vintages than were quaffed by the old governors.\nAfter sipping a glass of port sangaree, prepared by the skilful hands of\nMr. Thomas Waite, I besought that worthy successor and representative of\nso many historic personages to conduct me over their time-honored\nmansion.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nHe readily complied; but, to confess the truth, I was forced to draw\nstrenuously upon my imagination, in order to find aught that was\ninteresting in a house which, without its historic associations, would\nhave seemed merely such a tavern as is usually favored by the custom of\ndecent city boarders and old-fashioned country gentlemen. The chambers,\nwhich were probably spacious in former times, are now cut up by\npartitions, and subdivided into little nooks, each affording scanty room\nfor the narrow bed and chair and dressing-table of a single lodger. The\ngreat staircase, however, may be termed, without much hyperbole, a\nfeature of grandeur and magnificence. It winds through the midst of the\nhouse by flights of broad steps, each flight terminating in a square\nlanding-place, whence the ascent is continued towards the cupola. A\ncarved balustrade, freshly painted in the lower stories, but growing\ndingier as we ascend, borders the staircase with its quaintly twisted\nand intertwined pillars, from top to bottom. Up these stairs the\nmilitary boots, or perchance the gouty shoes, of many a governor have\ntrodden, as the wearers mounted to the cupola, which afforded them so\nwide a view over their metropolis and the surrounding country. The\ncupola is an octagon, with several windows, and a door opening upon the\nroof. From this station, as I pleased myself with imagining, Gage may\nhave beheld his disastrous victory on Bunker Hill (unless one of the\ntri-mountains intervened), and Howe have marked the approaches of\nWashington\u2019s besieging army; although the buildings, since erected in\nthe vicinity, have shut out almost every object, save the steeple of the\nOld South, which seems almost within arm\u2019s-length. Descending from the\ncupola, I paused in the garret to observe the ponderous white-oak\nframework, so much more massive than the frames of modern houses, and\nthereby resembling an antique skeleton. The brick walls, the materials\nof which were imported from Holland, and the timbers of the mansion, are\nstill as sound as ever; but the floors and other interior parts being\ngreatly decayed, it is contemplated to gut the whole, and build a new\nhouse within the ancient frame and brick work. Among other\ninconveniences of the present edifice, mine host mentioned that any jar\nor motion was apt to shake down the dust of ages out of the ceiling of\none chamber upon the floor of that beneath it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWe stepped forth from the great front window into the balcony, where, in\nold times, it was doubtless the custom of the king\u2019s representative to\nshow himself to a loyal populace, requiting their huzzas and tossed-up\nhats with stately bendings of his dignified person. In those days, the\nfront of the Province House looked upon the street; and the whole site\nnow occupied by the brick range of stores, as well as the present\ncourtyard, was laid out in grass-plats, overshadowed by trees and\nbordered by a wrought-iron fence. Now, the old aristocratic edifice\nhides its time-worn visage behind an upstart modern building. At one of\nthe back windows I observed some pretty tailoresses, sewing, and\nchatting, and laughing, with now and then a careless glance towards the\nbalcony. Descending thence, we again entered the bar-room, where the\nelderly gentleman above mentioned, the smack of whose lips had spoken so\nfavorably for Mr. Waite\u2019s good liquor, was still lounging in his chair.\nHe seemed to be, if not a lodger, at least a familiar visitor of the\nhouse, who might be supposed to have his regular score at the bar, his\nsummer seat at the open window, and his prescriptive corner at the\nwinter\u2019s fireside. Being of a sociable aspect, I ventured to address him\nwith a remark, calculated to draw forth his historical reminiscences, if\nany such were in his mind; and it gratified me to discover, that,\nbetween memory and tradition, the old gentleman was really possessed of\nsome very pleasant gossip about the Province House. The portion of his\ntalk which chiefly interested me was the outline of the following\nlegend. He professed to have received it at one or two removes from an\neye-witness; but this derivation, together with the lapse of time, must\nhave afforded opportunities for many variations of the narrative; so\nthat despairing of literal and absolute truth, I have not scrupled to\nmake such further changes as seemed conducive to the reader\u2019s profit and\ndelight.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nAt one of the entertainments given at the Province House, during the\nlatter part of the siege of Boston, there passed a scene which has never\nyet been satisfactorily explained. The officers of the British army, and\nthe loyal gentry of the province, most of whom were collected within the\nbeleaguered town, had been invited to a masked ball; for it was the\npolicy of Sir William Howe to hide the distress and danger of the\nperiod, and the desperate aspect of the siege, under an ostentation of\nfestivity. The spectacle of this evening, if the oldest members of the\nprovincial court circle might be believed, was the most gay and gorgeous\naffair that had occurred in the annals of the government. The\nbrilliantly lighted apartments were thronged with figures that seemed to\nhave stepped from the dark canvas of historic portraits, or to have\nflitted forth from the magic pages of romance, or at least to have flown\nhither from one of the London theatres, without a change of garments.\nSteeled knights of the Conquest, bearded statesmen of Queen Elizabeth,\nand high-ruffled ladies of her court, were mingled with characters of\ncomedy, such as a party-colored Merry Andrew, jingling his cap and\nbells; a Falstaff, almost as provocative of laughter as his prototype;\nand a Don Quixote, with a bean-pole for a lance and a potlid for a\nshield.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBut the broadest merriment was excited by a group of figures\nridiculously dressed in old regimentals, which seemed to have been\npurchased at a military rag fair, or pilfered from some receptacle of\nthe cast-off clothes of both the French and British armies. Portions of\ntheir attire had probably been worn at the siege of Louisburg, and the\ncoats of most recent cut might have been rent and tattered by sword,\nball, or bayonet, as long ago as Wolfe\u2019s victory. One of these\nworthies\u2014a tall, lank figure, brandishing a rusty sword of immense\nlongitude\u2014purporting to be no less a personage than General George\nWashington; and the other principal officers of the American army, such\nas Gates, Lee, Putnam, Schuyler, Ward, and Heath, were represented by\nsimilar scarecrows. An interview in the mock-heroic style, between the\nrebel warriors and the British commander-in-chief, was received with\nimmense applause, which came loudest of all from the loyalists of the\ncolony. There was one of the guests, however, who stood apart, eying\nthese antics sternly and scornfully, at once with a frown and a bitter\nsmile.\n\nIt was an old man, formerly of high station and great repute in the\nprovince, and who had been a very famous soldier in his day. Some\nsurprise had been expressed, that a person of Colonel Joliffe\u2019s known\nWhig principles, though now too old to take an active part in the\ncontest, should have remained in Boston during the siege, and especially\nthat he should consent to show himself in the mansion of Sir William\nHowe. But thither he had come, with a fair granddaughter under his arm;\nand there, amid all the mirth and buffoonery, stood this stern old\nfigure, the best sustained character in the masquerade, because so well\nrepresenting the antique spirit of his native land. The other guests\naffirmed that Colonel Joliffe\u2019s black puritanical scowl threw a shadow\nround about him; although, in spite of his sombre influence, their\ngayety continued to blaze higher, like (an ominous comparison) the\nflickering brilliancy of a lamp which has but a little while to burn.\nEleven strokes, full half an hour ago, had pealed from the clock of the\nOld South, when a rumor was circulated among the company that some new\nspectacle or pageant was about to be exhibited, which should put a\nfitting close to the splendid festivities of the night.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\u201cWhat new jest has your Excellency in hand?\u201d asked the Rev. Mather\nByles, whose Presbyterian scruples had not kept him from the\nentertainment. \u201cTrust me, sir, I have already laughed more than beseems\nmy cloth, at your Homeric confabulation with yonder ragamuffin general\nof the rebels. One other such fit of merriment, and I must throw off my\nclerical wig and band.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot so, good Dr. Byles,\u201d answered Sir William Howe; \u201cif mirth were a\ncrime, you had never gained your doctorate in divinity. As to this new\nfoolery, I know no more about it than yourself; perhaps not so much.\nHonestly now, Doctor, have you not stirred up the sober brains of some\nof your countrymen to enact a scene in our masquerade?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps,\u201d slyly remarked the granddaughter of Colonel Joliffe, whose\nhigh spirit had been stung by many taunts against New England,\u2014\u201cperhaps\nwe are to have a mask of allegorical figures. Victory, with trophies\nfrom Lexington and Bunker Hill,\u2014Plenty, with her overflowing horn, to\ntypify the present abundance in this good town,\u2014and Glory, with a wreath\nfor his Excellency\u2019s brow.\u201d\n\nSir William Howe smiled at words which he would have answered with one\nof his darkest frowns, had they been uttered by lips that wore a beard.\nHe was spared the necessity of a retort, by a singular interruption. A\nsound of music was heard without the house, as if proceeding from a full\nband of military instruments stationed in the street, playing, not such\na festal strain as was suited to the occasion, but a slow funeral march.\nThe drums appeared to be muffled, and the trumpets poured forth a\nwailing breath, which at once hushed the merriment of the auditors,\nfilling all with wonder and some with apprehension. The idea occurred to\nmany, that either the funeral procession of some great personage had\nhalted in front of the Province House, or that a corpse, in a\nvelvet-covered and gorgeously decorated coffin, was about to be borne\nfrom the portal. After listening a moment, Sir William Howe called, in a\nstern voice, to the leader of the musicians, who had hitherto enlivened\nthe entertainment with gay and lightsome melodies. The man was\ndrum-major to one of the British regiments.\n\n\u201cDighton,\u201d demanded the general, \u201cwhat means this foolery? Bid your band\nsilence that dead march; or, by my word, they shall have sufficient\ncause for their lugubrious strains! Silence it, sirrah!\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease your Honor,\u201d answered the drum-major, whose rubicund visage had\nlost all its color, \u201cthe fault is none of mine. I and my band are all\nhere together; and I question whether there be a man of us that could\nplay that march without book. I never heard it but once before, and that\nwas at the funeral of his late Majesty, King George the Second.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well!\u201d said Sir William Howe, recovering his composure; \u201cit is\nthe prelude to some masquerading antic. Let it pass.\u201d\n\nA figure now presented itself, but, among the many fantastic masks that\nwere dispersed through the apartments, none could tell precisely from\nwhence it came. It was a man in an old-fashioned dress of black serge,\nand having the aspect of a steward, or principal domestic in the\nhousehold of a nobleman, or great English landholder. This figure\nadvanced to the outer door of the mansion, and throwing both its leaves\nwide open, withdrew a little to one side and looked back towards the\ngrand staircase, as if expecting some person to descend. At the same\ntime, the music in the street sounded a loud and doleful summons. The\neyes of Sir William Howe and his guests being directed to the staircase,\nthere appeared, on the uppermost landing-place that was discernible from\nthe bottom, several personages descending towards the door. The foremost\nwas a man of stern visage, wearing a steeple-crowned hat and a skullcap\nbeneath it; a dark cloak, and huge wrinkled boots that came half-way up\nhis legs. Under his arm was a rolled-up banner, which seemed to be the\nbanner of England, but strangely rent and torn; he had a sword in his\nright hand, and grasped a Bible in his left. The next figure was of\nmilder aspect, yet full of dignity, wearing a broad ruff, over which\ndescended a beard, a gown of wrought velvet, and a doublet and hose of\nblack satin. He carried a roll of manuscript in his hand. Close behind\nthese two came a young man of very striking countenance and demeanor,\nwith deep thought and contemplation on his brow, and perhaps a flash of\nenthusiasm in his eye. His garb, like that of his predecessors, was of\nan antique fashion, and there was a stain of blood upon his ruff. In the\nsame group with these were three or four others, all men of dignity and\nevident command, and bearing themselves like personages who were\naccustomed to the gaze of the multitude. It was the idea of the\nbeholders, that these figures went to join the mysterious funeral that\nhad halted in front of the Province House; yet that supposition seemed\nto be contradicted by the air of triumph with which they waved their\nhands, as they crossed the threshold and vanished through the portal.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cPlease your honor.\u201d\n\n  \u201cThe fault is none of mine.\u201d\n]\n\n\u201cIn the Devil\u2019s name, what is this?\u201d muttered Sir William Howe to a\ngentleman beside him; \u201ca procession of the regicide judges of King\nCharles the martyr?\u201d\n\n\u201cThese,\u201d said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence almost for the first\ntime that evening,\u2014\u201cthese, if I interpret them aright, are the Puritan\ngovernors,\u2014the rulers of the old, original democracy of Massachusetts.\nEndicott, with the banner from which he had torn the symbol of\nsubjection, and Winthrop, and Sir Henry Vane, and Dudley, Haynes,\nBellingham, and Leverett.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy had that young man a stain of blood upon his ruff?\u201d asked Miss\nJoliffe.\n\n\u201cBecause, in after years,\u201d answered her grandfather, \u201che laid down the\nwisest head in England upon the block, for the principles of liberty.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill not your Excellency order out the guard?\u201d whispered Lord Percy,\nwho, with other British officers, had now assembled round the general.\n\u201cThere may be a plot under this mummery.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\u201cTush! we have nothing to fear,\u201d carelessly replied Sir William Howe.\n\u201cThere can be no worse treason in the matter than a jest, and that\nsomewhat of the dullest. Even were it a sharp and bitter one, our best\npolicy would be to laugh it off. See, here come more of these gentry.\u201d\n\nAnother group of characters had now partly descended the staircase. The\nfirst was a venerable and white-bearded patriarch, who cautiously felt\nhis way downward with a staff. Treading hastily behind him, and\nstretching forth his gauntleted hand as if to grasp the old man\u2019s\nshoulder, came a tall, soldierlike figure, equipped with a plumed cap of\nsteel, a bright breastplate, and a long sword, which rattled against the\nstairs. Next was seen a stout man, dressed in rich and courtly attire,\nbut not of courtly demeanor; his gait had the swinging motion of a\nseaman\u2019s walk; and chancing to stumble on the staircase, he suddenly\ngrew wrathful, and was heard to mutter an oath. He was followed by a\nnoble-looking personage in a curled wig, such as are represented in the\nportraits of Queen Anne\u2019s time and earlier; and the breast of his coat\nwas decorated with an embroidered star. While advancing to the door, he\nbowed to the right hand and to the left, in a very gracious and\ninsinuating style; but as he crossed the threshold, unlike the early\nPuritan governors, he seemed to wring his hands with sorrow.\n\n\u201cPrithee, play the part of a chorus, good Dr. Byles,\u201d said Sir William\nHowe. \u201cWhat worthies are these?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf it please your Excellency, they lived somewhat before my day,\u201d\nanswered the Doctor; \u201cbut doubtless our friend, the Colonel, has been\nhand-in-glove with them.\u201d\n\n\u201cTheir living faces I never looked upon,\u201d said Colonel Joliffe, gravely;\n\u201calthough I have spoken face to face with many rulers of this land, and\nshall greet yet another with an old man\u2019s blessing, ere I die. But we\ntalk of these figures. I take the venerable patriarch to be Bradstreet,\nthe last of the Puritans, who was governor at ninety, or thereabouts.\nThe next is Sir Edmund Andros, a tyrant, as any New England schoolboy\nwill tell you; and therefore the people cast him down from his high seat\ninto a dungeon. Then comes Sir William Phipps, shepherd, cooper,\nsea-captain, and governor: may many of his countrymen rise as high, from\nas low an origin! Lastly, you saw the gracious Earl of Bellamont, who\nruled us under King William.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what is the meaning of it all?\u201d asked Lord Percy.\n\n\u201cNow, were I a rebel,\u201d said Miss Joliffe, half aloud, \u201cI might fancy\nthat the ghosts of these ancient governors had been summoned to form the\nfuneral procession of royal authority in New England.\u201d\n\nSeveral other figures were now seen at the turn of the staircase. The\none in advance had a thoughtful, anxious, and somewhat crafty expression\nof face; and in spite of his loftiness of manner, which was evidently\nthe result both of an ambitious spirit and of long continuance in high\nstations, he seemed not incapable of cringing to a greater than himself.\nA few steps behind came an officer in a scarlet and embroidered uniform,\ncut in a fashion old enough to have been worn by the Duke of\nMarlborough. His nose had a rubicund tinge, which, together with the\ntwinkle of his eye, might have marked him as a lover of the wine-cup and\ngood-fellowship; notwithstanding which tokens, he appeared ill at ease,\nand often glanced around him, as if apprehensive of some secret\nmischief. Next came a portly gentleman, wearing a coat of shaggy cloth,\nlined with silken velvet; he had sense, shrewdness, and humor in his\nface, and a folio volume under his arm; but his aspect was that of a man\nvexed and tormented beyond all patience and harassed almost to death. He\nwent hastily down, and was followed by a dignified person, dressed in a\npurple velvet suit, with very rich embroidery; his demeanor would have\npossessed much stateliness, only that a grievous fit of the gout\ncompelled him to hobble from stair to stair, with contortions of face\nand body. When Dr. Byles beheld this figure on the staircase, he\nshivered as with an ague, but continued to watch him steadfastly, until\nthe gouty gentleman had reached the threshold, made a gesture of anguish\nand despair, and vanished into the outer gloom, whither the funeral\nmusic summoned him.\n\n\u201cGovernor Belcher!\u2014my old patron!\u2014in his very shape and dress!\u201d gasped\nDr. Byles. \u201cThis is an awful mockery!\u201d\n\n\u201cA tedious foolery, rather,\u201d said Sir William Howe, with an air of\nindifference. \u201cBut who were the three that preceded him?\u201d\n\n\u201cGovernor Dudley, a cunning politician,\u2014yet his craft once brought him\nto a prison,\u201d replied Colonel Joliffe; \u201cGovernor Shute, formerly a\ncolonel under Marlborough, and whom the people frightened out of the\nprovince; and learned Governor Burnet, whom the Legislature tormented\ninto a mortal fever.\u201d\n\n\u201cMethinks they were miserable men, these royal governors of\nMassachusetts,\u201d observed Miss Joliffe. \u201cHeavens, how dim the light\ngrows!\u201d\n\nIt was certainly a fact that the large lamp which illuminated the\nstaircase now burned dim and dusky: so that several figures, which\npassed hastily down the stairs and went forth from the porch, appeared\nrather like shadows than persons of fleshly substance. Sir William Howe\nand his guests stood at the doors of the contiguous apartments, watching\nthe progress of this singular pageant, with various emotions of anger,\ncontempt, or half-acknowledged fear, but still with an anxious\ncuriosity. The shapes, which now seemed hastening to join the mysterious\nprocession, were recognized rather by striking peculiarities of dress,\nor broad characteristics of manner, than by any perceptible resemblance\nof features to their prototypes. Their faces, indeed, were invariably\nkept in deep shadow. But Dr. Byles, and other gentlemen who had long\nbeen familiar with the successive rulers of the province, were heard to\nwhisper the names of Shirley, of Pownall, of Sir Francis Bernard, and of\nthe well-remembered Hutchinson; thereby confessing that the actors,\nwhoever they might be, in this spectral march of governors, had\nsucceeded in putting on some distant portraiture of the real personages.\nAs they vanished from the door, still did these shadows toss their arms\ninto the gloom of night, with a dread expression of woe. Following the\nmimic representative of Hutchinson came a military figure, holding\nbefore his face the cocked hat which he had taken from his powdered\nhead; but his epaulets and other insignia of rank were those of a\ngeneral officer; and something in his mien reminded the beholders of one\nwho had recently been master of the Province House, and chief of all the\nland.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\u201cThe shape of Gage, as true as in a looking-glass!\u201d exclaimed Lord\nPercy, turning pale.\n\n\u201cNo, surely,\u201d cried Miss Joliffe, laughing hysterically; \u201cit could not\nbe Gage, or Sir William would have greeted his old comrade in arms!\nPerhaps he will not suffer the next to pass unchallenged.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf that be assured, young lady,\u201d answered Sir William Howe, fixing his\neyes, with a very marked expression, upon the immovable visage of her\ngrandfather. \u201cI have long enough delayed to pay the ceremonies of a host\nto these departing guests. The next that takes his leave shall receive\ndue courtesy.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\nA wild and dreary burst of music came through the open door. It seemed\nas if the procession, which had been gradually filling up its ranks,\nwere now about to move, and that this loud peal of the wailing trumpets,\nand roll of the muffled drums, were a call to some loiterer to make\nhaste. Many eyes, by an irresistible impulse, were turned upon Sir\nWilliam Howe, as if it were he whom the dreary music summoned to the\nfuneral of departed power.\n\n\u201cSee!\u2014here comes the last!\u201d whispered Miss Joliffe, pointing her\ntremulous finger to the staircase.\n\nA figure had come into view as if descending the stairs; although so\ndusky was the region whence it emerged, some of the spectators fancied\nthat they had seen this human shape suddenly moulding itself amid the\ngloom. Downward the figure came, with a stately and martial tread, and\nreaching the lowest stair was observed to be a tall man, booted and\nwrapped in a military cloak, which was drawn up around the face so as to\nmeet the flapped brim of a laced hat. The features, therefore, were\ncompletely hidden. But the British officers deemed that they had seen\nthat military cloak before, and even recognized the frayed embroidery on\nthe collar, as well as the gilded scabbard of a sword which protruded\nfrom the folds of the cloak, and glittered in a vivid gleam of light.\nApart from these trifling particulars, there were characteristics of\ngait and bearing which impelled the wondering guests to glance from the\nshrouded figure to Sir William Howe, as if to satisfy themselves that\ntheir host had not suddenly vanished from the midst of them.\n\nWith a dark flush of wrath upon his brow, they saw the general draw his\nsword and advance to meet the figure in the cloak before the latter had\nstepped one pace upon the floor.\n\n\u201cVillain, unmuffle yourself!\u201d cried he. \u201cYou pass no farther!\u201d\n\nThe figure, without blenching a hair\u2019s-breadth from the sword which was\npointed at his breast, made a solemn pause and lowered the cape of the\ncloak from about his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators to\ncatch a glimpse at it. But Sir William Howe had evidently seen enough.\nThe sternness of his countenance gave place to a look of wild amazement,\nif not horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure, and let\nfall his sword upon the floor. The martial shape again drew the cloak\nabout his features and passed on; but reaching the threshold, with his\nback towards the spectators, he was seen to stamp his foot and shake his\nclinched hands in the air. It was afterwards affirmed that Sir William\nHowe had repeated that self-same gesture of rage and sorrow, when, for\nthe last time, and as the last royal governor, he passed through the\nportal of the Province House.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cHe recoiled Several Steps from the Figure.\u201d\n]\n\n\u201cHark!\u2014the procession moves,\u201d said Miss Joliffe.\n\nThe music was dying away along the street, and its dismal strains were\nmingled with the knell of midnight from the steeple of the Old South,\nand with the roar of artillery, which announced that the beleaguering\narmy of Washington had intrenched itself upon a nearer height than\nbefore. As the deep boom of the cannon smote upon his ear, Colonel\nJoliffe raised himself to the full height of his aged form, and smiled\nsternly on the British general.\n\n\u201cWould your Excellency inquire further into the mystery of the pageant?\u201d\nsaid he.\n\n\u201cTake care of your gray head!\u201d cried Sir William Howe, fiercely, though\nwith a quivering lip. \u201cIt has stood too long on a traitor\u2019s shoulders!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must make haste to chop it off, then,\u201d calmly replied the Colonel;\n\u201cfor a few hours longer, and not all the power of Sir William Howe, nor\nof his master, shall cause one of these gray hairs to fall. The empire\nof Britain, in this ancient province, is at its last gasp to-night;\nalmost while I speak it is a dead corpse; and methinks the shadows of\nthe old governors are fit mourners at its funeral!\u201d\n\nWith these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his cloak, and, drawing his\ngranddaughter\u2019s arm within his own, retired from the last festival that\na British ruler ever held in the old province of Massachusetts Bay. It\nwas supposed that the Colonel and the young lady possessed some secret\nintelligence in regard to the mysterious pageant of that night. However\nthis might be, such knowledge has never become general. The actors in\nthe scene have vanished into deeper obscurity than even that wild Indian\nband who scattered the cargoes of the tea-ships on the waves, and gained\na place in history, yet left no names. But superstition, among other\nlegends of this mansion, repeats the wondrous tale, that on the\nanniversary night of Britain\u2019s discomfiture, the ghosts of the ancient\ngovernors of Massachusetts still glide through the portal of the\nProvince House. And last of all comes a figure shrouded in a military\ncloak, tossing his clinched hands into the air, and stamping his\niron-shod boots upon the broad freestone steps with a semblance of\nfeverish despair, but without the sound of a foot-tramp.\n\n\nWhen the truth-telling accents of the elderly gentleman were hushed, I\ndrew a long breath and looked round the room, striving, with the best\nenergy of my imagination, to throw a tinge of romance and historic\ngrandeur over the realities of the scene. But my nostrils snuffed up a\nscent of cigar-smoke, clouds of which the narrator had emitted by way of\nvisible emblem, I suppose, of the nebulous obscurity of his tale.\nMoreover, my gorgeous fantasies were wofully disturbed by the rattling\nof the spoon in a tumbler of whiskey punch, which Mr. Thomas Waite was\nmingling for a customer. Nor did it add to the picturesque appearance of\nthe panelled walls, that the slate of the Brookline stage was suspended\nagainst them, instead of the armorial escutcheon of some far-descended\ngovernor. A stage driver sat at one of the windows, reading a penny\npaper of the day,\u2014the \u201cBoston Times,\u201d\u2014and presenting a figure which\ncould nowise be brought into any picture of \u201cTimes in Boston,\u201d seventy\nor a hundred years ago. On the window-seat lay a bundle, neatly done up\nin brown paper, the direction of which I had the idle curiosity to read.\n\u201cMiss SUSAN HUGGINS, at the PROVINCE HOUSE.\u201d A pretty chambermaid, no\ndoubt. In truth, it is desperately hard work, when we attempt to throw\nthe spell of hoar antiquity over localities with which the living world,\nand the day that is passing over us, have aught to do. Yet, as I glanced\nat the stately staircase, down which the procession of the old governors\nhad descended, and as I emerged through the venerable portal, whence\ntheir figures had preceded me, it gladdened me to be conscious of a\nthrill of awe. Then diving through the narrow archway, a few strides\ntransported me into the densest throng of Washington Street.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  A stage driver sat at one of the windows reading a penny paper\n]\n\n[Illustration: EDWARD RANDOLPH\u2019S PORTRAIT]\n\n\n\n\n                                  II.\n                      EDWARD RANDOLPH\u2019S PORTRAIT.\n\n\nThe old legendary guest of the Province House abode in my remembrance\nfrom midsummer till January. One idle evening last winter, confident\nthat he would be found in the snuggest corner of the bar-room, I\nresolved to pay him another visit, hoping to deserve well of my country\nby snatching from oblivion some else unheard-of fact of history. The\nnight was chill and raw, and rendered boisterous by almost a gale of\nwind, which whistled along Washington Street, causing the gaslights to\nflare and flicker within the lamps. As I hurried onward, my fancy was\nbusy with a comparison between the present aspect of the street, and\nthat which it probably wore when the British governors inhabited the\nmansion whither I was now going. Brick edifices in those times were few,\ntill a succession of destructive fires had swept, and swept again, the\nwooden dwellings and warehouses from the most populous quarters of the\ntown. The buildings stood insulated and independent, not, as now,\nmerging their separate existences into connected ranges, with a front of\ntiresome identity, but each possessing features of its own, as if the\nowner\u2019s individual taste had shaped it, and the whole presenting a\npicturesque irregularity, the absence of which is hardly compensated by\nany beauties of our modern architecture. Such a scene, dimly vanishing\nfrom the eye by the ray of here and there a tallow candle, glimmering\nthrough the small panes of scattered windows, would form a sombre\ncontrast to the street as I beheld it, with the gaslights blazing from\ncorner to corner, flaming within the shops, and throwing a noonday\nbrightness through the huge plates of glass.\n\nBut the black, lowering sky, as I turned my eyes upward,\nwore, doubtless, the same visage as when it frowned upon the\nante-Revolutionary New-Englanders. The wintry blast had the same shriek\nthat was familiar to their ears. The Old South Church, too, still\npointed its antique spire into the darkness, and was lost between earth\nand heaven; and, as I passed, its clock, which had warned so many\ngenerations how transitory was their lifetime, spoke heavily and slow\nthe same unregarded moral to myself. \u201cOnly seven o\u2019clock,\u201d thought I.\n\u201cMy old friend\u2019s legends will scarcely kill the hours \u2019twixt this and\nbedtime.\u201d\n\nPassing through the narrow arch, I crossed the courtyard, the confined\nprecincts of which were made visible by a lantern over the portal of the\nProvince House. On entering the bar-room, I found, as I expected, the\nold tradition-monger seated by a special good fire of anthracite,\ncompelling clouds of smoke from a corpulent cigar. He recognized me with\nevident pleasure; for my rare properties as a patient listener\ninvariably made me a favorite with elderly gentlemen and ladies of\nnarrative propensities. Drawing a chair to the fire, I desired mine host\nto favor us with a glass apiece of whiskey punch, which was speedily\nprepared, steaming hot, with a slice of lemon at the bottom, a dark red\nstratum of port wine upon the surface, and a sprinkling of nutmeg strewn\nover all. As we touched our glasses together, my legendary friend made\nhimself known to me as Mr. Bela Tiffany; and I rejoiced at the oddity of\nthe name, because it gave his image and character a sort of\nindividuality in my conception. The old gentleman\u2019s draught acted as a\nsolvent upon his memory, so that it overflowed with tales, traditions,\nanecdotes of famous dead people, and traits of ancient manners, some of\nwhich were childish as a nurse\u2019s lullaby, while others might have been\nworth the notice of the grave historian. Nothing impressed me more than\na story of a black mysterious picture, which used to hang in one of the\nchambers of the Province House, directly above the room where we were\nnow sitting. The following is as correct a version of the fact as the\nreader would be likely to obtain from any other source, although,\nassuredly, it has a tinge of romance approaching to the marvellous.\n\n\nIn one of the apartments of the Province House there was long\npreserved an ancient picture, the frame of which was as black as\nebony, and the canvas itself so dark with age, damp, and smoke, that\nnot a touch of the painter\u2019s art could be discerned. Time had thrown\nan impenetrable veil over it, and left to tradition and fable and\nconjecture to say what had once been there portrayed. During the rule\nof many successive governors it had hung, by prescriptive and\nundisputed right, over the mantel-piece of the same chamber; and it\nstill kept its place when Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson assumed the\nadministration of the province, on the departure of Sir Francis\nBernard.\n\nThe Lieutenant-Governor sat, one afternoon, resting his head against the\ncarved back of his stately armchair, and gazing up thoughtfully at the\nvoid blackness of the picture. It was scarcely a time for such inactive\nmusing, when affairs of the deepest moment required the ruler\u2019s\ndecision; for, within that very hour, Hutchinson had received\nintelligence of the arrival of a British fleet, bringing three regiments\nfrom Halifax to overawe the insubordination of the people. These troops\nawaited his permission to occupy the fortress of Castle William and the\ntown itself. Yet, instead of affixing his signature to an official\norder, there sat the Lieutenant-Governor, so carefully scrutinizing the\nblack waste of canvas that his demeanor attracted the notice of two\nyoung persons who attended him. One, wearing a military dress of buff,\nwas his kinsman, Francis Lincoln, the Provincial Captain of Castle\nWilliam; the other, who sat on a low stool beside his chair, was Alice\nVane, his favorite niece.\n\nShe was clad entirely in white, a pale, ethereal creature, who, though a\nnative of New England, had been educated abroad, and seemed not merely a\nstranger from another clime, but almost a being from another world. For\nseveral years, until left an orphan, she had dwelt with her father in\nsunny Italy, and there had acquired a taste and enthusiasm for sculpture\nand painting, which she found few opportunities of gratifying in the\nundecorated dwellings of the colonial gentry. It was said that the early\nproductions of her own pencil exhibited no inferior genius, though,\nperhaps, the rude atmosphere of New England had cramped her hand and\ndimmed the glowing colors of her fancy. But, observing her uncle\u2019s\nsteadfast gaze, which appeared to search through the mist of years to\ndiscover the subject of the picture, her curiosity was excited.\n\n\u201cIs it known, my dear uncle,\u201d inquired she, \u201cwhat this old picture once\nrepresented? Possibly, could it be made visible, it might prove a\nmasterpiece of some great artist; else, why has it so long held such a\nconspicuous place?\u201d\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  y^e young captaine of y^e castle tells y^e story of y^e picture.\n]\n\nAs her uncle, contrary to his usual custom (for he was as attentive to\nall the humors and caprices of Alice as if she had been his own\nbest-beloved child), did not immediately reply, the young captain of\nCastle William took that office upon himself.\n\n\u201cThis dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin,\u201d said he, \u201chas been an\nheirloom in the Province House from time immemorial. As to the painter,\nI can tell you nothing; but, if half the stories told of it be true, not\none of the great Italian masters has ever produced so marvellous a piece\nof work as that before you.\u201d\n\nCaptain Lincoln proceeded to relate some of the strange fables and\nfantasies, which, as it was impossible to refute them by ocular\ndemonstration, had grown to be articles of popular belief, in reference\nto this old picture. One of the wildest and at the same time the best\naccredited accounts stated it to be an original and authentic portrait\nof the Evil One, taken at a witch meeting near Salem; and that its\nstrong and terrible resemblance had been confirmed by several of the\nconfessing wizards and witches, at their trial, in open court. It was\nlikewise affirmed that a familiar spirit, or demon, abode behind the\nblackness of the picture, and had shown himself, at seasons of public\ncalamity, to more than one of the royal governors. Shirley, for\ninstance, had beheld this ominous apparition, on the eve of General\nAbercrombie\u2019s shameful and bloody defeat under the walls of Ticonderoga.\nMany of the servants of the Province House had caught glimpses of a\nvisage frowning down upon them, at morning or evening twilight, or in\nthe depths of night, while raking up the fire that glimmered on the\nhearth beneath; although, if any were bold enough to hold a torch before\nthe picture, it would appear as black and undistinguishable as ever. The\noldest inhabitant of Boston recollected that his father, in whose days\nthe portrait had not wholly faded out of sight, had once looked upon it,\nbut would never suffer himself to be questioned as to the face which was\nthere represented. In connection with such stories, it was remarkable\nthat over the top of the frame there were some ragged remnants of black\nsilk, indicating that a veil had formerly hung down before the picture,\nuntil the duskiness of time had so effectually concealed it. But, after\nall, it was the most singular part of the affair that so many of the\npompous governors of Massachusetts had allowed the obliterated picture\nto remain in the state chamber of the Province House.\n\n\u201cSome of these fables are really awful,\u201d observed Alice Vane, who had\noccasionally shuddered, as well as smiled, while her cousin spoke. \u201cIt\nwould be almost worth while to wipe away the black surface of the\ncanvas, since the original picture can hardly be so formidable as those\nwhich fancy paints instead of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut would it be possible,\u201d inquired her cousin, \u201cto restore this dark\npicture to its pristine hues?\u201d\n\n\u201cSuch arts are known in Italy,\u201d said Alice.\n\nThe Lieutenant-Governor had roused himself from his abstracted mood, and\nlistened with a smile to the conversation of his young relatives. Yet\nhis voice had something peculiar in its tones, when he undertook the\nexplanation of the mystery.\n\n\u201cI am sorry, Alice, to destroy your faith in the legends of which you\nare so fond,\u201d remarked he; \u201cbut my antiquarian researches have long\nsince made me acquainted with the subject of this picture,\u2014if picture it\ncan be called,\u2014which is no more visible, nor ever will be, than the face\nof the long-buried man whom it once represented. It was the portrait of\nEdward Randolph, the founder of this house, a person famous in the\nhistory of New England.\u201d\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cSome of these fables are really awful\u201d\n]\n\n\u201cOf that Edward Randolph,\u201d exclaimed Captain Lincoln, \u201cwho obtained the\nrepeal of the first provincial charter, under which our forefathers had\nenjoyed almost democratic privileges! He that was styled the arch-enemy\nof New England, and whose memory is still held in detestation, as the\ndestroyer of our liberties!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was the same Randolph,\u201d answered Hutchinson, moving uneasily in his\nchair. \u201cIt was his lot to taste the bitterness of popular odium.\u201d\n\n\u201cOur annals tell us,\u201d continued the Captain of Castle William, \u201cthat the\ncurse of the people followed this Randolph where he went, and wrought\nevil in all the subsequent events of his life, and that its effect was\nseen likewise in the manner of his death. They say, too, that the inward\nmisery of that curse worked itself outward, and was visible on the\nwretched man\u2019s countenance, making it too horrible to be looked upon. If\nso, and if this picture truly represented his aspect, it was in mercy\nthat the cloud of blackness has gathered over it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThese traditions are folly to one who has proved, as I have, how little\nof historic truth lies at the bottom,\u201d said the Lieutenant-Governor. \u201cAs\nregards the life and character of Edward Randolph, too implicit credence\nhas been given to Dr. Cotton Mather, who\u2014I must say it, though some of\nhis blood runs in my veins\u2014has filled our early history with old women\u2019s\ntales, as fanciful and extravagant as those of Greece or Rome.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet,\u201d whispered Alice Vane, \u201cmay not such fables have a moral? And,\nmethinks, if the visage of this portrait be so dreadful, it is not\nwithout a cause that it has hung so long in a chamber of the Province\nHouse. When the rulers feel themselves irresponsible, it were well that\nthey should be reminded of the awful weight of a people\u2019s curse.\u201d\n\nThe Lieutenant-Governor started, and gazed for a moment at his niece, as\nif her girlish fantasies had struck upon some feeling in his own breast,\nwhich all his policy or principles could not entirely subdue. He knew,\nindeed, that Alice, in spite of her foreign education, retained the\nnative sympathies of a New England girl.\n\n\u201cPeace, silly child,\u201d cried he, at last, more harshly than he had ever\nbefore addressed the gentle Alice. \u201cThe rebuke of a king is more to be\ndreaded than the clamor of a wild, misguided multitude. Captain Lincoln,\nit is decided. The fortress of Castle William must be occupied by the\nroyal troops. The two remaining regiments shall be billeted in the town,\nor encamped upon the Common. It is time, after years of tumult, and\nalmost rebellion, that his Majesty\u2019s government should have a wall of\nstrength about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrust, sir,\u2014trust yet awhile to the loyalty of the people,\u201d said\nCaptain Lincoln; \u201cnor teach them that they can ever be on other terms\nwith British soldiers than those of brotherhood, as when they fought\nside by side through the French war. Do not convert the streets of your\nnative town into a camp. Think twice before you give up old Castle\nWilliam, the key of the province, into other keeping than that of\ntrue-born New-Englanders.\u201d\n\n\u201cYoung man, it is decided,\u201d repeated Hutchinson, rising from his chair.\n\u201cA British officer will be in attendance this evening to receive the\nnecessary instructions for the disposal of the troops. Your presence\nalso will be required. Till then, farewell.\u201d\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  Alice beckoned to the picture.\n]\n\nWith these words the Lieutenant-Governor hastily left the room, while\nAlice and her cousin more slowly followed, whispering together, and once\npausing to glance back at the mysterious picture. The Captain of Castle\nWilliam fancied that the girl\u2019s air and mien were such as might have\nbelonged to one of those spirits of fable\u2014fairies, or creatures of a\nmore antique mythology\u2014who sometimes mingled their agency with mortal\naffairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensibility to human weal or woe.\nAs he held the door for her to pass, Alice beckoned to the picture and\nsmiled.\n\n\u201cCome forth, dark and evil shape!\u201d cried she. \u201cIt is thine hour!\u201d\n\nIn the evening, Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson sat in the same chamber\nwhere the foregoing scene had occurred, surrounded by several persons\nwhose various interests had summoned them together. There were the\nSelectmen of Boston, plain, patriarchal fathers of the people, excellent\nrepresentatives of the old puritanical founders, whose sombre strength\nhad stamped so deep an impress upon the New England character.\nContrasting with these were one or two members of Council, richly\ndressed in the white wigs, the embroidered waistcoats, and other\nmagnificence of the time, and making a somewhat ostentatious display of\ncourtier-like ceremonial. In attendance, likewise, was a major of the\nBritish army, awaiting the Lieutenant-Governor\u2019s orders for the landing\nof the troops, which still remained on board the transports. The Captain\nof Castle William stood beside Hutchinson\u2019s chair, with folded arms,\nglancing rather haughtily at the British officer, by whom he was soon to\nbe superseded in his command. On a table, in the centre of the chamber,\nstood a branched silver candlestick, throwing down the glow of half a\ndozen wax lights upon a paper, apparently ready for the\nLieutenant-Governor\u2019s signature.\n\nPartly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of the window-curtains,\nwhich fell from the ceiling to the floor, was seen the white drapery of\na lady\u2019s robe. It may appear strange that Alice Vane should have been\nthere, at such a time; but there was something so childlike, so wayward,\nin her singular character, so apart from ordinary rules, that her\npresence did not surprise the few who noticed it. Meantime, the chairman\nof the Selectmen was addressing to the Lieutenant-Governor a long and\nsolemn protest against the reception of the British troops into the\ntown.\n\n\u201cAnd if your Honor,\u201d concluded this excellent but somewhat prosy\ngentleman, \u201cshall see fit to persist in bringing these mercenary\nsworders and musketeers into our quiet streets, not on our heads be the\nresponsibility. Think, sir, while there is yet time, that if one drop of\nblood be shed, that blood shall be an eternal stain upon your Honor\u2019s\nmemory. You, sir, have written, with an able pen, the deeds of our\nforefathers. The more to be desired is it, therefore, that yourself\nshould deserve honorable mention, as a true patriot and upright ruler,\nwhen your own doings shall be written down in history.\u201d\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cThe Chairman of the Selectmen was addressing to the\n    Lieutenant-Governor a Long and Solemn Protest\u201d\n]\n\n\u201cI am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural desire to stand well\nin the annals of my country,\u201d replied Hutchinson, controlling his\nimpatience into courtesy, \u201cnor know I any better method of attaining\nthat end than by withstanding the merely temporary spirit of mischief,\nwhich, with your pardon, seems to have infected elder men than myself.\nWould you have me wait till the mob shall sack the Province House, as\nthey did my private mansion? Trust me, sir, the time may come when you\nwill be glad to flee for protection to the king\u2019s banner, the raising of\nwhich is now so distasteful to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the British major, who was impatiently expecting the\nLieutenant-Governor\u2019s orders. \u201cThe demagogues of this province have\nraised the devil, and cannot lay him again. We will exorcise him, in\nGod\u2019s name and the king\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you meddle with the devil, take care of his claws!\u201d answered the\nCaptain of Castle William, stirred by the taunt against his countrymen.\n\n\u201cCraving your pardon, young sir,\u201d said the venerable Selectman, \u201clet not\nan evil spirit enter into your words. We will strive against the\noppressor with prayer and fasting, as our forefathers would have done.\nLike them, moreover, we will submit to whatever lot a wise Providence\nmay send us,\u2014always, after our own best exertions to amend it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd there peep forth the devil\u2019s claws!\u201d muttered Hutchinson, who well\nunderstood the nature of Puritan submission. \u201cThis matter shall be\nexpedited forthwith. When there shall be a sentinel at every corner, and\na court of guard before the town-house, a loyal gentleman may venture to\nwalk abroad. What to me is the outcry of a mob, in this remote province\nof the realm? The King is my master, and England is my country! Upheld\nby their armed strength, I set my foot upon the rabble, and defy them!\u201d\n\nHe snatched a pen, and was about to affix his signature to the paper\nthat lay on the table, when the Captain of Castle William placed his\nhand upon his shoulder. The freedom of the action, so contrary to the\nceremonious respect which was then considered due to rank and dignity,\nawakened general surprise, and in none more than in the\nLieutenant-Governor himself. Looking angrily up, he perceived that his\nyoung relative was pointing his finger to the opposite wall.\nHutchinson\u2019s eye followed the signal; and he saw, what had hitherto been\nunobserved, that a black silk curtain was suspended before the\nmysterious picture, so as completely to conceal it. His thoughts\nimmediately recurred to the scene of the preceding afternoon; and, in\nhis surprise, confused by indistinct emotions, yet sensible that his\nniece must have had an agency in this phenomenon, he called loudly upon\nher.\n\n\u201cAlice!\u2014come hither, Alice!\u201d\n\nNo sooner had he spoken than Alice Vane glided from her station, and,\npressing one hand across her eyes, with the other snatched away the\nsable curtain that concealed the portrait. An exclamation of surprise\nburst from every beholder; but the Lieutenant-Governor\u2019s voice had a\ntone of horror.\n\n\u201cBy Heaven,\u201d said he, in a low, inward murmur, speaking rather to\nhimself than to those around him, \u201cif the spirit of Edward Randolph were\nto appear among us from the place of torment, he could not wear more of\nthe terrors of hell upon his face!\u201d\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  She snatched away the sable curtain.\n]\n\n\u201cFor some wise end,\u201d said the aged Selectman solemnly, \u201chath Providence\nscattered away the mist of years that had so long hid this dreadful\neffigy. Until this hour no living man hath seen what we behold!\u201d\n\nWithin the antique frame, which so recently had enclosed a sable waste\nof canvas, now appeared a visible picture, still dark, indeed, in its\nhues and shadings, but thrown forward in strong relief. It was a\nhalf-length figure of a gentleman in a rich but very old-fashioned dress\nof embroidered velvet, with a broad ruff and a beard, and wearing a hat,\nthe brim of which overshadowed his forehead. Beneath this cloud the eyes\nhad a peculiar glare which was almost life-like. The whole portrait\nstarted so distinctly out of the background that it had the effect of a\nperson looking down from the wall at the astonished and awestricken\nspectators. The expression of the face, if any words can convey an idea\nof it, was that of a wretch detected in some hideous guilt, and exposed\nto the bitter hatred and laughter and withering scorn of a vast\nsurrounding multitude. There was the struggle of defiance, beaten down\nand overwhelmed by the crushing weight of ignominy. The torture of the\nsoul had come forth upon the countenance. It seemed as if the picture,\nwhile hidden behind the cloud of immemorial years, had been all the time\nacquiring an intenser depth and darkness of expression, till now it\ngloomed forth again, and threw its evil omen over the present hour.\nSuch, if the wild legend may be credited, was the portrait of Edward\nRandolph, as he appeared when a people\u2019s curse had wrought its influence\nupon his nature.\n\n\u201c\u2019Twould drive me mad,\u2014that awful face!\u201d said Hutchinson, who seemed\nfascinated by the contemplation of it.\n\n\u201cBe warned, then!\u201d whispered Alice. \u201cHe trampled on a people\u2019s rights.\nBehold his punishment,\u2014and avoid a crime like his!\u201d\n\nThe Lieutenant-Governor actually trembled for an instant; but, exerting\nhis energy,\u2014which was not, however, his most characteristic feature,\u2014he\nstrove to shake off the spell of Randolph\u2019s countenance.\n\n\u201cGirl!\u201d cried he, laughing bitterly, as he turned to Alice, \u201chave you\nbrought hither your painter\u2019s art,\u2014your Italian spirit of intrigue,\u2014your\ntricks of stage effect,\u2014and think to influence the councils of rulers\nand the affairs of nations by such shallow contrivances? See here!\u201d\n\n\u201cStay yet awhile,\u201d said the Selectman, as Hutchinson again snatched the\npen; \u201cfor if ever mortal man received a warning from a tormented soul,\nyour Honor is that man!\u201d\n\n\u201cAway!\u201d answered Hutchinson fiercely. \u201cThough yonder senseless picture\ncried, \u2018Forbear!\u2019 it should not move me!\u201d\n\nCasting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face (which seemed, at that\nmoment, to intensify the horror of its miserable and wicked look), he\nscrawled on the paper, in characters that betokened it a deed of\ndesperation, the name of Thomas Hutchinson. Then, it is said, he\nshuddered, as if that signature had granted away his salvation.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\u201cIt is done,\u201d said he; and placed his hand upon his brow.\n\n\u201cMay Heaven forgive the deed,\u201d said the soft, sad accents of Alice Vane,\nlike the voice of a good spirit flitting away.\n\nWhen morning came there was a stifled whisper through the household, and\nspreading thence about the town, that the dark, mysterious picture had\nstarted from the wall, and spoken face to face with Lieutenant-Governor\nHutchinson. If such a miracle had been wrought, however, no traces of it\nremained behind; for within the antique frame nothing could be\ndiscerned, save the impenetrable cloud which had covered the canvas\nsince the memory of man. If the figure had, indeed, stepped forth, it\nhad fled back, spirit-like, at the day-dawn, and hidden itself behind a\ncentury\u2019s obscurity. The truth probably was that Alice Vane\u2019s secret for\nrestoring the hues of the picture had merely effected a temporary\nrenovation. But those who, in that brief interval, had beheld the awful\nvisage of Edward Randolph, desired no second glance, and ever afterwards\ntrembled at the recollection of the scene, as if an evil spirit had\nappeared visibly among them. And as for Hutchinson, when, far over the\nocean, his dying hour drew on, he gasped for breath, and complained that\nhe was choking with the blood of the Boston massacre; and Francis\nLincoln, the former Captain of Castle William, who was standing at his\nbedside, perceived a likeness in his frenzied look to that of Edward\nRandolph. Did his broken spirit feel, at that dread hour, the tremendous\nburden of a people\u2019s curse?\n\n\nAt the conclusion of this miraculous legend, I inquired of mine host\nwhether the picture still remained in the chamber over our heads; but\nMr. Tiffany informed me that it had long since been removed, and was\nsupposed to be hidden in some out-of-the-way corner of the New England\nMuseum. Perchance some curious antiquary may light upon it there, and,\nwith the assistance of Mr. Howorth, the picture-cleaner, may supply a\nnot unnecessary proof of the authenticity of the facts here set down.\nDuring the progress of the story a storm had been gathering abroad, and\nraging and rattling so loudly in the upper regions of the Province\nHouse, that it seemed as if all the old governors and great men were\nrunning riot above stairs, while Mr. Bela Tiffany babbled of them below.\nIn the course of generations, when many people have lived and died in an\nancient house, the whistling of the wind through its crannies, and the\ncreaking of its beams and rafters, become strangely like the tones of\nthe human voice, or thundering laughter, or heavy footsteps treading the\ndeserted chambers. It is as if the echoes of half a century were\nrevived. Such were the ghostly sounds that roared and murmured in our\nears, when I took leave of the circle round the fireside of the Province\nHouse, and, plunging down the doorsteps, fought my way homeward against\na drifting snow-storm.\n\n[Illustration: LADYE ELEANORES MANTLE]\n\n\n\n\n                                  III.\n                        LADY ELEANORE\u2019S MANTLE.\n\n\nMine excellent friend, the landlord of the Province House, was pleased,\nthe other evening, to invite Mr. Tiffany and myself to an oyster-supper.\nThis slight mark of respect and gratitude, as he handsomely observed,\nwas far less than the ingenious tale-teller, and I, the humble\nnote-taker of his narratives, had fairly earned, by the public notice\nwhich our joint lucubrations had attracted to his establishment. Many a\ncigar had been smoked within his premises,\u2014many a glass of wine, or more\npotent aqua vit\u00e6, had been quaffed,\u2014many a dinner had been eaten by\ncurious strangers, who, save for the fortunate conjunction of Mr.\nTiffany and me, would never have ventured through that darksome avenue\nwhich gives access to the historic precincts of the Province House. In\nshort, if any credit be due to the courteous assurances of Mr. Thomas\nWaite, we had brought his forgotten mansion almost as effectually into\npublic view as if we had thrown down the vulgar range of shoeshops and\ndry-goods stores which hides its aristocratic front from Washington\nStreet. It may be unadvisable, however, to speak too loudly of the\nincreased custom of the house, lest Mr. Waite should find it difficult\nto renew the lease on so favorable terms as heretofore.\n\nBeing thus welcomed as benefactors, neither Mr. Tiffany nor myself felt\nany scruple in doing full justice to the good things that were set\nbefore us. If the feast were less magnificent than those same panelled\nwalls had witnessed in a bygone century,\u2014if mine host presided with\nsomewhat less of state than might have befitted a successor of the royal\ngovernors,\u2014if the guests made a less imposing show than the bewigged and\npowdered and embroidered dignitaries who erst banqueted at the\ngubernatorial table, and now sleep within their armorial tombs on Copp\u2019s\nHill or round King\u2019s Chapel,\u2014yet never, I may boldly say, did a more\ncomfortable little party assemble in the Province House, from Queen\nAnne\u2019s days to the Revolution. The occasion was rendered more\ninteresting by the presence of a venerable personage, whose own actual\nreminiscences went back to the epoch of Gage and Howe, and even supplied\nhim with a doubtful anecdote or two of Hutchinson. He was one of that\nsmall, and now all but extinguished class, whose attachment to royalty,\nand to the colonial institutions and customs that were connected with\nit, had never yielded to the democratic heresies of after times. The\nyoung queen of Britain has not a more loyal subject in her realm\u2014perhaps\nnot one who would kneel before her throne with such reverential\nlove\u2014than this old grandsire, whose head has whitened beneath the mild\nsway of the Republic, which still, in his mellower moments, he terms a\nusurpation. Yet prejudices so obstinate have not made him an ungentle or\nimpracticable companion. If the truth must be told, the life of the aged\nloyalist has been of such a scrambling and unsettled character,\u2014he has\nhad so little choice of friends, and been so often destitute of\nany,\u2014that I doubt whether he would refuse a cup of kindness with either\nOliver Cromwell or John Hancock; to say nothing of any democrat now upon\nthe stage. In another paper of this series, I may, perhaps, give the\nreader a closer glimpse of his portrait.\n\nOur host, in due season, uncorked a bottle of Madeira of such exquisite\nperfume and desirable flavor that he surely must have discovered it in\nan ancient bin, down deep beneath the deepest cellar, where some jolly\nold butler stored away the Governor\u2019s choicest wine, and forgot to\nreveal the secret on his death-bed. Peace to his red-nosed ghost, and a\nlibation to his memory! This precious liquor was imbibed by Mr. Tiffany\nwith peculiar zest; and, after sipping the third glass, it was his\npleasure to give us one of the oddest legends which he had yet raked\nfrom the storehouse where he keeps such matters. With some suitable\nadornments from my own fancy, it ran pretty much as follows.\n\n\nNot long after Colonel Shute had assumed the government of Massachusetts\nBay, now nearly a hundred and twenty years ago, a young lady of rank and\nfortune arrived from England, to claim his protection as her guardian.\nHe was her distant relative, but the nearest who had survived the\ngradual extinction of her family; so that no more eligible shelter could\nbe found for the rich and high-born Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe than within\nthe Province House of a transatlantic colony. The consort of Governor\nShute, moreover, had been as a mother to her childhood, and was now\nanxious to receive her, in the hope that a beautiful young woman would\nbe exposed to infinitely less peril from the primitive society of New\nEngland than amid the artifices and corruptions of a court. If either\nthe Governor or his lady had especially consulted their own comfort,\nthey would probably have sought to devolve the responsibility on other\nhands; since, with some noble and splendid traits of character, Lady\nEleanore was remarkable for a harsh, unyielding pride, a haughty\nconsciousness of her hereditary and personal advantages, which made her\nalmost incapable of control. Judging from many traditionary anecdotes,\nthis peculiar temper was hardly less than a monomania; or, if the acts\nwhich it inspired were those of a sane person, it seemed due from\nProvidence that pride so sinful should be followed by as severe a\nretribution. That tinge of the marvellous which is thrown over so many\nof these half-forgotten legends has probably imparted an additional\nwildness to the strange story of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe.\n\nThe ship in which she came passenger had arrived at Newport, whence Lady\nEleanore was conveyed to Boston in the Governor\u2019s coach, attended by a\nsmall escort of gentlemen on horseback. The ponderous equipage, with its\nfour black horses, attracted much notice as it rumbled through Cornhill,\nsurrounded by the prancing steeds of half a dozen cavaliers, with swords\ndangling to their stirrups and pistols at their holsters. Through the\nlarge glass windows of the coach, as it rolled along, the people could\ndiscern the figure of Lady Eleanore, strangely combining an almost\nqueenly stateliness with the grace and beauty of a maiden in her teens.\nA singular tale had gone abroad among the ladies of the province, that\ntheir fair rival was indebted for much of the irresistible charm of her\nappearance to a certain article of dress,\u2014an embroidered mantle,\u2014which\nhad been wrought by the most skilful artist in London, and possessed\neven magical properties of adornment. On the present occasion, however,\nshe owed nothing to the witchery of dress, being clad in a riding-habit\nof velvet, which would have appeared stiff and ungraceful on any other\nform.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  Y^e beauteous Ladye Eleanore cometh to Boston\u2014\n]\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cA Pale Young Man ... prostrated himself beside the Coach\u201d\n]\n\nThe coachman reined in his four black steeds, and the whole cavalcade\ncame to a pause in front of the contorted iron balustrade that fenced\nthe Province House from the public street. It was an awkward coincidence\nthat the bell of the Old South was just then tolling for a funeral; so\nthat, instead of a gladsome peal, with which it was customary to\nannounce the arrival of distinguished strangers, Lady Eleanore\nRochcliffe was ushered by a doleful clang, as if calamity had come\nembodied in her beautiful person.\n\n\u201cA very great disrespect!\u201d exclaimed Captain Langford, an English\nofficer, who had recently brought despatches to Governor Shute. \u201cThe\nfuneral should have been deferred, lest Lady Eleanore\u2019s spirits be\naffected by such a dismal welcome.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith your pardon, sir,\u201d replied Dr. Clarke, a physician, and a famous\nchampion of the popular party, \u201cwhatever the heralds may pretend, a dead\nbeggar must have precedence of a living queen. King Death confers high\nprivileges.\u201d\n\nThese remarks were interchanged while the speakers waited a passage\nthrough the crowd, which had gathered on each side of the gateway,\nleaving an open avenue to the portal of the Province House. A black\nslave in livery now leaped from behind the coach, and threw open the\ndoor; while at the same moment Governor Shute descended the flight of\nsteps from his mansion, to assist Lady Eleanore in alighting. But the\nGovernor\u2019s stately approach was anticipated in a manner that excited\ngeneral astonishment. A pale young man, with his black hair all in\ndisorder, rushed from the throng, and prostrated himself beside the\ncoach, thus offering his person as a footstool for Lady Eleanore\nRochcliffe to tread upon. She held back an instant; yet with an\nexpression as if doubting whether the young man were worthy to bear the\nweight of her footstep, rather than dissatisfied to receive such awful\nreverence from a fellow-mortal.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  Governor Shute descended the flight of steps.\n]\n\n\u201cUp, sir,\u201d said the Governor sternly, at the same time lifting his cane\nover the intruder. \u201cWhat means the Bedlamite by this freak?\u201d\n\n\u201cNay,\u201d answered Lady Eleanore playfully, but with more scorn than pity\nin her tone, \u201cyour Excellency shall not strike him. When men seek only\nto be trampled upon, it were a pity to deny them a favor so easily\ngranted\u2014and so well deserved.\u201d\n\nThen, though as lightly as a sunbeam on a cloud, she placed her foot\nupon the cowering form, and extended her hand to meet that of the\nGovernor. There was a brief interval, during which Lady Eleanore\nretained this attitude; and never, surely, was there an apter emblem of\naristocracy and hereditary pride trampling on human sympathies and the\nkindred of nature than these two figures presented at that moment. Yet\nthe spectators were so smitten with her beauty, and so essential did\npride seem to the existence of such a creature, that they gave a\nsimultaneous acclamation of applause.\n\n\u201cWho is this insolent young fellow?\u201d inquired Captain Langford, who\nstill remained beside Dr. Clarke. \u201cIf he be in his senses, his\nimpertinence demands the bastinado. If mad, Lady Eleanore should be\nsecured from further inconvenience, by his confinement.\u201d\n\n\u201cHis name is Jervase Helwyse,\u201d answered the Doctor; \u201ca youth of no birth\nor fortune, or other advantages, save the mind and soul that nature gave\nhim; and, being secretary to our colonial agent in London, it was his\nmisfortune to meet this Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. He loved her,\u2014and her\nscorn has driven him mad.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe was mad so to aspire,\u201d observed the English officer.\n\n\u201cIt may be so,\u201d said Dr. Clarke, frowning as he spoke. \u201cBut I tell you,\nsir, I could well-nigh doubt the justice of the heaven above us, if no\nsignal humiliation overtake this lady, who now treads so haughtily into\nyonder mansion. She seeks to place herself above the sympathies of our\ncommon nature, which envelops all human souls. See, if that nature do\nnot assert its claim over her in some mode that shall bring her level\nwith the lowest!\u201d\n\n\u201cNever!\u201d cried Captain Langford indignantly; \u201cneither in life, nor when\nthey lay her with her ancestors.\u201d\n\nNot many days afterwards the Governor gave a ball in honor of Lady\nEleanore Rochcliffe. The principal gentry of the colony received\ninvitations, which were distributed to their residences, far and near,\nby messengers on horseback, bearing missives sealed with all the\nformality of official despatches. In obedience to the summons, there was\na general gathering of rank, wealth, and beauty; and the wide door of\nthe Province House had seldom given admittance to more numerous and\nhonorable guests than on the evening of Lady Eleanore\u2019s ball. Without\nmuch extravagance of eulogy, the spectacle might even be termed\nsplendid; for, according to the fashion of the times, the ladies shone\nin rich silks and satins, outspread over wide-projecting hoops; and the\ngentlemen glittered in gold embroidery, laid unsparingly upon the\npurple, or scarlet, or sky-blue velvet, which was the material of their\ncoats and waistcoats. The latter article of dress was of great\nimportance, since it enveloped the wearer\u2019s body nearly to the knees,\nand was perhaps bedizened with the amount of his whole year\u2019s income, in\ngolden flowers and foliage. The altered taste of the present day\u2014a taste\nsymbolic of a deep change in the whole system of society\u2014would look upon\nalmost any of those gorgeous figures as ridiculous; although that\nevening the guests sought their reflections in the pier-glasses, and\nrejoiced to catch their own glitter amid the glittering crowd. What a\npity that one of the stately mirrors has not preserved a picture of the\nscene, which, by the very traits that were so transitory, might have\ntaught us much that would be worth knowing and remembering.\n\nWould, at least, that either painter or mirror could convey to us some\nfaint idea of a garment, already noticed in this legend,\u2014the Lady\nEleanore\u2019s embroidered mantle,\u2014which the gossips whispered was invested\nwith magic properties, so as to lend a new and untried grace to her\nfigure each time that she put it on! Idle fancy as it is, this\nmysterious mantle has thrown an awe around my image of her, partly from\nits fabled virtues, and partly because it was the handiwork of a dying\nwoman, and, perchance, owed the fantastic grace of its conception to the\ndelirium of approaching death.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  A gathering of rank, wealth and beauty\n]\n\nAfter the ceremonial greetings had been paid, Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe\nstood apart from the mob of guests, insulating herself within a small\nand distinguished circle, to whom she accorded a more cordial favor than\nto the general throng. The waxen torches threw their radiance vividly\nover the scene, bringing out its brilliant points in strong relief; but\nshe gazed carelessly, and with now and then an expression of weariness\nor scorn, tempered with such feminine grace that her auditors scarcely\nperceived the moral deformity of which it was the utterance. She beheld\nthe spectacle, not with vulgar ridicule, as disdaining to be pleased\nwith the provincial mockery of a court festival, but with the deeper\nscorn of one whose spirit held itself too high to participate in the\nenjoyment of other human souls. Whether or no the recollections of those\nwho saw her that evening were influenced by the strange events with\nwhich she was subsequently connected, so it was that her figure ever\nafter recurred to them as marked by something wild and unnatural;\nalthough, at the time, the general whisper was of her exceeding beauty,\nand of the indescribable charm which her mantle threw around her. Some\nclose observers, indeed, detected a feverish flush and alternate\npaleness of countenance, with a corresponding flow and revulsion of\nspirits, and once or twice a painful and helpless betrayal of lassitude,\nas if she were on the point of sinking to the ground. Then, with a\nnervous shudder, she seemed to arouse her energies, and threw some\nbright and playful, yet half-wicked sarcasm into the conversation. There\nwas so strange a characteristic in her manners and sentiments that it\nastonished every right-minded listener; till, looking in her face, a\nlurking and incomprehensible glance and smile perplexed them with doubts\nboth as to her seriousness and sanity. Gradually, Lady Eleanore\nRochcliffe\u2019s circle grew smaller, till only four gentlemen remained in\nit. These were Captain Langford, the English officer before mentioned; a\nVirginian planter, who had come to Massachusetts on some political\nerrand; a young Episcopal clergyman, the grandson of a British Earl;\nand, lastly, the private secretary of Governor Shute, whose\nobsequiousness had won a sort of tolerance from Lady Eleanore.\n\nAt different periods of the evening the liveried servants of the\nProvince House passed among the guests, bearing huge trays of\nrefreshments, and French and Spanish wines. Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe,\nwho refused to wet her beautiful lips even with a bubble of champagne,\nhad sunk back into a large damask chair, apparently overwearied either\nwith the excitement of the scene or its tedium; and while, for an\ninstant, she was unconscious of voices, laughter, and music, a young man\nstole forward, and knelt down at her feet. He bore a salver in his hand,\non which was a chased silver goblet, filled to the brim with wine, which\nhe offered as reverentially as to a crowned queen, or rather with the\nawful devotion of a priest doing sacrifice to his idol. Conscious that\nsome one touched her robe, Lady Eleanore started, and unclosed her eyes\nupon the pale, wild features and dishevelled hair of Jervase Helwyse.\n\n\u201cWhy do you haunt me thus?\u201d said she, in a languid tone, but with a\nkindlier feeling than she ordinarily permitted herself to express. \u201cThey\ntell me that I have done you harm.\u201d\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cI pray you take one sip of this holy wine.\u201d\n]\n\n\u201cHeaven knows if that be so,\u201d replied the young man solemnly. \u201cBut, Lady\nEleanore, in requital of that harm, if such there be, and for your own\nearthly and heavenly welfare, I pray you to take one sip of this holy\nwine, and then to pass the goblet round among the guests. And this shall\nbe a symbol that you have not sought to withdraw yourself from the chain\nof human sympathies,\u2014which whoso would shake off must keep company with\nfallen angels.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere has this mad fellow stolen that sacramental vessel?\u201d exclaimed\nthe Episcopal clergyman.\n\nThis question drew the notice of the guests to the silver cup, which was\nrecognized as appertaining to the communion plate of the Old South\nChurch; and, for aught that could be known, it was brimming over with\nthe consecrated wine.\n\n\u201cPerhaps it is poisoned,\u201d half whispered the Governor\u2019s secretary.\n\n\u201cPour it down the villain\u2019s throat!\u201d cried the Virginian fiercely.\n\n\u201cTurn him out of the house!\u201d cried Captain Langford, seizing Jervase\nHelwyse so roughly by the shoulder that the sacramental cup was\noverturned, and its contents sprinkled upon Lady Eleanore\u2019s mantle.\n\u201cWhether knave, fool, or Bedlamite, it is intolerable that the fellow\nshould go at large.\u201d\n\n\u201cPray, gentlemen, do my poor admirer no harm,\u201d said Lady Eleanore, with\na faint and weary smile. \u201cTake him out of my sight, if such be your\npleasure; for I can find in my heart to do nothing but laugh at him;\nwhereas, in all decency and conscience, it would become me to weep for\nthe mischief I have wrought!\u201d\n\nBut while the bystanders were attempting to lead away the unfortunate\nyoung man, he broke from them, and, with a wild, impassioned\nearnestness, offered a new and equally strange petition to Lady\nEleanore. It was no other than that she should throw off the mantle,\nwhich, while he pressed the silver cup of wine upon her, she had drawn\nmore closely around her form, so as almost to shroud herself within it.\n\n\u201cCast it from you!\u201d exclaimed Jervase Helwyse, clasping his hands in an\nagony of entreaty. \u201cIt may not yet be too late! Give the accursed\ngarment to the flames!\u201d\n\nBut Lady Eleanore, with a laugh of scorn, drew the rich folds of the\nembroidered mantle over her head, in such a fashion as to give a\ncompletely new aspect to her beautiful face, which\u2014half hidden, half\nrevealed\u2014seemed to belong to some being of mysterious character and\npurposes.\n\n\u201cFarewell, Jervase Helwyse!\u201d said she. \u201cKeep my image in your\nremembrance, as you behold it now.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas, lady!\u201d he replied, in a tone no longer wild, but sad as a funeral\nbell. \u201cWe must meet shortly, when your face may wear another aspect, and\nthat shall be the image that must abide within me.\u201d\n\nHe made no more resistance to the violent efforts of the gentlemen and\nservants, who almost dragged him out of the apartment, and dismissed him\nroughly from the iron gate of the Province House. Captain Langford, who\nhad been very active in this affair, was returning to the presence of\nLady Eleanore Rochcliffe, when he encountered the physician, Dr. Clarke,\nwith whom he had held some casual talk on the day of her arrival. The\nDoctor stood apart, separated from Lady Eleanore by the width of the\nroom, but eying her with such keen sagacity that Captain Langford\ninvoluntarily gave him credit for the discovery of some deep secret.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  Keep my image in your remembrance\n]\n\n\u201cYou appear to be smitten, after all, with the charms of this queenly\nmaiden,\u201d said he, hoping thus to draw forth the physician\u2019s hidden\nknowledge.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  The communication could be of no agreeable import.\n]\n\n\u201cGod forbid!\u201d answered Dr. Clarke, with a grave smile; \u201cand if you be\nwise, you will put up the same prayer for yourself. Woe to those who\nshall be smitten by this beautiful Lady Eleanore! But yonder stands the\nGovernor, and I have a word or two for his private ear. Good night!\u201d\n\nHe accordingly advanced to Governor Shute, and addressed him in so low a\ntone that none of the bystanders could catch a word of what he said;\nalthough the sudden change of his Excellency\u2019s hitherto cheerful visage\nbetokened that the communication could be of no agreeable import. A very\nfew moments afterwards, it was announced to the guests that an\nunforeseen circumstance rendered it necessary to put a premature close\nto the festival.\n\nThe ball at the Province House supplied a topic of conversation for the\ncolonial metropolis for some days after its occurrence, and might still\nlonger have been the general theme, only that a subject of\nall-engrossing interest thrust it, for a time, from the public\nrecollection. This was the appearance of a dreadful epidemic, which in\nthat age, and long before and afterwards, was wont to slay its hundreds\nand thousands on both sides of the Atlantic. On the occasion of which we\nspeak, it was distinguished by a peculiar virulence, insomuch that it\nhas left its traces\u2014its pit-marks, to use an appropriate figure\u2014on the\nhistory of the country, the affairs of which were thrown into confusion\nby its ravages. At first, unlike its ordinary course, the disease seemed\nto confine itself to the higher circles of society, selecting its\nvictims from among the proud, the well-born, and the wealthy; entering\nunabashed into stately chambers, and lying down with the slumberers in\nsilken beds. Some of the most distinguished guests of the Province\nHouse\u2014even those whom the haughty Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe had deemed\nnot unworthy of her favor\u2014were stricken by this fatal scourge. It was\nnoticed, with an ungenerous bitterness of feeling, that the four\ngentlemen\u2014the Virginian, the British officer, the young clergyman, and\nthe Governor\u2019s secretary\u2014who had been her most devoted attendants on the\nevening of the ball, were the foremost on whom the plague-stroke fell.\nBut the disease, pursuing its onward progress, soon ceased to be\nexclusively a prerogative of aristocracy. Its red brand was no longer\nconferred like a noble\u2019s star, or an order of knighthood. It threaded\nits way through the narrow and crooked streets, and entered the low,\nmean, darksome dwellings, and laid its hand of death upon the artisans\nand laboring classes of the town. It compelled rich and poor to feel\nthemselves brethren, then; and stalking to and fro across the Three\nHills, with a fierceness which made it almost a new pestilence, there\nwas that mighty conqueror\u2014that scourge and horror of our forefathers\u2014the\nSmall-Pox!\n\nWe cannot estimate the affright which this plague inspired of yore, by\ncontemplating it as the fangless monster of the present day. We must\nremember, rather, with what awe we watched the gigantic footsteps of the\nAsiatic cholera, striding from shore to shore of the Atlantic, and\nmarching like destiny upon cities far remote, which flight had already\nhalf depopulated. There is no other fear so horrible and unhumanizing as\nthat which makes man dread to breathe Heaven\u2019s vital air, lest it be\npoison, or to grasp the hand of a brother or friend, lest the gripe of\nthe pestilence should clutch him. Such was the dismay that now followed\nin the track of the disease, or ran before it throughout the town.\nGraves were hastily dug, and the pestilential relics as hastily covered,\nbecause the dead were enemies of the living, and strove to draw them\nheadlong, as it were, into their own dismal pit. The public councils\nwere suspended, as if mortal wisdom might relinquish its devices, now\nthat an unearthly usurper had found his way into the ruler\u2019s mansion.\nHad an enemy\u2019s fleet been hovering on the coast, or his armies trampling\non our soil, the people would probably have committed their defence to\nthat same direful conqueror who had wrought their own calamity, and\nwould permit no interference with his sway. This conqueror had a symbol\nof his triumphs. It was a bloodred flag, that fluttered in the tainted\nair over the door of every dwelling into which the Small-Pox had\nentered.\n\nSuch a banner was long since waving over the portal of the Province\nHouse; for thence, as was proved by tracking its footsteps back, had all\nthis dreadful mischief issued. It had been traced back to a lady\u2019s\nluxurious chamber,\u2014to the proudest of the proud,\u2014to her that was so\ndelicate, and hardly owned herself of earthly mould,\u2014to the haughty one,\nwho took her stand above human sympathies,\u2014to Lady Eleanore! There\nremained no room for doubt that the contagion had lurked in that\ngorgeous mantle, which threw so strange a grace around her at the\nfestival. Its fantastic splendor had been conceived in the delirious\nbrain of a woman on her death-bed, and was the last toil of her\nstiffening fingers, which had interwoven fate and misery with its golden\nthreads. This dark tale, whispered at first, was now bruited far and\nwide. The people raved against the Lady Eleanore, and cried out that her\npride and scorn had evoked a fiend, and that, between them both, this\nmonstrous evil had been born. At times, their rage and despair took the\nsemblance of grinning mirth; and whenever the red flag of the pestilence\nwas hoisted over another and yet another door, they clapped their hands\nand shouted through the streets in bitter mockery, \u201cBehold a new triumph\nfor the Lady Eleanore!\u201d\n\nOne day, in the midst of these dismal times, a wild figure approached\nthe portal of the Province House, and, folding his arms, stood\ncontemplating the scarlet banner, which a passing breeze shook fitfully,\nas if to fling abroad the contagion that it typified. At length,\nclimbing one of the pillars by means of the iron balustrade, he took\ndown the flag, and entered the mansion, waving it above his head. At the\nfoot of the staircase he met the Governor, booted and spurred, with his\ncloak drawn around him, evidently on the point of setting forth upon a\njourney.\n\n\u201cWretched lunatic, what do you seek here?\u201d exclaimed Shute, extending\nhis cane to guard himself from contact. \u201cThere is nothing here but\nDeath. Back,\u2014or you will meet him!\u201d\n\n\u201cDeath will not touch me, the banner-bearer of the pestilence!\u201d cried\nJervase Helwyse, shaking the red flag aloft. \u201cDeath and the Pestilence,\nwho wears the aspect of the Lady Eleanore, will walk through the streets\nto-night, and I must march before them with this banner!\u201d\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cYoung man, what is your purpose?\u201d\n]\n\n\u201cWhy do I waste words on the fellow?\u201d muttered the Governor, drawing his\ncloak across his mouth. \u201cWhat matters his miserable life, when none of\nus are sure of twelve hours\u2019 breath? On, fool, to your own destruction!\u201d\n\nHe made way for Jervase Helwyse, who immediately ascended the staircase,\nbut, on the first landing-place, was arrested by the firm grasp of a\nhand upon his shoulder. Looking fiercely up, with a madman\u2019s impulse to\nstruggle with and rend asunder his opponent, he found himself powerless\nbeneath a calm, stern eye, which possessed the mysterious property of\nquelling frenzy at its height. The person whom he had now encountered\nwas the physician, Dr. Clarke, the duties of whose sad profession had\nled him to the Province House, where he was an infrequent guest in more\nprosperous times.\n\n\u201cYoung man, what is your purpose?\u201d demanded he.\n\n\u201cI seek the Lady Eleanore,\u201d answered Jervase Helwyse submissively.\n\n\u201cAll have fled from her,\u201d said the physician. \u201cWhy do you seek her now?\nI tell you, youth, her nurse fell death-stricken on the threshold of\nthat fatal chamber. Know ye not that never came such a curse to our\nshores as this lovely Lady Eleanore?\u2014that her breath has filled the air\nwith poison?\u2014that she has shaken pestilence and death upon the land,\nfrom the folds of her accursed mantle?\u201d\n\n\u201cLet me look upon her!\u201d rejoined the mad youth more wildly. \u201cLet me\nbehold her, in her awful beauty, clad in the regal garments of the\npestilence! She and Death sit on a throne together. Let me kneel down\nbefore them!\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor youth!\u201d said Dr. Clarke; and, moved by a deep sense of human\nweakness, a smile of caustic humor curled his lip even then. \u201cWilt thou\nstill worship the destroyer, and surround her image with fantasies the\nmore magnificent, the more evil she has wrought? Thus man doth ever to\nhis tyrants! Approach, then! Madness, as I have noted, has that good\nefficacy that it will guard you from contagion; and perchance its own\ncure may be found in yonder chamber.\u201d\n\nAscending another flight of stairs, he threw open a door, and signed to\nJervase Helwyse that he should enter. The poor lunatic, it seems\nprobable, had cherished a delusion that his haughty mistress sat in\nstate, unharmed herself by the pestilential influence, which, as by\nenchantment, she scattered round about her. He dreamed, no doubt, that\nher beauty was not dimmed, but brightened into superhuman splendor. With\nsuch anticipations, he stole reverentially to the door at which the\nphysician stood, but paused upon the threshold, gazing fearfully into\nthe gloom of the darkened chamber.\n\n\u201cWhere is the Lady Eleanore?\u201d whispered he.\n\n\u201cCall her,\u201d replied the physician.\n\n\u201cLady Eleanore!\u2014Princess!\u2014Queen of Death!\u201d cried Jervase Helwyse,\nadvancing three steps into the chamber. \u201cShe is not here! There, on\nyonder table, I behold the sparkle of a diamond which once she wore upon\nher bosom. There,\u201d\u2014and he shuddered,\u2014\u201cthere hangs her mantle, on which a\ndead woman embroidered a spell of dreadful potency. But where is the\nLady Eleanore?\u201d\n\nSomething stirred within the silken curtains of a canopied bed; and a\nlow moan was uttered, which, listening intently, Jervase Helwyse began\nto distinguish as a woman\u2019s voice, complaining dolefully of thirst. He\nfancied, even, that he recognized its tones.\n\n\u201cMy throat!\u2014my throat is scorched,\u201d murmured the voice. \u201cA drop of\nwater!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat thing art thou?\u201d said the brain-stricken youth, drawing near the\nbed and tearing asunder its curtains. \u201cWhose voice hast thou stolen for\nthy murmurs and miserable petitions, as if Lady Eleanore could be\nconscious of mortal infirmity? Fie! Heap of diseased mortality, why\nlurkest thou in my lady\u2019s chamber?\u201d\n\n\u201cO Jervase Helwyse,\u201d said the voice,\u2014and, as it spoke, the figure\ncontorted itself, struggling to hide its blasted face,\u2014\u201clook not now on\nthe woman you once loved! The curse of Heaven hath stricken me, because\nI would not call man my brother, nor woman sister. I wrapped myself in\nPRIDE as in a MANTLE, and scorned the sympathies of nature; and\ntherefore has nature made this wretched body the medium of a dreadful\nsympathy. You are avenged,\u2014they are all avenged,\u2014nature is avenged,\u2014for\nI am Eleanore Rochcliffe!\u201d\n\nThe malice of his mental disease, the bitterness lurking at the bottom\nof his heart, mad as he was, for a blighted and ruined life, and love\nthat had been paid with cruel scorn, awoke within the breast of Jervase\nHelwyse. He shook his finger at the wretched girl, and the chamber\nechoed, the curtains of the bed were shaken, with his outburst of insane\nmerriment.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cWhat thing art thou?\u201d\n]\n\n\u201cAnother triumph for the Lady Eleanore!\u201d he cried. \u201cAll have been her\nvictims! Who so worthy to be the final victim as herself?\u201d\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cThat Night a Procession passed by Torchlight\u201d\n]\n\nImpelled by some new fantasy of his crazed intellect, he snatched the\nfatal mantle and rushed from the chamber and the house. That night, a\nprocession passed, by torchlight, through the streets, bearing in the\nmidst the figure of a woman, enveloped with a richly embroidered mantle;\nwhile in advance stalked Jervase Helwyse, waving the red flag of the\npestilence. Arriving opposite the Province House, the mob burned the\neffigy, and a strong wind came and swept away the ashes. It was said\nthat, from that very hour, the pestilence abated, as if its sway had\nsome mysterious connection, from the first plague-stroke to the last,\nwith Lady Eleanore\u2019s Mantle. A remarkable uncertainty broods over that\nunhappy lady\u2019s fate. There is a belief, however, that, in a certain\nchamber of this mansion, a female form may sometimes be duskily\ndiscerned, shrinking into the darkest corner, and muffling her face\nwithin an embroidered mantle. Supposing the legend true, can this be\nother than the once proud Lady Eleanore?\n\n\nMine host, and the old loyalist, and I bestowed no little warmth of\napplause upon this narrative, in which we had all been deeply\ninterested; for the reader can scarcely conceive how unspeakably the\neffect of such a tale is heightened when, as in the present case, we may\nrepose perfect confidence in the veracity of him who tells it. For my\nown part, knowing how scrupulous is Mr. Tiffany to settle the foundation\nof his facts, I could not have believed him one whit the more faithfully\nhad he professed himself an eye-witness of the doings and sufferings of\npoor Lady Eleanore. Some sceptics, it is true, might demand documentary\nevidence, or even require him to produce the embroidered mantle,\nforgetting that\u2014Heaven be praised\u2014it was consumed to ashes. But now the\nold loyalist, whose blood was warmed by the good cheer, began to talk,\nin his turn, about the traditions of the Province House, and hinted that\nhe, if it were agreeable, might add a few reminiscences to our legendary\nstock. Mr. Tiffany, having no cause to dread a rival, immediately\nbesought him to favor us with a specimen; my own entreaties, of course,\nwere urged to the same effect; and our venerable guest, well pleased to\nfind willing auditors, awaited only the return of Mr. Thomas Waite, who\nhad been summoned forth to provide accommodations for several new\narrivals. Perchance the public\u2014but be this as its own caprice and ours\nshall settle the matter\u2014may read the result in another Tale of the\nProvince House.\n\n[Illustration: Old Esther Dudley.]\n\n\n\n\n                                  IV.\n                           OLD ESTHER DUDLEY.\n\n\nOur host having resumed the chair, he, as well as Mr. Tiffany and\nmyself, expressed much eagerness to be made acquainted with the story to\nwhich the loyalist had alluded. That venerable man first of all saw fit\nto moisten his throat with another glass of wine, and then, turning his\nface towards our coal fire, looked steadfastly for a few moments into\nthe depths of its cheerful glow. Finally, he poured forth a great\nfluency of speech. The generous liquid that he had imbibed, while it\nwarmed his age-chilled blood, likewise took off the chill from his heart\nand mind, and gave him an energy to think and feel, which we could\nhardly have expected to find beneath the snows of fourscore winters. His\nfeelings, indeed, appeared to me more excitable than those of a younger\nman; or, at least, the same degree of feeling manifested itself by more\nvisible effects than if his judgment and will had possessed the potency\nof meridian life. At the pathetic passages of his narrative, he readily\nmelted into tears. When a breath of indignation swept across his spirit,\nthe blood flushed his withered visage even to the roots of his white\nhair; and he shook his clinched fist at the trio of peaceful auditors,\nseeming to fancy enemies in those who felt very kindly towards the\ndesolate old soul. But ever and anon, sometimes in the midst of his most\nearnest talk, this ancient person\u2019s intellect would wander vaguely,\nlosing its hold of the matter in hand, and groping for it amid misty\nshadows. Then would he cackle forth a feeble laugh, and express a doubt\nwhether his wits\u2014for by that phrase it pleased our ancient friend to\nsignify his mental powers\u2014were not getting a little the worse for wear.\n\nUnder these disadvantages, the old loyalist\u2019s story required more\nrevision to render it fit for the public eye than those of the series\nwhich have preceded it; nor should it be concealed that the sentiment\nand tone of the affair may have undergone some slight, or perchance more\nthan slight metamorphosis, in its transmission to the reader through the\nmedium of a thoroughgoing democrat. The tale itself is a mere sketch,\nwith no involution of plot, nor any great interest of events, yet\npossessing, if I have rehearsed it aright, that pensive influence over\nthe mind, which the shadow of the old Province House flings upon the\nloiterer in its courtyard.\n\n\nThe hour had come\u2014the hour of defeat and humiliation\u2014when Sir William\nHowe was to pass over the threshold of the Province House, and embark,\nwith no such triumphal ceremonies as he once promised himself, on board\nthe British fleet. He bade his servants and military attendants go\nbefore him, and lingered a moment in the loneliness of the mansion, to\nquell the fierce emotions that struggled in his bosom as with a\ndeath-throb. Preferable, then, would he have deemed his fate had a\nwarrior\u2019s death left him a claim to the narrow territory of a grave,\nwithin the soil which the king had given him to defend. With an ominous\nperception that, as his departing footsteps echoed adown the staircase,\nthe sway of Britain was passing forever from New England, he smote his\nclinched hand on his brow, and cursed the destiny that had flung the\nshame of a dismembered empire upon him.\n\n\u201cWould to God,\u201d cried he, hardly repressing his tears of rage, \u201cthat the\nrebels were even now at the doorstep! A blood-stain upon the floor\nshould then bear testimony that the last British ruler was faithful to\nhis trust.\u201d\n\nThe tremulous voice of a woman replied to his exclamation.\n\n\u201cHeaven\u2019s cause and the King\u2019s are one,\u201d it said. \u201cGo forth, Sir William\nHowe, and trust in Heaven to bring back a royal governor in triumph.\u201d\n\nSubduing at once the passion to which he had yielded only in the faith\nthat it was unwitnessed, Sir William Howe became conscious that an aged\nwoman, leaning on a gold-headed staff, was standing betwixt him and the\ndoor. It was old Esther Dudley, who had dwelt almost immemorial years in\nthis mansion, until her presence seemed as inseparable from it as the\nrecollections of its history. She was the daughter of an ancient and\nonce eminent family, which had fallen into poverty and decay, and left\nits last descendant no resource save the bounty of the king, nor any\nshelter except within the walls of the Province House. An office in the\nhousehold, with merely nominal duties, had been assigned to her as a\npretext for the payment of a small pension, the greater part of which\nshe expended in adorning herself with an antique magnificence of attire.\nThe claims of Esther Dudley\u2019s gentle blood were acknowledged by all the\nsuccessive governors; and they treated her with the punctilious courtesy\nwhich it was her foible to demand, not always with success, from a\nneglectful world. The only actual share which she assumed in the\nbusiness of the mansion was to glide through its passages and public\nchambers, late at night, to see that the servants had dropped no fire\nfrom their flaring torches, nor left embers crackling and blazing on the\nhearths. Perhaps it was this invariable custom of walking her rounds in\nthe hush of midnight that caused the superstition of the times to invest\nthe old woman with attributes of awe and mystery; fabling that she had\nentered the portal of the Province House, none knew whence, in the train\nof the first royal governor, and that it was her fate to dwell there\ntill the last should have departed. But Sir William Howe, if he ever\nheard this legend, had forgotten it.\n\n\u201cMistress Dudley, why are you loitering here?\u201d asked he, with some\nseverity of tone. \u201cIt is my pleasure to be the last in this mansion of\nthe king.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot so, if it please your Excellency,\u201d answered the time-stricken\nwoman. \u201cThis roof has sheltered me long. I will not pass from it until\nthey bear me to the tomb of my forefathers. What other shelter is there\nfor old Esther Dudley, save the Province House or the grave?\u201d\n\n\u201cNow Heaven forgive me!\u201d said Sir William Howe to himself. \u201cI was about\nto leave this wretched old creature to starve or beg. Take this, good\nMistress Dudley,\u201d he added, putting a purse into her hands. \u201cKing\nGeorge\u2019s head on these golden guineas is sterling yet, and will continue\nso, I warrant you, even should the rebels crown John Hancock their king.\nThat purse will buy a better shelter than the Province House can now\nafford.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhile the burden of life remains upon me, I will have no other shelter\nthan this roof,\u201d persisted Esther Dudley, striking her staff upon the\nfloor, with a gesture that expressed immovable resolve. \u201cAnd when your\nExcellency returns in triumph, I will totter into the porch to welcome\nyou.\u201d\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cHeaven\u2019s cause and the King\u2019s are one\u201d\n]\n\n\u201cMy poor old friend!\u201d answered the British General; and all his manly\nand martial pride could no longer restrain a gush of bitter tears. \u201cThis\nis an evil hour for you and me. The province which the king intrusted to\nmy charge is lost. I go hence in misfortune\u2014perchance in disgrace\u2014to\nreturn no more. And you, whose present being is incorporated with the\npast,\u2014who have seen governor after governor, in stately pageantry,\nascend these steps,\u2014whose whole life has been an observance of majestic\nceremonies, and a worship of the king,\u2014how will you endure the change?\nCome with us! Bid farewell to a land that has shaken off its allegiance,\nand live still under a royal government, at Halifax.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever, never!\u201d said the pertinacious old dame. \u201cHere will I abide; and\nKing George shall still have one true subject in his disloyal province.\u201d\n\n\u201cBeshrew the old fool!\u201d muttered Sir William Howe, growing impatient of\nher obstinacy, and ashamed of the emotion into which he had been\nbetrayed. \u201cShe is the very moral of old-fashioned prejudice, and could\nexist nowhere but in this musty edifice. Well, then, Mistress Dudley,\nsince you will needs tarry, I give the Province House in charge to you.\nTake this key, and keep it safe until myself, or some other royal\ngovernor, shall demand it of you.\u201d\n\nSmiling bitterly at himself and her, he took the heavy key of the\nProvince House, and, delivering it into the old lady\u2019s hands, drew his\ncloak around him for departure. As the General glanced back at Esther\nDudley\u2019s antique figure, he deemed her well fitted for such a charge, as\nbeing so perfect a representative of the decayed past,\u2014of an age gone\nby, with its manners, opinions, faith, and feelings, all fallen into\noblivion or scorn,\u2014of what had once been a reality, but was now merely a\nvision of faded magnificence. Then Sir William Howe strode forth,\nsmiting his clinched hands together, in the fierce anguish of his\nspirit; and old Esther Dudley was left to keep watch in the lonely\nProvince House, dwelling there with memory; and if Hope ever seemed to\nflit around her, still it was Memory in disguise.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  Take this key and keep it safe\u2014\n]\n\nThe total change of affairs that ensued on the departure of the British\ntroops did not drive the venerable lady from her stronghold. There was\nnot, for many years afterwards, a governor of Massachusetts; and the\nmagistrates, who had charge of such matters, saw no objection to Esther\nDudley\u2019s residence in the Province House, especially as they must\notherwise have paid a hireling for taking care of the premises, which\nwith her was a labor of love. And so they left her, the undisturbed\nmistress of the old historic edifice. Many and strange were the fables\nwhich the gossips whispered about her, in all the chimney-corners of the\ntown. Among the time-worn articles of furniture that had been left in\nthe mansion, there was a tall, antique mirror, which was well worthy of\na tale by itself, and perhaps may hereafter be the theme of one. The\ngold of its heavily wrought frame was tarnished, and its surface so\nblurred that the old woman\u2019s figure, whenever she paused before it,\nlooked indistinct and ghost-like. But it was the general belief that\nEsther could cause the governors of the overthrown dynasty, with the\nbeautiful ladies who had once adorned their festivals, the Indian chiefs\nwho had come up to the Province House to hold council or swear\nallegiance, the grim provincial warriors, the severe clergymen,\u2014in\nshort, all the pageantry of gone days,\u2014all the figures that ever swept\nacross the broad plate of glass in former times,\u2014she could cause the\nwhole to re-appear, and people the inner world of the mirror with\nshadows of old life. Such legends as these, together with the\nsingularity of her isolated existence, her age, and the infirmity that\neach added winter flung upon her, made Mistress Dudley the object both\nof fear and pity; and it was partly the result of either sentiment that,\namid all the angry license of the times, neither wrong nor insult ever\nfell upon her unprotected head. Indeed, there was so much haughtiness in\nher demeanor towards intruders, among whom she reckoned all persons\nacting under the new authorities, that it was really an affair of no\nsmall nerve to look her in the face. And to do the people justice, stern\nrepublicans as they had now become, they were well content that the old\ngentlewoman, in her hoop petticoat and faded embroidery, should still\nhaunt the palace of ruined pride and overthrown power, the symbol of a\ndeparted system, embodying a history in her person. So Esther Dudley\ndwelt, year after year, in the Province House, still reverencing all\nthat others had flung aside, still faithful to her king, who, so long as\nthe venerable dame yet held her post, might be said to retain one true\nsubject in New England, and one spot of the empire that had been wrested\nfrom him.\n\nAnd did she dwell there in utter loneliness? Rumor said, not so.\nWhenever her chill and withered heart desired warmth, she was wont to\nsummon a black slave of Governor Shirley\u2019s from the blurred mirror, and\nsend him in search of guests who had long ago been familiar in those\ndeserted chambers. Forth went the sable messenger, with the starlight or\nthe moonshine gleaming through him, and did his errand in the\nburial-ground, knocking at the iron doors of tombs, or upon the marble\nslabs that covered them, and whispering to those within, \u201cMy mistress,\nold Esther Dudley, bids you to the Province House at midnight.\u201d And\npunctually as the clock of the Old South told twelve came the shadows of\nthe Olivers, the Hutchinsons, the Dudleys, all the grandees of a bygone\ngeneration, gliding beneath the portal into the well-known mansion,\nwhere Esther mingled with them as if she likewise were a shade. Without\nvouching for the truth of such traditions, it is certain that Mistress\nDudley sometimes assembled a few of the stanch, though crestfallen old\nTories who had lingered in the rebel town during those days of wrath and\ntribulation. Out of a cobwebbed bottle, containing liquor that a royal\ngovernor might have smacked his lips over, they quaffed healths to the\nking, and babbled treason to the Republic, feeling as if the protecting\nshadow of the throne were still flung around them. But, draining the\nlast drops of their liquor, they stole timorously homeward, and answered\nnot again if the rude mob reviled them in the street.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  A few of the stanch, though crestfallen, old Tories\n]\n\nYet Esther Dudley\u2019s most frequent and favored guests were the children\nof the town. Towards them she was never stern. A kindly and loving\nnature, hindered elsewhere from its free course by a thousand rocky\nprejudices, lavished itself upon these little ones. By bribes of\ngingerbread of her own making, stamped with a royal crown, she tempted\ntheir sunny sportiveness beneath the gloomy portal of the Province\nHouse, and would often beguile them to spend a whole play-day there,\nsitting in a circle round the verge of her hoop petticoat, greedily\nattentive to her stories of a dead world. And when these little boys and\ngirls stole forth again from the dark, mysterious mansion, they went\nbewildered, full of old feelings that graver people had long ago\nforgotten, rubbing their eyes at the world around them as if they had\ngone astray into ancient times, and become children of the past. At\nhome, when their parents asked where they had loitered such a weary\nwhile, and with whom they had been at play, the children would talk of\nall the departed worthies of the province, as far back as Governor\nBelcher, and the haughty dame of Sir William Phipps. It would seem as\nthough they had been sitting on the knees of these famous personages,\nwhom the grave had hidden for half a century, and had toyed with the\nembroidery of their rich waistcoats, or roguishly pulled the long curls\nof their flowing wigs. \u201cBut Governor Belcher has been dead this many a\nyear,\u201d would the mother say to her little boy. \u201cAnd did you really see\nhim at the Province House?\u201d \u201cOh, yes, dear mother! yes!\u201d the\nhalf-dreaming child would answer. \u201cBut when old Esther had done speaking\nabout him he faded away out of his chair.\u201d Thus, without affrighting her\nlittle guests, she led them by the hand into the chambers of her own\ndesolate heart, and made childhood\u2019s fancy discern the ghosts that\nhaunted there.\n\nLiving so continually in her own circle of ideas, and never regulating\nher mind by a proper reference to present things, Esther Dudley appears\nto have grown partially crazed. It was found that she had no right sense\nof the progress and true state of the Revolutionary War, but held a\nconstant faith that the armies of Britain were victorious on every\nfield, and destined to be ultimately triumphant. Whenever the town\nrejoiced for a battle won by Washington, or Gates, or Morgan, or Greene,\nthe news, in passing through the door of the Province House, as through\nthe ivory gate of dreams, became metamorphosed into a strange tale of\nthe prowess of Howe, Clinton, or Cornwallis. Sooner or later, it was her\ninvincible belief, the colonies would be prostrate at the footstool of\nthe king. Sometimes she seemed to take for granted that such was already\nthe case. On one occasion she startled the townspeople by a brilliant\nillumination of the Province House, with candles at every pane of glass,\nand a transparency of the king\u2019s initials and a crown of light in the\ngreat balcony window. The figure of the aged woman, in the most gorgeous\nof her mildewed velvets and brocades, was seen passing from casement to\ncasement, until she paused before the balcony, and flourished a huge key\nabove her head. Her wrinkled visage actually gleamed with triumph, as if\nthe soul within her were a festal lamp.\n\n\u201cWhat means this blaze of light? What does old Esther\u2019s joy portend?\u201d\nwhispered a spectator. \u201cIt is frightful to see her gliding about the\nchambers, and rejoicing there without a soul to bear her company.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is as if she were making merry in a tomb,\u201d said another.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  The King of England\u2019s birthday\u2014\n]\n\n\u201cPshaw! It is no such mystery,\u201d observed an old man, after some brief\nexercise of memory. \u201cMistress Dudley is keeping jubilee for the King of\nEngland\u2019s birthday.\u201d Then the people laughed aloud, and would have\nthrown mud against the blazing transparency of the king\u2019s crown and\ninitials, only that they pitied the poor old dame, who was so dismally\ntriumphant amid the wreck and ruin of the system to which she\nappertained.\n\nOftentimes it was her custom to climb the weary staircase that wound\nupward to the cupola, and thence strain her dimmed eyesight seaward and\ncountryward, watching for a British fleet, or for the march of a grand\nprocession, with the king\u2019s banner floating over it. The passengers in\nthe street below would discern her anxious visage, and send up a shout,\n\u201cWhen the golden Indian on the Province House shall shoot his arrow, and\nwhen the cock on the Old South spire shall crow, then look for a royal\ngovernor again!\u201d\u2014for this had grown a byword through the town. And at\nlast, after long, long years, old Esther Dudley knew, or perchance she\nonly dreamed, that a royal governor was on the eve of returning to the\nProvince House, to receive the heavy key which Sir William Howe had\ncommitted to her charge. Now it was the fact that intelligence bearing\nsome faint analogy to Esther\u2019s version of it was current among the\ntownspeople. She set the mansion in the best order that her means\nallowed, and, arraying herself in silks and tarnished gold, stood long\nbefore the blurred mirror to admire her own magnificence. As she gazed,\nthe gray and withered lady moved her ashen lips, murmuring half aloud,\ntalking to shapes that she saw within the mirror, to shadows of her own\nfantasies, to the household friends of memory, and bidding them rejoice\nwith her, and come forth to meet the governor. And, while absorbed in\nthis communion, Mistress Dudley heard the tramp of many footsteps in the\nstreet, and, looking out at the window, beheld what she construed as the\nroyal governor\u2019s arrival.\n\n\u201cO happy day! O blessed, blessed hour!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cLet me but bid\nhim welcome within the portal, and my task in the Province House, and on\nearth, is done!\u201d\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \u201cReceive my Trust.\u201d\n]\n\nThen with tottering feet, which age and tremulous joy caused to tread\namiss, she hurried down the grand staircase, her silks sweeping and\nrustling as she went, so that the sound was as if a train of spectral\ncourtiers were thronging from the dim mirror. And Esther Dudley fancied\nthat, as soon as the wide door should be flung open, all the pomp and\nsplendor of bygone times would pace majestically into the Province\nHouse, and the gilded tapestry of the past would be brightened by the\nsunshine of the present. She turned the key,\u2014withdrew it from the\nlock,\u2014unclosed the door,\u2014and stepped across the threshold. Advancing up\nthe courtyard appeared a person of most dignified mien, with tokens, as\nEsther interpreted them, of gentle blood, high rank, and long-accustomed\nauthority, even in his walk and every gesture. He was richly dressed,\nbut wore a gouty shoe, which, however, did not lessen the stateliness of\nhis gait. Around and behind him were people in plain civic dresses, and\ntwo or three war-worn veterans, evidently officers of rank, arrayed in a\nuniform of blue and buff. But Esther Dudley, firm in the belief that had\nfastened its roots about her heart, beheld only the principal personage,\nand never doubted that this was the long-looked-for governor, to whom\nshe was to surrender up her charge. As he approached, she involuntarily\nsank down on her knees, and tremblingly held forth the heavy key.\n\n\u201cReceive my trust! take it quickly!\u201d cried she; \u201cfor methinks Death is\nstriving to snatch away my triumph. But he comes too late. Thank Heaven\nfor this blessed hour! God save King George!\u201d\n\n\u201cThat, madam, is a strange prayer to be offered up at such a moment,\u201d\nreplied the unknown guest of the Province House, and, courteously\nremoving his hat, he offered his arm to raise the aged woman. \u201cYet, in\nreverence for your gray hairs and long-kept faith, Heaven forbid that\nany here should say you nay. Over the realms which still acknowledge his\nsceptre, God save King George!\u201d\n\nEsther Dudley started to her feet, and, hastily clutching back the key,\ngazed with fearful earnestness at the stranger; and dimly and\ndoubtfully, as if suddenly awakened from a dream, her bewildered eyes\nhalf recognized his face. Years ago, she had known him among the gentry\nof the province. But the ban of the king had fallen upon him! How, then,\ncame the doomed victim here? Proscribed, excluded from mercy, the\nmonarch\u2019s most dreaded and hated foe, this New England merchant had\nstood triumphantly against a kingdom\u2019s strength; and his foot now trod\nupon humbled royalty, as he ascended the steps of the Province House,\nthe people\u2019s chosen governor of Massachusetts.\n\n\u201cWretch, wretch that I am!\u201d muttered the old woman, with such a\nheart-broken expression that the tears gushed from the stranger\u2019s eyes.\n\u201cHave I bidden a traitor welcome? Come, Death! come quickly!\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas, venerable lady!\u201d said Governor Hancock, lending her his support\nwith all the reverence that a courtier would have shown to a queen.\n\u201cYour life has been prolonged until the world has changed around you.\nYou have treasured up all that time has rendered worthless,\u2014the\nprinciples, feelings, manners, modes of being and acting, which another\ngeneration has flung aside,\u2014and you are a symbol of the past. And I, and\nthese around me,\u2014we represent a new race of men,\u2014living no longer in the\npast, scarcely in the present,\u2014but projecting our lives forward into the\nfuture. Ceasing to model ourselves on ancestral superstitions, it is our\nfaith and principle to press onward, onward! Yet,\u201d continued he, turning\nto his attendants, \u201clet us reverence, for the last time, the stately and\ngorgeous prejudices of the tottering Past!\u201d\n\nWhile the republican governor spoke, he had continued to support the\nhelpless form of Esther Dudley; her weight grew heavier against his arm;\nbut at last, with a sudden effort to free herself, the ancient woman\nsank down beside one of the pillars of the portal. The key of the\nProvince House fell from her grasp, and clanked against the stone.\n\n\u201cI have been faithful unto death,\u201d murmured she. \u201cGod save the king!\u201d\n\n\u201cShe hath done her office!\u201d said Hancock solemnly. \u201cWe will follow her\nreverently to the tomb of her ancestors; and then, my fellow-citizens,\nonward,\u2014onward! We are no longer children of the Past!\u201d\n\n\nAs the old loyalist concluded his narrative, the enthusiasm which had\nbeen fitfully flashing within his sunken eyes, and quivering across his\nwrinkled visage, faded away, as if all the lingering fire of his soul\nwere extinguished. Just then, too, a lamp upon the mantel-piece threw\nout a dying gleam, which vanished as speedily as it shot upward,\ncompelling our eyes to grope for one another\u2019s features by the dim glow\nof the hearth. With such a lingering fire, methought, with such a dying\ngleam, had the glory of the ancient system vanished from the Province\nHouse, when the spirit of old Esther Dudley took its flight. And now,\nagain, the clock of the Old South threw its voice of ages on the breeze,\nknolling the hourly knell of the Past, crying out far and wide through\nthe multitudinous city, and filling our ears, as we sat in the dusky\nchamber, with its reverberating depth of tone. In that same mansion,\u2014in\nthat very chamber,\u2014what a volume of history had been told off into\nhours, by the same voice that was now trembling in the air. Many a\ngovernor had heard those midnight accents, and longed to exchange his\nstately cares for slumber. And as for mine host, and Mr. Bela Tiffany,\nand the old loyalist, and me, we had babbled about dreams of the past,\nuntil we almost fancied that the clock was still striking in a bygone\ncentury. Neither of us would have wondered had a hoop-petticoated\nphantom of Esther Dudley tottered into the chamber, walking her rounds\nin the hush of midnight, as of yore, and motioned us to quench the\nfading embers of the fire, and leave the historic precincts to herself\nand her kindred shades. But, as no such vision was vouchsafed, I retired\nunbidden, and would advise Mr. Tiffany to lay hold of another auditor,\nbeing resolved not to show my face in the Province House for a good\nwhile hence,\u2014if ever.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  Faithful unto death\n]\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n\n\n                          TRANSCRIBER\u2019S NOTES\n\n\n 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.\n 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.\n 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.\n 4. Superscripts are denoted by a caret before a single superscript\n      character or a series of superscripted characters enclosed in\n      curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}.","title":"In colonial days","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":20422}