 | Twice-told tales |  |
LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE.
NUMBER I.
HOWE'S MASQUERADE.
One afternoon, last summer, while walking along
Washington street, my eye was attracted by a signboard
protruding over a narrow arch-way, nearly opposite
the Old South Church. The sign represented
the front of a stately edifice, which was designated as
the "Old Province House, kept by Thomas Waite."
I was glad to be thus reminded of a purpose, long entertained,
of visiting and rambling over the mansion
of the old royal governors of Massachusetts; and entering
the arched passage, which penetrated through
the middle of a brick row of shops, a few steps transported
me from the busy heart of modern Boston, into
a small and secluded court-yard. One side of this
space was occupied by the square front of the Province
House, three stories high, and surmounted by a cupola,
on the top of which a gilded Indian was discernible,
with his bow bent and his arrow on the string, as if
aiming at the weathercock on the spire of the Old
years or more, ever since good deacon Drowne, a
cunning carver of wood, first stationed him on his long
sentinel's watch over the city.
The Province House is constructed of brick, which
seems recently to have been overlaid with a coat of
light colored paint. A flight of red free-stone steps,
fenced in by a balustrade of curiously wrought iron,
ascends from the court-yard to the spacious porch,
over which is a balcony, with an iron balustrade of
similar pattern and workmanship to that beneath.
These letters and figures — 16 P. S. 79 — are wrought
into the iron work of the balcony, and probably express
the date of the edifice, with the initials of its
founder's name. A wide door with double leaves
admitted me into the hall or entry, on the right of
which is the entrance to the bar-room.
It was in this apartment, I presume, that the ancient
governors held their levees, with vice-regal pomp,
surrounded by the military men, the counsellors, the
judges, and other officers of the crown, while all the
loyalty of the province thronged to do them honor.
But the room, in its present condition, cannot boast
even of faded magnificence. The paneled wainscot
is covered with dingy paint, and acquires a duskier
hue from the deep shadow into which the Province
House is thrown by the brick block that shuts it in from
Washington street. A ray of sunshine never visits
this apartment any more than the glare of the festal
torches, which have been extinguished from the era
of the revolution. The most venerable and ornamental
tiles of blue-figured China, representing scenes from
Scripture; and, for aught I know, the lady of Pownall
or Bernard may have sate beside this fireplace, and
told her children the story of each blue tile. A bar
in modern style, well replenished with decanters,
bottles, cigar-boxes, and net-work bags of lemons,
and provided with a beer-pump and a soda-fount, extends
along one side of the room. At my entrance,
an elderly person was smacking his lips, with a zest
which satisfied me that the cellars of the Province
House still hold good liquor, though doubtless of other
vintages than were quaffed by the old governors.
After sipping a glass of port-sangaree, prepared by
the skilful hands of Mr. Thomas Waite, I besought
that worthy successor and representative of so many
historic personages to conduct me over their time-honored
mansion.
He readily complied; but, to confess the truth, I
was forced to draw strenuously upon my imagination,
in order to find aught that was interesting in a house
which, without its historic associations, would have
seemed merely such a tavern as is usually favored by
the custom of decent city boarders, and old fashioned
country gentlemen. The chambers, which were probably
spacious in former times, are now cut up by
partitions, and subdivided into little nooks, each affording
scanty room for the narrow bed, and chair,
and dressing table, of a single lodger. The great
staircase, however, may be termed, without much
hyperbole, a feature of grandeur and magnificence.
broad steps, each flight terminating in a square landing-place,
whence the ascent is continued towards the
cupola. A carved balustrade, freshly painted in the
lower stories, but growing dingier as we ascend, borders
the staircase with its quaintly twisted and intertwined
pillars, from top to bottom. Up these stairs
the military boots, or perchance the gouty shoes of
many a governor have trodden, as the wearers mounted
to the cupola, which afforded them so wide a view
over their metropolis and the surrounding country.
The cupola is an octagon, with several windows, and
a door opening upon the roof. From this station, as
I pleased myself with imagining, Gage may have
beheld his disastrous victory on Bunker Hill, (unless
one of the tri-mountains intervened), and Howe have
marked the approaches of Washington's besieging
army; although the buildings, since erected in the
vicinity, have shut out almost every object, save the
steeple of the Old South, which seems almost within
arm's length. Descending from the cupola, I paused
in the garret to observe the ponderous white-oak
frame-work, so much more massive than the frames
of modern houses, and thereby resembling an antique
skeleton. The brick walls, the materials of which
were imported from Holland, and the timbers of the
mansion, are still as sound as ever; but the floors and
other interior parts being greatly decayed, it is contemplated
to gut the whole, and build a new house
within the ancient frame and brick work. Among
other inconveniences of the present edifice, mine host
down the dust of ages out of the ceiling of one chamber
upon the floor of that beneath it.
We stepped forth from the great front window into
the balcony, where, in old times, it was doubtless the
custom of the king's representative to show himself to
a loyal populace, requiting their huzzas and tossed-up
hats with stately bendings of his dignified person.
In those days, the front of the Province House looked
upon the street; and the whole site now occupied by
the brick range of stores, as well as the present courtyard,
was laid out in grass plats, overshadowed by
trees and bordered by a wrought iron fence. Now,
the old aristocratic edifice hides its time-worn visage
behind an upstart modern building; at one of the
back windows I observed some pretty tailoresses,
sewing, and chatting, and laughing, with now and
then a careless glance towards the balcony. Descending
thence, we again entered the bar-room, where the
elderly gentleman above mentioned, the smack of
whose lips had spoken so favorably for Mr. Waite's
good liquor, was still lounging in his chair. He seemed
to be, if not a lodger, at least a familiar visiter of the
house, who might be supposed to have his regular
score at the bar, his summer seat at the open window,
and his prescriptive corner at the winter's fireside.
Being of a sociable aspect, I ventured to address him
with a remark, calculated to draw forth his historical
reminiscences, if any such were in his mind; and it
gratified me to discover, that, between memory and
tradition, the old gentleman was really possessed of
The portion of his talk which chiefly interested me,
was the outline of the following legend. He professed
to have received it at one or two removes from an
eye-witness; but this derivation, together with the
lapse of time, must have afforded opportunities for
many variations of the narrative; so that, despairing
of literal and absolute truth, I have not scrupled to
make such further changes as seemed conducive to
the reader's profit and delight.
At one of the entertainments given at the Province
House, during the latter part of the siege of Boston,
there passed a scene which has never yet been satisfactorily
explained. The officers of the British army,
and the loyal gentry of the province, most of whom
were collected within the beleagured town, had been
invited to a masqued ball; for it was the policy of
Sir William Howe to hide the distress and danger of
the period, and the desperate aspect of the siege, under
an ostentation of festivity. The spectacle of this
evening, if the oldest members of the provincial court
circle might be believed, was the most gay and gorgeous
affair that had occurred in the annals of the
government. The brilliantly lighted apartments were
thronged with figures that seemed to have stepped
from the dark canvass of historic portraits, or to have
flitted forth from the magic pages of romance, or at
least to have flown hither from one of the London
theatres, without a change of garments. Steeled
Elizabeth, and high-ruffled ladies of her court, were
mingled with characters of comedy, such as a particolored
Merry Andrew, jingling his cap and bells; a
Falstaffe, almost as provocative of laughter as his
prototype; and a Don Quixote, with a bean-pole for
a lance, and a pot-lid for a shield.
But the broadest merriment was excited by a
group of figures ridiculously dressed in old regimentals,
which seemed to have been purchased at
a military rag-fair, or pilfered from some receptacle
of the cast-off clothes of both the French and British
armies. Portions of their attire had probably been
worn at the siege of Louisburg, and the coats of most
recent cut might have been rent and tattered by
sword, ball, or bayonet, as long ago as Wolfe's victory.
One of these worthies — a tall, lank figure,
brandishing a rusty sword of immense longitude —
purported to be no less a personage than General
George Washington; and the other principal officers
of the American army, such as Gates, Lee, Putnam,
Schuyler, Ward and Heath, were represented by
similar scare-crows. An interview in the mock heroic
style, between the rebel warriors and the British
commander-in-chief, was received with immense applause,
which came loudest of all from the loyalists
of the colony. There was one of the guests, however,
who stood apart, eyeing these antics sternly
and scornfully, at once with a frown and a bitter
smile.
It was an old man, formerly of high station and
very famous soldier in his day. Some surprise had
been expressed, that a person of Colonel Joliffe's
known whig principles, though now too old to take an
active part in the contest, should have remained in
Boston during the siege, and especially that he should
consent to show himself in the mansion of Sir William
Howe. But thither he had come, with a fair
grand-daughter under his arm; and there, amid all
the mirth and buffoonery, stood this stern old figure,
the best sustained character in the masquerade, because
so well representing the antique spirit of his
native land. The other guests affirmed that Colonel
Joliffe's black puritanical scowl threw a shadow round
about him; although in spite of his sombre influence,
their gaiety continued to blaze higher, like — (an ominous
comparison) — the flickering brilliancy of a
lamp which has but a little while to burn. Eleven
strokes, full half an hour ago, had pealed from the
clock of the Old South, when a rumor was circulated
among the company that some new spectacle or pageant
was about to be exhibited, which should put a
fitting close to the splendid festivities of the night.
`What new jest has your Excellency in hand?'
asked the Reverend Mather Byles, whose Presbyterian
scruples had not kept him from the entertainment.
`Trust me, sir, I have already laughed more than
beseems my cloth, at your Homeric confabulation
with yonder ragamuffin General of the rebels. One
other such fit of merriment, and I must throw off my
clerical wig and band.'
`Not so, good Doctor Byles,' answered Sir William
Howe; `if mirth were a crime, you had never
gained your doctorate in divinity. As to this new
foolery, I know no more about it than yourself; perhaps
not so much. Honestly now, Doctor, have you
not stirred up the sober brains of some of your countrymen
to enact a scene in our masquerade?'
`Perhaps,' slyly remarked the grand-daughter of
Colonel Joliffe, whose high spirit had been stung by
many taunts against New England — `perhaps we
are to have a masque of allegorical figures. Victory,
with trophies from Lexington and Bunker Hill.
Plenty, with her overflowing horn, to typify the present
abundance in this good town — and Glory, with a
wreath for his Excellency's brow.'
Sir William Howe smiled at words which he would
have answered with one of his darkest frowns, had
they been uttered by lips that wore a beard. He was
spared the necessity of a retort, by a singular interruption.
A sound of music was heard without the
house, as if proceeding from a full band of military
instruments stationed in the street, playing not such a
festal strain as was suited to the occasion; but a slow
funeral march. The drums appeared to be muffled,
and the trumpets poured forth a wailing breath, which
at once hushed the merriment of the auditors, filling
all with wonder, and some with apprehension. The
idea occurred to many, that either the funeral procession
of some great personage had halted in front of
the Province House, or that a corpse, in a velvet-covered
and gorgeously decorated coffin, was about to
Sir William Howe called, in a stern voice, to the
leader of the musicians, who had hitherto enlivened
the entertainment with gay and lightsome melodies.
The man was drum-major to one of the British regiments.
`Dighton,' demanded the General, `what means
this foolery? Bid your hand silence that dead
march — or, by my word, they shall have sufficient
cause for their lugubrious strains! Silence it, sirrah!'
`Please your honor,' answered the drum-major,
whose rubicund visage had lost all its color, `the
fault is none of mine. I and my band are all here
together; and I question whether there be a man of
us that could play that march without book. I never
heard it but once before, and that was at the funeral
of his late Majesty, King George the Second.'
`Well, well!' said Sir William Howe, recovering
his composure — `it is the prelude to some masquerading
antic. Let it pass.'
A figure now presented itself, but among the many
fantastic masks that were dispersed through the apartments,
none could tell precisely from whence it came.
It was a man in an old fashioned dress of black serge,
and having the aspect of a steward, or principal
domestic in the household of a nobleman, or great
English landholder. This figure advanced to the
outer door of the mansion, and throwing both its leaves
wide open, withdrew a little to one side and looked
back towards the grand staircase, as if expecting some
person to descend. At the same time, the music in
eyes of Sir William Howe and his guests being
directed to the staircase, there appeared, on the uppermost
landing-place that was discernible from the
bottom, several personages descending towards the
door. The foremost was a man of stern visage,
wearing a steeple-crowned hat and a skull-cap beneath
it; a dark cloak, and huge wrinkled boots that
came half way up his legs. Under his arm was a
rolled-up banner, which seemed to be the banner of
England, but strangely rent and torn; he had a sword
in his right hand, and grasped a Bible in his left.
The next figure was of milder aspect, yet full of
dignity, wearing a broad ruff, over which descended
a beard, a gown of wrought velvet, and a doublet and
hose of black satin. He carried a roll of manuscript
in his hand. Close behind these two, came a young
man of very striking countenance and demeanor, with
deep thought and contemplation on his brow, and
perhaps a flash of enthusiasm in his eye. His garb,
like that of his predecessors, was of an antique fashion,
and there was a stain of blood upon his ruff. In
the same group with these, were three or four others,
all men of dignity and evident command, and bearing
themselves like personages who were accustomed
to the gaze of the multitude. It was the idea of the
beholders, that these figures went to join the mysterious
funeral that had halted in front of the Province
House; yet that supposition seemed to be contradicted
by the air of triumph with which they waved their
hands, as they crossed the threshold and vanished
through the portal.
`In the devil's name, what is this?' muttered Sir
William Howe to a gentleman beside him; `a procession
of the regicide judges of King Charles the
martyr?'
`These,' said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence almost
for the first time that evening — `these, if I interpret
them aright, are the Puritan governors — the
rulers of the old, original Democracy of Massachusetts.
Endicott, with the banner from which he had
torn the symbol of subjection, and Winthrop, and Sir
Henry Vane, and Dudley, Haynes, Bellingham, and
Leverett.'
`Why had that young man a stain of blood upon
his ruff?' asked Miss Joliffe.
`Because, in after years,' answered her grandfather,
`he laid down the wisest head in England
upon the block, for the principles of liberty.'
`Will not your Excellency order out the guard?'
whispered Lord Percy, who, with other British officers,
had now assembled round the General. `There
may be a plot under this mummery.'
`Tush! we have nothing to fear,' carelessly replied
Sir William Howe. `There can be no worse treason
in the matter than a jest, and that somewhat of
the dullest. Even were it a sharp and bitter one, our
best policy would be to laugh it off. See — here
come more of these gentry.'
Another group of characters had now partly descended
the staircase. The first was a venerable and
white-bearded patriarch, who cautiously felt his way
downward with a staff. Treading hastily behind him,
the old man's shoulder, came a tall, soldier-like figure,
equipped with a plumed cap of steel, a bright breastplate,
and a long sword, which rattled against the
stairs. Next was seen a stout man, dressed in rich
and courtly attire, but not of courtly demeanor; his
gait had the swinging motion of a seaman's walk;
and chancing to stumble on the staircase, he suddenly
grew wrathful, and was heard to mutter an oath. He
was followed by a noble-looking personage in a curled
wig, such as are represented in the portraits of Queen
Anne's time and earlier; and the breast of his coat
was decorated with an embroidered star. While advancing
to the door, he bowed to the right hand and
to the left, in a very gracious and insinuating style;
but as he crossed the threshold, unlike the early
Puritan governors, he seemed, to wring his hands with
sorrow.
`Prithee, play the part of a chorus, good Doctor
Byles,' said Sir William Howe. `What worthies are
these?'
`If it please your Excellency, they lived somewhat
before my day,' answered the doctor; `but
doubtless our friend, the Colonel, has been hand and
glove with them.'
`Their living faces I never looked upon,' said
Colonel Joliffe, gravely; `although I have spoken
face to face with many rulers of this land, and shall
greet yet another with an old man's blessing, ere I
die. But we talk of these figures. I take the venerable
patriarch to be Bradstreet, the last of the Puritans,
The next is Sir Edmund Andros, a tyrant, as any
New England school-boy will tell you; and therefore
the people cast him down from his high seat into a
dungeon. Then comes Sir William Phips, shepherd,
cooper, sea-captain and governor — may many of his
countrymen rise as high, from as low an origin!
Lastly, you saw the gracious Earl of Bellamont, who
ruled us under King William.'
`But what is the meaning of it all?' asked Lord
Percy.
`Now, were I a rebel,' said Miss Joliffe, half aloud,
`I might fancy that the ghosts of these ancient governors
had been summoned to form the funeral procession
of royal authority in New England.'
Several other figures were now seen at the turn
of the staircase. The one in advance had a thoughtful,
anxious, and somewhat crafty expression of face;
and in spite of his loftiness of manner, which was
evidently the result both of an ambitious spirit and of
long continuance in high stations, he seemed not incapable
of cringing to a greater than himself. A few
steps behind came an officer in a scarlet and embroidered
uniform, cut in a fashion old enough to have
been worn by the Duke of Marlborough. His nose
had a rubicund tinge, which, together with the twinkle
of his eye, might have marked him as a lover
of the wine cup and good fellowship; notwithstanding
which tokens, he appeared ill at ease, and often
glanced around him, as if apprehensive of some secret
mischief. Next came a portly gentleman, wearing a
had sense, shrewdness, and humor in his face, and a
folio volume under his arm; but his aspect was that
of a man vexed and tormented beyond all patience,
and harassed almost to death. He went hastily
down, and was followed by a dignified person, dressed
in a purple velvet suit, with very rich embroidery;
his demeanor would have possessed much stateliness,
only that a grievous fit of the gout compelled him to
hobble from stair to stair, with contortions of face and
body. When Doctor Byles beheld this figure on the
staircase, he shivered as with an ague, but continued to
watch him steadfastly, until the gouty gentleman had
reached the threshold, made a gesture of anguish and
despair, and vanished into the outer gloom, whither
the funeral music summoned him.
`Governor Belcher! — my old patron! — in his
very shape and dress!' gasped Doctor Byles. `This
is an awful mockery!'
`A tedious foolery, rather,' said Sir William Howe,
with an air of indifference. `But who were the three
that preceded him?'
`Governor Dudley, a cunning politician — yet his
craft once brought him to a prison,' replied Colonel
Joliffe. `Governor Shute, formerly a Colonel under
Marlborough, and whom the people frightened out of
the province; and learned Governor Burnet, whom
the legislature tormented into a mortal fever.'
`Methinks they were miserable men, these royal
governors of Massachusetts," observed Miss Joliffe.
`Heavens, how dim the light grows!'
It was certainly a fact that the large lamp which
illuminated the staircase, now burned dim and duskily:
so that several figures, which passed hastily down
the stairs and went forth from the porch, appeared
rather like shadows than persons of fleshly substance.
Sir William Howe and his guests stood at the doors
of the contiguous apartments, watching the progress
of this singular pageant, with various emotions of
anger, contempt, or half acknowledged fear, but still
with an anxious curiosity. The shapes, which now
seemed hastening to join the mysterious procession,
were recognised rather by striking peculiarities of
dress, or broad characteristics of manner, than by any
perceptible resemblance of features to their prototypes.
Their faces, indeed, were invariably kept in
deep shadow. But Doctor Byles, and other gentlemen
who had long been familiar with the successive
rulers of the province, were heard to whisper the
names of Shirley, of Pownal, of Sir Francis Bernard,
and of the well remembered Hutchinson; thereby
confessing that the actors, whoever they might be,
in this spectral march of governors, had succeeded in
putting on some distant portraiture of the real personages.
As they vanished from the door, still did these
shadows toss their arms into the gloom of night, with
a dread expression of wo. Following the mimic representative
of Hutchinson, came a military figure,
holding before his face the cocked hat which he had
taken from his powdered head; but his epaulettes
and other insignia of rank were those of a general
officer; and something in his mien reminded the beholders
Province House, and chief of all the land.
`The shape of Gage, as true as in a looking glass,'
exclaimed Lord Percy, turning pale.
`No, surely,' cried Miss Joliffe, laughing hysterically;
`it could not be Gage, or Sir William would
have greeted his old comrade in arms! Perhaps he
will not suffer the next to pass unchallenged.'
`Of that be assured, young lady,' answered Sir
William Howe, fixing his eyes, with a very marked
expression, upon the immovable visage of her grandfather.
`I have long enough delayed to pay the
ceremonies of a host to these departing guests. The
next that takes his leave shall receive due courtesy.'
A wild and dreary burst of music came through
the open door. It seemed as if the procession, which
had been gradually filling up its ranks, were now
about to move, and that this loud peal of the wailing
trumpets, and roll of the muffled drums, were
a call to some loiterer to make haste. Many eyes,
by an irresistible impulse, were turned upon Sir William
Howe, as if it were he whom the dreary music
summoned to the funeral of departed power.
`See! — here comes the last!' whispered Miss Joliffe,
pointing her tremulous finger to the staircase.
A figure had come into view as if descending the
stairs; although so dusky was the region whence it
emerged, some of the spectators fancied that they had
seen this human shape suddenly moulding itself amid
the gloom. Downward the figure came, with a stately
and martial tread, and reaching the lowest stair
in a military cloak, which was drawn up around the
face so as to meet the flapped brim of a laced hat.
The features, therefore, were completely hidden.
But the British officers deemed that they had seen
that military cloak before, and even recognised the
frayed embroidery on the collar, as well as the gilded
scabbard of a sword which protruded from the folds
of the cloak, and glittered in a vivid gleam of light.
Apart from these trifling particulars there were characteristics
of gait and bearing, which impelled the
wondering guests to glance from the shrouded figure
to Sir William Howe, as if to satisfy themselves that
their host had not suddenly vanished from the midst
of them.
With a dark flush of wrath upon his brow, they saw
the General draw his sword and advance to meet the
figure in the cloak before the latter had stepped one
pace upon the floor.
`Villain, unmuffle yourself!' cried he. `You
pass no further!'
The figure, without blenching a hair's breadth from
the sword which was pointed at his breast, made a
solemn pause and lowered the cape of the cloak from
about his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators
to catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had
evidently seen enough. The sternness of his countenance
gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not
horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure,
and let fall his sword upon the floor. The martial
shape again drew the cloak about his features and
towards the spectators, he was seen to stamp his
foot and shake his clenched hands in the air. It
was afterwards affirmed that Sir William Howe had
repeated that self-same gesture of rage and sorrow,
when, for the last time, and as the last royal governor,
he passed through the portal of the Province
House.
`Hark! — the procession moves,' said Miss Joliffe.
The music was dying away along the street, and
its dismal strains were mingled with the knell of midnight
from the steeple of the Old South, and with the
roar of artillery, which announced that the beleaguering
army of Washington had intrenched itself upon
a nearer height than before. As the deep boom of
the cannon smote upon his ear, Colonel Joliffe raised
himself to the full height of his aged form, and smiled
sternly on the British General.
`Would your Excellency inquire further into the
mystery of the pageant?' said he.
`Take care of your gray head!' cried Sir William
Howe, fiercely, though with a quivering lip.
`It has stood too long on a traitor's shoulders!'
`You must make haste to chop it off, then,'
calmly replied the Colonel; `for a few hours longer,
and not all the power of Sir William Howe, nor of his
master, shall cause one of these gray hairs to fall.
The empire of Britain, in this ancient province, is at
its last gasp to-night; — almost while I speak it is a
dead corpse; — and methinks the shadows of the old
governors are fit mourners at its funeral!'
With these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his
cloak, and drawing his grand-daughter's arm within
his own, retired from the last festival that a British
ruler ever held in the old province of Massachusetts
Bay. It was supposed that the Colonel and the
young lady possessed some secret intelligence in regard
to the mysterious pageant of that night. However
this might be, such knowledge has never become
general. The actors in the scene have vanished into
deeper obscurity than even that wild Indian band who
scattered the cargoes of the tea ships on the waves,
and gained a place in history, yet left no names.
But superstition, among other legends of this mansion,
repeats the wondrous tale, that on the anniversary
night of Britain's discomfiture, the ghosts of the
ancient governors of Massachusetts still glide through
the portal of the Province House. And, last of all,
comes a figure shrouded in a military cloak, tossing
his clenched hands into the air, and stamping his
iron-shod boots upon the broad free-stone steps, with
a semblance of feverish despair, but without the
sound of a foot-tramp.
When the truth-telling accents of the elderly gentleman
were hushed, I drew a long breath and looked
round the room, striving, with the best energy of my
imagination, to throw a tinge of romance and historic
grandeur over the realities of the scene. But my
nostrils snuffed up a scent of cigar-smoke, clouds of
which the narrator had emitted by way of visible
tale. Moreover, my gorgeous fantasies were wofully
disturbed by the rattling of the spoon in a tumbler of
whisky punch, which Mr. Thomas Waite was mingling
for a customer. Nor did it add to the picturesque
appearance of the paneled walls, that the slate of
the Brookline stage was suspended against them,
instead of the armorial escutcheon of some far-descended
governor. A stage-driver sat at one of
the windows, reading a penny paper of the day —
the Boston Times — and presenting a figure which
could nowise be brought into any picture of `Times
in Boston,' seventy or a hundred years ago. On
the window-seat lay a bundle, neatly done up in
brown paper, the direction of which I had the idle
curiosity to read. "Miss Susan Huggins, at the
Province House." A pretty chamber-maid, no
doubt. In truth, it is desperately hard work, when
we attempt to throw the spell of hoar antiquity over
localities with which the living world, and the day
that is passing over us, have aught to do. Yet, as I
glanced at the stately staircase, down which the procession
of the old governors had descended, and as I
emerged through the venerable portal, whence their
figures had preceded me, it gladdened me to be conscious
of a thrill of awe. Then diving through the
narrow archway, a few strides transported me into
the densest throng of Washington street.
NUMBER II.
EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT.
The old legendary guest of the Province House
abode in my remembrance from mid-summer till January.
One idle evening, last winter, confident that
he would be found in the snuggest corner of the barroom,
I resolved to pay him another visit, hoping to
deserve well of my country by snatching from oblivion
some else unheard of fact of history. The night was
chill and raw, and rendered boisterous by almost a
gale of wind, which whistled along Washington street,
causing the gas-lights to flare and flicker within the
lamps. As I hurried onward, my fancy was busy
with a comparison between the present aspect of the
street, and that which it probably wore when the British
Governors inhabited the mansion whither I was
now going. Brick edifices in those times were few,
till a succession of destructive fires had swept, and
swept again, the wooden dwellings and ware-houses
from the most populous quarters of the town. The
merging their separate existences into connected
ranges, with a front of tiresome identity, — but each
possessing features of its own, as if the owner's individual
taste had shaped it, — and the whole presenting
a picturesque irregularity, the absence of which
is hardly compensated by any beauties of our modern
architecture. Such a scene, dimly vanishing from the
eye by the ray of here and there a tallow candle,
glimmering through the small panes of scattered windows,
would form a sombre contrast to the street, as I
beheld it, with the gas-lights blazing from corner to
corner, flaming within the shops, and throwing a noonday
brightness through the huge plates of glass.
But the black, lowering sky, as I turned my eyes
upward, wore, doubtless, the same visage as when it
frowned upon the ante-revolutionary New Englanders.
The wintry blast had the same shriek that was familiar
to their ears. The Old South church, too, still
pointed its antique spire into the darkness, and was
lost between earth and heaven; and as I passed, its
clock, which had warned so many generations how
transitory was their life-time, spoke heavily and slow
the same unregarded moral to myself. `Only seven
o'clock,' thought I. `My old friend's legends will
scarcely kill the hours 'twixt this and bed-time.'
Passing through the narrow arch, I crossed the
court-yard, the confined precincts of which were
made visible by a lantern over the portal of the
Province House. On entering the bar-room, I found,
as I expected, the old tradition-monger seated by a
smoke from a corpulent cigar. He recognised me
with evident pleasure; for my rare properties as a
patient listener invariably make me a favorite with
elderly gentlemen and ladies of narrative propensities.
Drawing a chair to the fire, I desired mine host
to favor us with a glass a-piece of whisky punch,
which was speedily prepared, steaming hot, with a
slice of lemon at the bottom, a dark-red stratum of
port wine upon the surface, and a sprinkling of nutmeg
strewn over all. As we touched our glasses together,
my legendary friend made himself known to
me as Mr. Bela Tiffany; and I rejoiced at the oddity
of the name, because it gave his image and character
a sort of individuality in my conception. The old
gentleman's draught acted as a solvent upon his memory,
so that it overflowed with tales, traditions, anecdotes
of famous dead people, and traits of ancient
manners, some of which were childish as a nurse's
lullaby, while others might have been worth the notice
of the grave historian. Nothing impressed me more
than a story of a black, mysterious picture, which
used to hang in one of the chambers of the Province
House, directly above the room where we were now
sitting. The following is as correct a version of the
fact as the reader would be likely to obtain from any
other source, although assuredly, it has a tinge of
romance approaching to the marvellous:
In one of the apartments of the Province House
there was long preserved an ancient picture, the frame
so dark with age, damp, and smoke, that not a touch of
the painter's art could be discerned. Time had thrown
an impenetrable veil over it, and left to tradition, and
fable, and conjecture, to say what had once been there
portrayed. During the rule of many successive governors,
it had hung, by prescriptive and undisputed
right, over the mantelpiece of the same chamber;
and it still kept its place when Lieutenant Governor
Hutchinson assumed the administration of the province,
on the departure of Sir Francis Bernard.
The Lieutenant Governor sat, one afternoon, resting
his head against the carved back of his stately arm
chair, and gazing up thoughtfully at the void blackness
of the picture. It was scarcely a time for such inactive
musing, when affairs of the deepest moment required
the ruler's decision; for, within that very hour, Hutchinson
had received intelligence of the arrival of a
British fleet, bringing three regiments from Halifax to
overawe the insubordination of the people. These
troops awaited his permission to occupy the fortress
of Castle William, and the town itself. Yet, instead
of affixing his signature to an official order, there sat
the Lieutenant Governor, so carefully scrutinizing the
black waste of canvas, that his demeanor attracted
the notice of two young persons who attended him.
One, wearing a military dress of buff, was his kinsman,
Francis Lincoln, the Provincial Captain of Castle
William; the other, who sat on a low stool beside his
chair, was Alice Vane, his favorite niece.
She was clad entirely in white, a pale, ethereal
been educated abroad, and seemed not merely a stranger
from another clime, but almost a being from another
world. For several years, until left an orphan,
she had dwelt with her father in sunny Italy, and there
had acquired a taste and enthusiasm for sculpture and
painting, which she found few opportunities of gratifying
in the undecorated dwellings of the colonial gentry.
It was said that the early productions of her own
pencil exhibited no inferior genius, though, perhaps,
the rude atmosphere of New England had cramped
her hand, and dimmed the glowing colors of her fancy.
But observing her uncle's steadfast gaze, which appeared
to search through the mist of years to discover
the subject of the picture, her curiosity was excited.
`Is it known, my dear uncle,' inquired she, `what
this old picture once represented? Possibly, could it
be made visible, it might prove a masterpiece of some
great artist — else why has it so long held such a conspicuous
place?'
As her uncle, contrary to his usual custom, (for he
was as attentive to all the humors and caprices of
Alice as if she had been his own best beloved child,)
did not immediately reply, the young Captain of Castle
William took that office upon himself.
`This dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin,'
said he, `has been an heir-loom in the Province House
from time immemorial. As to the painter, I can tell
you nothing; but, if half the stories told of it be true,
not one of the great Italian masters has ever produced
so marvellous a piece of work, as that before you.'
Captain Lincoln proceeded to relate some of the
strange fables and fantasies, which, as it was impossible
to refute them by ocular demonstration, had
grown to be articles of popular belief, in reference
to this old picture. One of the wildest, and at the
same time the best accredited accounts, stated it to
be an original and authentic portrait of the Evil One,
taken at a witch meeting near Salem; and that its
strong and terrible resemblance had been confirmed
by several of the confessing wizards and witches, at
their trial, in open court. It was likewise affirmed
that a familiar spirit, or demon, abode behind the
blackness of the picture, and had shown himself, at
seasons of public calamity, to more than one of the
royal governors. Shirley, for instance, had beheld
this ominous apparition, on the eve of General
Abercrombie's shameful and bloody defeat under the
walls of Ticonderoga. Many of the servants of the
Province House had caught glimpses of a visage
frowning down upon them, at morning or evening
twilight, — or in the depths of night, while raking up
the fire that glimmered on the hearth beneath; although,
if any were bold enough to hold a torch
before the picture, it would appear as black and undistinguishable
as ever. The oldest inhabitant of
Boston recollected that his father, in whose days the
portrait had not wholly faded out of sight, had once
looked upon it, but would never suffer himself to be
questioned as to the face which was there represented.
In connection with such stories, it was remarkable
that over the top of the frame there were some ragged
formerly hung down before the picture, until the
duskiness of time had so effectually concealed it.
But, after all, it was the most singular part of the
affair, that so many of the pompous governors of
Massachusetts had allowed the obliterated picture to
remain in the state-chamber of the Province House.
`Some of these fables are really awful,' observed
Alice Vane, who had occasionally shuddered, as well
as smiled, while her cousin spoke. `It would be almost
worth while to wipe away the black surface of
the canvas, since the original picture can hardly be
so formidable as those which fancy paints instead
of it.'
`But would it be possible,' inquired her cousin, `to
restore this dark picture to its pristine hues?'
`Such arts are known in Italy,' said Alice.
The Lieutenant Governor had roused himself from
his abstracted mood, and listened with a smile to the
conversation of his young relatives. Yet his voice
had something peculiar in its tones, when he undertook
the explanation of the mystery.
`I am sorry, Alice, to destroy your faith in the
legends of which you are so fond,' remarked he;
`but my antiquarian researches have long since made
me acquainted with the subject of this picture — if
picture it can be called — which is no more visible,
nor ever will be, than the face of the long buried
man whom it once represented. It was the portrait
of Edward Randolph, the founder of this house, a
person famous in the history of New England.'
`Of that Edward Randolph,' exclaimed Captain
Lincoln, `who obtained the repeal of the first provincial
charter, under which our forefathers had enjoyed
almost democratic privileges! He that was styled the
arch enemy of New England, and whose memory is
still held in detestation, as the destroyer of our liberties!'
`It was the same Randolph,' answered Hutchinson,
moving uneasily in his chair. `It was his lot to taste
the bitterness of popular odium.'
`Our annals tell us,' continued the Captain of Castle
William, `that the curse of the people followed this
Randolph where he went, and wrought evil in all the
subsequent events of his life, and that its effect was
seen likewise in the manner of his death. They say,
too, that the inward misery of that curse worked itself
outward, and was visible on the wretched man's countenance,
making it too horrible to be looked upon.
If so, and if this picture truly represented his aspect,
it was in mercy that the cloud of blackness has gathered
over it.'
`These traditions are folly, to one who has proved,
as I have, how little of historic truth lies at the bottom,'
said the Lieutenant Governor. `As regards the
life and character of Edward Randolph too implicit
credence has been given to Dr. Cotton Mather, who—
I must say it, though some of his blood runs in my
veins — has filled our early history with old women's
tales, as fanciful and extravagant as those of Greece
or Rome.'
`And yet,' whispered Alice Vane, `may not such
of this portrait be so dreadful, it is not without a
cause that it has hung so long in a chamber of the
Province House. When the rulers feel themselves
irresponsible, it were well that they should be reminded
of the awful weight of a people's curse.'
The Lieutenant Governor started, and gazed for a
moment at his niece, as if her girlish fantasies had
struck upon some feeling in his own breast, which all
his policy or principles could not entirely subdue.
He knew, indeed, that Alice, in spite of her foreign
education, retained the native sympathies of a New
England girl.
`Peace, silly child,' cried he, at last, more harshly
than he had ever before addressed the gentle Alice.
`The rebuke of a king is more to be dreaded than the
clamor of a wild, misguided multitude. Captain Lincoln,
it is decided. The fortress of Castle William
must be occupied by the Royal troops. The two remaining
regiments shall be billeted in the town, or
encamped upon the Common. It is time, after years
of tumult, and almost rebellion, that his majesty's
government should have a wall of strength about it.'
`Trust, sir — trust yet awhile to the loyalty of the
people,' said Captain Lincoln; `nor teach them that
they can ever be on other terms with British soldiers
than those of brotherhood, as when they fought side
by side through the French war. Do not convert the
streets of your native town into a camp. Think twice
before you give up old Castle William, the key of the
province, into other keeping than that of true born
New Englanders.'
`Young man, it is decided,' repeated Hutchinson,
rising from his chair. `A British officer will be in
attendance this evening, to receive the necessary instructions
for the disposal of the troops. Your presence
also will be required. Till then, farewell.'
With these words the Lieutenant Governor hastily
left the room, while Alice and her cousin more slowly
followed, whispering together, and once pausing to
glance back at the mysterious picture. The captain
of Castle William fancied that the girl's air and mien
were such as might have belonged to one of those
spirits of fable — fairies, or creatures of a more antique
mythology, — who sometimes mingled their
agency with mortal affairs, half in caprice, yet with
a sensibility to human weal or woe. As he held the
door for her to pass, Alice beckoned to the picture
and smiled.
`Come forth, dark and evil Shape!' cried she.
`It is thine hour!'
In the evening, Lieutenant Governor Hutchinson
sat in the same chamber where the foregoing scene had
occurred, surrounded by several persons whose various
interests had summoned them together. There
were the Selectmen of Boston, plain, patriarchal
fathers of the people, excellent representatives of the
old puritanical founders, whose sombre strength had
stamped so deep an impress upon the New England
character. Contrasting with these were one or two
members of Council, richly dressed in the white wigs,
the embroidered waistcoats and other magnificence of
the time, and making a somewhat ostentatious display
was a major of the British army, awaiting the Lieutenant
Governor's orders for the landing of the troops,
which still remained on board the transports. The
Captain of Castle William stood beside Hutchinson's
chair, with folded arms, glancing rather haughtily at
the British officer, by whom he was soon to be superseded
in his command. On a table, in the centre of
the chamber, stood a branched silver candlestick,
throwing down the glow of half a dozen wax lights
upon a paper apparently ready for the Lieutenant
Governor's signature.
Partly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of
the window curtains, which fell from the ceiling to
the floor, was seen the white drapery of a lady's robe.
It may appear strange that Alice Vane should have
been there, at such a time; but there was something
so childlike, so wayward, in her singular character,
so apart from ordinary rules, that her presence did
not surprise the few who noticed it. Meantime, the
chairman of the Selectmen was addressing to the
Lieutenant Governor a long and solemn protest against
the reception of the British troops into the town.
`And if your Honor,' concluded this excellent, but
somewhat prosy old gentleman, `shall see fit to persist
in bringing these mercenary sworders and musketeers
into our quiet streets, not on our heads be the
responsibility. Think, sir, while there is yet time,
that if one drop of blood be shed, that blood shall be
an eternal stain upon your Honor's memory. You,
sir, have written, with an able pen, the deeds of our
that yourself should deserve honorable mention, as a
true patriot and upright ruler, when your own doings
shall be written down in history.'
`I am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural
desire to stand well in the annals of my country,' replied
Hutchinson, controlling his impatience into
courtesy, `nor know I any better method of attaining
that end than by withstanding the merely temporary
spirit of mischief, which, with your pardon, seems to
have infected elder men than myself. Would you
have me wait till the mob shall sack the Province
House, as they did my private mansion? Trust me,
sir, the time may come when you will be glad to flee
for protection to the King's banner, the raising of
which is now so distasteful to you.'
`Yes,' said the British major, who was impatiently
expecting the Lieutenant Governor's orders. `The
demagogues of this Province have raised the devil,
and cannot lay him again. We will exorcise him, in
God's name and the King's.'
`If you meddle with the devil, take care of his
claws!' answered the Captain of Castle William,
stirred by the taunt against his countrymen.
`Craving your pardon, young sir,' said the venerable
Selectman, `let not an evil spirit enter into
your words. We will strive against the oppressor
with prayer and fasting, as our forefathers would
have done. Like them, moreover, we will submit
to whatever lot a wise Providence may send us, —
always, after our own best exertions to amend it.'
`And there peep forth the devil's claws!' muttered
Hutchinson, who well understood the nature of
Puritan submission. `This matter shall be expedited
forthwith. When there shall be a sentinel at every
corner, and a court of guard before the town-house,
a loyal gentleman may venture to walk abroad. What
to me is the outcry of a mob, in this remote province
of the realm? The King is my master, and England
is my country! Upheld by their armed strength, I
set my foot upon the rabble, and defy them!'
He snatched a pen, and was about to affix his signature
to the paper that lay on the table, when the
Captain of Castle William placed his hand upon his
shoulder. The freedom of the action, so contrary
to the ceremonious respect which was then considered
due to rank and dignity, awakened general surprise,
and in none more than in the Lieutenant Governor
himself. Looking angrily up, he perceived that his
young relative was pointing his finger to the opposite
wall. Hutchinson's eye followed the signal; and he
saw, what had hitherto been unobserved, that a black
silk curtain was suspended before the mysterious picture,
so as completely to conceal it. His thoughts
immediately recurred to the scene of the preceding
afternoon; and, in his surprise, confused by indistinct
emotions, yet sensible that his niece must have had
an agency in this phenomenon, he called loudly upon
her.
`Alice! — Come hither, Alice!'
No sooner had he spoken than Alice Vane glided
from her station, and pressing one hand across her
that concealed the portrait. An exclamation of surprise
burst from every beholder; but the Lieutenant
Governor's voice had a tone of horror.
`By heaven,' said he, in a low, inward murmur,
speaking rather to himself than to those around him,
`if the spirit of Edward Randolph were to appear
among us from the place of torment, he could not
wear more of the terrors of hell upon his face!'
`For some wise end,' said the aged Selectman, solemnly,
`hath Providence scattered away the mist of
years that had so long hid this dreadful effigy. Until
this hour no living man hath seen what we behold!'
Within the antique frame, which so recently had
enclosed a sable waste of canvas, now appeared a
visible picture, still dark, indeed, in its hues and shadings,
but thrown forward in strong relief. It was a
half-length figure of a gentleman in a rich, but very
old-fashioned dress of embroidered velvet, with a
broad ruff and a beard, and wearing a hat, the brim
of which overshadowed his forehead. Beneath this
cloud the eyes had a peculiar glare, which was almost
life-like. The whole portrait started so distinctly
out of the back-ground, that it had the effect of a
person looking down from the wall at the astonished
and awe-stricken spectators. The expression of the
face, if any words can convey an idea of it, was
that of a wretch detected in some hideous guilt, and
exposed to the bitter hatred, and laughter, and withering
scorn, of a vast surrounding multitude. There
was the struggle of defiance, beaten down and overwhelmed
torture of the soul had come forth upon the countenance.
It seemed as if the picture, while hidden behind
the cloud of immemorial years, had been all the
time acquiring an intenser depth and darkness of expression,
till now it gloomed forth again, and threw
its evil omen over the present hour. Such, if the
wild legend may be credited, was the portrait of Edward
Randolph, as he appeared when a people's
curse had wrought its influence upon his nature.
`'Twould drive me mad — that awful face!' said
Hutchinson, who seemed fascinated by the contemplation
of it.
`Be warned, then!' whispered Alice. `He trampled
on a people's rights. Behold his punishment —
and avoid a crime like his!'
The Lieutenant Governor actually trembled for an
instant; but, exerting his energy — which was not,
however, his most characteristic feature — he strove
to shake off the spell of Randolph's countenance.
`Girl!' cried he, laughing bitterly, as he turned to
Alice, `have you brought hither your painter's art —
your Italian spirit of intrigue — your tricks of stage-effect
— and think to influence the councils of rulers
and the affairs of nations, by such shallow contrivances?
See here!'
`Stay yet awhile,' said the Selectman, as Hutchinson
again snatched the pen; `for if ever mortal
man received a warning from a tormented soul, your
Honor is that man!'
`Away!' answered Hutchinson fiercely. `Though
should not move me!'
Casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face,
(which seemed, at that moment, to intensify the horror
of its miserable and wicked look,) he scrawled
on the paper, in characters that betokened it a deed
of desperation, the name of Thomas Hutchinson.
Then, it is said, he shuddered, as if that signature
had granted away his salvation.
`It is done,' said he; and placed his hand upon
his brow.
`May Heaven forgive the deed,' said the soft, sal
accents of Alice Vane, like the voice of a good spirit
flitting away.
When morning came there was a stifled whisper
through the household, and spreading thence about
the town, that the dark, mysterious picture had started
from the wall, and spoken face to face with Lieutenant
Governor Hutchinson. If such a miracle had
been wrought, however, no traces of it remained behind;
for within the antique frame, nothing could be
discerned, save the impenetrable cloud, which had
covered the canvas since the memory of man. If the
figure had, indeed, stepped forth, it had fled back,
spirit-like, at the day-dawn, and hidden itself behind
a century's obscurity. The truth probably was, that
Alice Vane's secret for restoring the hues of the picture
had merely effected a temporary renovation.
But those who, in that brief interval, had beheld the
awful visage of Edward Randolph, desired no second
glance, and ever afterwards trembled at the recollection
visibly among them. And as for Hutchinson, when,
far over the ocean, his dying hour drew on, he gasped
for breath, and complained that he was choking with
the blood of the Boston Massacre; and Francis Lincoln,
the former Captain of Castle William, who was
standing at his bedside, perceived a likeness in his
frenzied look to that of Edward Randolph. Did his
broken spirit feel, at that dread hour, the tremendous
burthen of a People's curse?
At the conclusion of this miraculous legend I inquired
of mine host whether the picture still remained
in the chamber over our heads; but Mr. Tiffany informed
me that it had long since been removed, and
was supposed to be hidden in some out-of-the-way corner
of the New England Museum. Perchance some curious
antiquary may light upon it there, and, with the
assistance of Mr. Howorth, the picture cleaner, may
supply a not unnecessary proof of the authenticity of
the facts here set down. During the progress of the
story a storm had been gathering abroad, and raging
and rattling so loudly in the upper regions of the
Province House, that it seemed as if all the old Governors
and great men were running riot above stairs,
while Mr. Bela Tiffany babbled of them below. In
the course of generations, when many people have
lived and died in an ancient house, the whistling of
the wind through its crannies, and the creaking of its
beams and rafters, become strangely like the tones of
footsteps treading the deserted chambers. It is as if the
echoes of half a century were revived. Such were
the ghostly sounds that roared and murmured in our
ears, when I took leave of the circle round the fireside
of the Province House, and plunging down the
door-steps, fought my way homeward against a drifting
snow-storm.
NUMBER III.
LADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE.
Mine excellent friend, the landlord of the Province
House, was pleased, the other evening, to invite Mr.
Tiffany and myself to an oyster supper. This slight
mark of respect and gratitude, as he handsomely observed,
was far less than the ingenious tale-teller, and
I, the humble note-taker of his narratives, had fairly
earned, by the public notice which our joint lucubrations
had attracted to his establishment. Many a segar
had been smoked within his premises — many a
glass of wine, or more potent aqua vitæ, had been
quaffed — many a dinner had been eaten by curious
strangers, who, save for the fortunate conjunction of
Mr. Tiffany and me, would never have ventured
through that darksome avenue, which gives access to
the historic precincts of the Province House. In
short, if any credit be due to the courteous assurances
of Mr. Thomas Waite, we had brought his forgotten
mansion almost as effectually into public view
and dry-good stores, which hides its aristocratic
front from Washington street. It may be unadvisable,
however, to speak too loudly of the increased
custom of the house, lest Mr. Waite should find it
difficult to renew the lease on so favorable terms as
heretofore.
Being thus welcomed as benefactors, neither Mr.
Tiffany nor myself felt any scruple in doing full justice
to the good things that were set before us. If
the feast were less magnificent than those same paneled
walls had witnessed, in a by-gone century — if
mine host presided with somewhat less of state, than
might have befitted a successor of the royal Governors
— if the guests made a less imposing show than
the bewigged, and powdered, and embroidered dignitaries,
who erst banqueted at the gubernatorial table,
and now sleep within their armorial tombs on Copp's
Hill, or round King's Chapel — yet never, I may
boldly say, did a more comfortable little party assemble
in the Province House, from Queen Anne's days
to the Revolution. The occasion was rendered more
interesting by the presence of a venerable personage,
whose own actual reminiscences went back to the epoch
of Gage and Howe, and even supplied him with a
doubtful anecdote or two of Hutchinson. He was
one of that small, and now all but extinguished class,
whose attachment to royalty, and to the colonial institutions
and customs that were connected with it,
had never yielded to the democratic heresies of aftertimes.
The young queen of Britain has not a more
would kneel before her throne with such reverential
love — as this old grandsire whose head has whitened
beneath the mild sway of the Republic, which still,
in his mellower moments, he terms a usurpation.
Yet prejudices so obstinate have not made him
an ungentle or impracticable companion. If the
truth must be told, the life of the aged loyalist has
been of such a scrambling and unsettled character
— he has had so little choice of friends, and been
so often destitute of any — that I doubt whether he
would refuse a cup of kindness with either Oliver
Cromwell or John Hancock; to say nothing of any
democrat now upon the stage. In another paper of
this series, I may perhaps give the reader a closer
glimpse of his portrait.
Our host, in due season, uncorked a bottle of Madeira,
of such exquisite perfume and admirable flavor,
that he surely must have discovered it in an ancient
bin, down deep beneath the deepest cellar, where
some jolly old butler stored away the Governor's
choicest wine, and forgot to reveal the secret on his
death-bed. Peace to his red-nosed ghost, and a libation
to his memory! This precious liquor was imbibed
by Mr. Tiffany with peculiar zest; and after
sipping the third glass, it was his pleasure to give us
one of the oddest legends which he had yet raked
from the store-house, where he keeps such matters.
With some suitable adornments from my own fancy,
it ran pretty much as follows:
Not long after Colonel Shute had assumed the government
of Massachusetts Bay, now nearly a hundred
and twenty years ago, a young lady of rank and
fortune arrived from England, to claim his protection
as her guardian. He was her distant relative, but the
nearest who had survived the gradual extinction of
her family; so that no more eligible shelter could be
found for the rich and high-born Lady Eleanore
Rochcliffe, than within the Province House of a transatlantic
colony. The consort of Governor Shute,
moreover, had been as a mother to her childhood, and
was now anxious to receive her, in the hope that a
beautiful young woman would be exposed to infinitely
less peril from the primitive society of New England,
than amid the artifices and corruptions of a court.
If either the Governor or his lady had especially
consulted their own comfort, they would probably
have sought to devolve the responsibility on other
hands; since with some noble and splendid traits of
character, Lady Eleanore was remarkable for a harsh,
unyielding pride, a haughty consciousness of her hereditary
and personal advantages, which made her
almost incapable of control. Judging from many
traditionary anecdotes, this peculiar temper was hardly
less than a monomania; or, if the acts which it inspired
were those of a sane person, it seemed due
from Providence that pride so sinful should be followed
by as severe a retribution. That tinge of the
marvelous which is thrown over so many of these
half-forgotten legends has probably imparted an additional
wildness to the strange story of Lady Eleanore
Rochcliffe.
The ship in which she came passenger had arrived
at Newport, whence Lady Eleanore was conveyed to
Boston in the Governor's coach, attended by a small
escort of gentlemen on horseback. The ponderous
equipage, with its four black horses, attracted much
notice as it rumbled through Cornhill, surrounded by
the prancing steeds of half a dozen cavaliers, with
swords dangling to their stirrups and pistols at their
holsters. Through the large glass windows of the
coach, as it rolled along, the people could discern the
figure of Lady Eleanore, strangely combining an
almost queenly stateliness with the grace and beauty
of a maiden in her teens. A singular tale had gone
abroad among the ladies of the province, that their
fair rival was indebted for much of the irresistible
charm of her appearance to a certain article of dress
— an embroidered mantle — which had been wrought
by the most skilful artist in London, and possessed
even magical properties of adornment. On the present
occasion, however, she owed nothing to the witchery
of dress, being clad in a riding-habit of velvet,
which would have appeared stiff and ungraceful on
any other form.
The coachman reined in his four black steeds, and
the whole cavalcade came to a pause in front of the
contorted iron balustrade that fenced the Province
House from the public street. It was an awkward
coincidence, that the bell of the Old South was just
then tolling for a funeral; so that, instead of a gladsome
peal with which it was customary to announce
the arrival of distinguished strangers, Lady Eleanore
calamity had come embodied in her beautiful person.
`A very great disrespect!' exclaimed Captain Langford,
an English officer, who had recently brought
despatches to Governor Shute. `The funeral should
have been deferred, lest Lady Eleanore's spirits be
affected by such a dismal welcome.'
`With your pardon, sir,' replied Doctor Clarke, a
physician, and a famous champion of the popular
party, `whatever the heralds may pretend, a dead
beggar must have precedence of a living queen.
King Death confers high privileges.'
These remarks were interchanged while the speakers
waited a passage through the crowd, which had
gathered on each side of the gateway, leaving an
open avenue to the portal of the Province House.
A black slave in livery now leaped from behind the
coach, and threw open the door; while at the same
moment Governor Shute descended the flight of steps
from his mansion, to assist Lady Eleanore in alighting.
But the Governor's stately approach was anticipated
in a manner that excited general astonishment.
A pale young man, with his black hair all in disorder,
rushed from the throng, and prostrated himself
beside the coach, thus offering his person as a footstool
for Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe to tread upon.
She held back an instant; yet with an expression as
if doubting whether the young man were worthy to
bear the weight of her footstep, rather than dissatisfied
to receive such awful reverence from a fellow-mortal.
`Up, sir,' said the Governor, sternly, at the same
time lifting his cane over the intruder. `What means
the Bedlamite by this freak?'
`Nay,' answered Lady Eleanore playfully, but
with more scorn than pity in her tone, `your Excellency
shall not strike him. When men seek only to
be trampled upon, it were a pity to deny them a
favor so easily granted — and so well deserved!'
Then, though as lightly as a sunbeam on a cloud,
she placed her foot upon the cowering form, and extended
her hand to meet that of the Governor.
There was a brief interval, during which Lady Eleanore
retained this attitude; and never, surely, was
there an apter emblem of aristocracy and hereditary
pride, trampling on human sympathies and the kindred
of nature, than these two figures presented at
that moment. Yet the spectators were so smitten
with her beauty, and so essential did pride seem to
the existence of such a creature, that they gave a
simultaneous acclamation of applause.
`Who is this insolent young fellow?' inquired
Captain Langford, who still remained beside Doctor
Clarke. `If he be in his senses, his impertinence demands
the bastinado. If mad, Lady Eleanore should
be secured from further inconvenience, by his confinement.'
`His name is Jervase Helwyse,' answered the Doctor
— `a youth of no birth or fortune, or other advantages,
save the mind and soul that nature gave him;
and being secretary to our colonial agent in London,
it was his misfortune to meet this Lady Eleanore
him mad.'
`He was mad so to aspire,' observed the English
officer.
`It may be so,' said Doctor Clarke, frowning as he
spoke. `But I tell you, sir, I could well nigh doute
the justice of the Heaven above us, if no signal
humiliation overtake this lady, who now treads so
haughtily into yonder mansion. She seeks to place
herself above the sympathies of our common nature,
which envelopes all human souls. See, if that nature
do not assert its claim over her in some mode that
shall bring her level with the lowest!'
`Never!' cried Captain Langford, indignantly —
`neither in life nor when they lay her with her ancestors.'
Not many days afterwards the Governor gave:
ball in honor of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. The
principal gentry of the colony received invitations,
which were distributed to their residences, far and
near, by messengers on horseback, bearing missives
sealed with all the formality of official despatches.
In obedience to the summons, there was a general
gathering of rank, wealth, and beauty; and the wide
door of the Province House had seldom given admittance
to more numerous and honorable guests than
on the evening of Lady Eleanore's ball. Without
much extravagance of eulogy, the spectacle might
even be termed splendid; for, according to the fashion
of the times, the ladies shone in rich silks and
satins, outspread over wide-projecting hoops; and the
upon the purple, or scarlet, or sky-blue velvet,
which was the material of their coats and waistcoats.
The latter article of dress was of great importance,
since it enveloped the wearer's body nearly to the
knees, and was perhaps bedizened with the amount
of his whole year's income, in golden flowers and
foliage. The altered taste of the present day — a
taste symbolic of a deep change in the whole system
of society — would look upon almost any of those
gorgeous figures as ridiculous; although that evening
the guests sought their reflections in the pier-glasses,
and rejoiced to catch their own glitter amid the glittering
crowd. What a pity that one of the stately
mirrors has not preserved a picture of the scene,
which, by the very traits that were so transitory,
might have taught us much that would be worth
knowing and remembering!
Would, at least, that either painter or mirror could
convey to us some faint idea of a garment, already
noticed in this legend — the Lady Eleanore's embroidered
mantle — which the gossips whispered was invested
with magic properties, so as to lend a new and
untried grace to her figure each time that she put it
on! Idle fancy as it is, this mysterious mantle has
thrown an awe around my image of her, partly from
its fabled virtues, and partly because it was the handiwork
of a dying woman, and, perchance, owed the
fantastic grace of its conception to the delirium of approaching
death.
After the ceremonial greetings had been paid, Lady
insulating herself within a small and distinguished
circle, to whom she accorded a more cordial favor
than to the general throng. The waxen torches threw
their radiance vividly over the scene, bringing out its
brilliant points in strong relief; but she gazed carelessly,
and with now and then an expression of weariness
or scorn, tempered with such feminine grace,
that her auditors scarcely perceived the moral deformity
of which it was the utterance. She beheld the
spectacle not with vulgar ridicule, as disdaining to be
pleased with the provincial mockery of a court festival,
but with the deeper scorn of one whose spirit held
itself too high to participate in the enjoyment of other
human souls. Whether or no the recollections of
those who saw her that evening were influenced by
the strange events with which she was subsequently
connected, so it was, that her figure ever after recurred
to them as marked by something wild and unnatural;
although, at the time, the general whisper
was of her exceeding beauty, and of the indescribable
charm which her mantle threw around her. Some
close observers, indeed, detected a feverish flush and
alternate paleness of countenance, with a corresponding
flow and revulsion of spirits, and once or twice
a painful and helpless betrayal of lassitude, as if she
were on the point of sinking to the ground. Then,
with a nervous shudder, she seemed to arouse her
energies, and threw some bright and playful, yet half-wicked
sarcasm into the conversation. There was so
strange a characteristic in her manners and sentiments,
till looking in her face, a lurking and incomprehensible
glance and smile perplexed them with doubts both as
to her seriousness and sanity. Gradually, Lady
Eleanore Rochcliffe's circle grew smaller, till only
four gentlemen remained in it. These were Captain
Langford, the English officer before mentioned; a
Virginian planter, who had come to Massachusetts on
some political errand; a young Episcopal clergyman,
the grandson of a British Earl; and lastly, the private
secretary of Governor Shute, whose obsequiousness
had won a sort of tolerance from Lady Eleanore.
At different periods of the evening the liveried
servants of the Province House passed among the
guests, bearing huge trays of refreshments, and
French and Spanish wines. Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe,
who refused to wet her beautiful lips even with
a bubble of Champaigne, had sunk back into a large
damask chair, apparently overwearied either with the
excitement of the scene or its tedium; and while, for
an instant, she was unconscious of voices, laughter,
and music, a young man stole forward, and knelt
down at her feet. He bore a salver in his hand, on
which was a chased silver goblet, filled to the brim
with wine, which he offered as reverentially as to a
crowned queen, or rather with the awful devotion of
a priest doing sacrifice to his idol. Conscious that
some one touched her robe, Lady Eleanore started,
and unclosed her eyes upon the pale, wild features
and disheveled hair of Jervase Helwyse.
`Why do you haunt me thus?' said she, in a languid
permitted herself to express. `They tell me that
I have done you harm.'
`Heaven knows if that be so,' replied the young
man solemnly. `But, Lady Eleanore, in requital of
that harm, if such there be, and for your own earthly
and heavenly welfare, I pray you to take one sip of
this holy wine, and then to pass the goblet round
among the guests. And this shall be a symbol that
you have not sought to withdraw yourself from the
chain of human sympathies — which whoso would
shake off must keep company with fallen angels.'
`Where has this mad fellow stolen that sacramental
vessel?' exclaimed the Episcopal clergyman.
This question drew the notice of the guests to the
silver cup, which was recognised as appertaining to
the communion plate of the Old South Church; and,
for aught that could be known, it was brimming over
with the consecrated wine.
`Perhaps it is poisoned,' half whispered the Governor's
secretary.
`Pour it down the villain's throat!' cried the Virginian,
fiercely.
`Turn him out of the house!' cried Captain Langford,
seizing Jervase Helwyse so roughly by the
shoulder that the sacramental cup was overturned,
and its contents sprinkled upon Lady Eleanore's mantle.
`Whether knave, fool, or Bedlamite, it is intolerable
that the fellow should go at large.'
`Pray, gentlemen, do my poor admirer no harm,' said
Lady Eleanore, with a faint and weary smile. `Take
can find in my heart to do nothing but laugh at
him — whereas, in all decency and conscience, it
would become me to weep for the mischief I have
wrought!'
But while the bystanders were attempting to lead
away the unfortunate young man, he broke from
them, and with a wild, impassioned earnestness,
offered a new and equally strange petition to Lady
Eleanore. It was no other than that she should
throw off the mantle, which, while he pressed the
silver cup of wine upon her, she had drawn more
closely around her form, so almost to shroud herself
within it.
`Cast it from you!' exclaimed Jervase Helwyse,
clasping his hands in an agony of entreaty. `It may
not yet be too late! Give the accursed garment to
the flames!'
But Lady Eleanore, with a laugh of scorn, drew
the rich folds of the embroidered mantle over her
head, in such a fashion as to give a completely new
aspect to her beautiful face, which — half-hidden,
half-revealed — seemed to belong to some being of
mysterious character and purposes.
`Farewell, Jervase Helwyse!' said she. `Keep
my image in your remembrance, as you behold it
now.'
`Alas, lady!' he replied, in a tone no longer wild,
but sad as a funeral bell. `We must meet shortly,
when your face may wear another aspect — and that
shall be the image that must abide within me.'
He made no more resistance to the violent efforts
of the gentlemen and servants, who almost dragged
him out of the apartment, and dismissed him roughly
from the iron gate of the Province House. Captain
Langford, who had been very active in this affair,
was returning to the presence of Lady Eleanore
Rochcliffe, when he encountered the physician, Doctor
Clarke, with whom he had held some casual talk
on the day of her arrival. The Doctor stood apart,
separated from Lady Eleanore by the width of the
room, but eyeing her with such keen sagacity, that
Captain Langford involuntarily gave him credit for
the discovery of some deep secret.
`You appear to be smitten, after all, with the
charms of this queenly maiden,' said he, hoping thus
to draw forth the physician's hidden knowledge.
`God forbid!' answered Doctor Clarke, with a
grave smile; `and if you be wise you will put up the
same prayer for yourself. Wo to those who shall be
smitten by this beautiful Lady Eleanore! But yonder
stands the Governor — and I have a word or two
for his private ear. Good night!'
He accordingly advanced to Governor Shute, and
addressed him in so low a tone that none of the bystanders
could catch a word of what he said; although
the sudden change of his Excellency's hitherto cheerful
visage betokened that the communication could be
of no agreeable import. A very few moments afterwards,
it was announced to the guests that an unforeseen
circumstance rendered it necessary to put a
premature close to the festival.
The ball at the Province House supplied a topic of
conversation for the colonial metropolis, for some
days after its occurrence, and might still longer have
been the general theme, only that a subject of all engrossing
interest thrust it, for a time, from the public
recollection. This was the appearance of a dreadful
epidemic, which, in that age, and long before and
afterwards, was wont to slay its hundreds and thousands,
on both sides of the Atlantic. On the occasion
of which we speak, it was distinguished by a
peculiar virulence, insomuch that it has left its traces
— its pitmarks, to use an appropriate figure — on the
history of the country, the affairs of which were
thrown into confusion by its ravages. At first, unlike
its ordinary course, the disease seemed to confine
itself to the higher circles of society, selecting its
victims from among the proud, the well-born and the
wealthy, entering unabashed into stately chambers,
and lying down with the slumberers in silken beds.
Some of the most distinguished guests of the Province
House — even those whom the haughty Lady Eleanore
Rochcliffe had deemed not unworthy of her
favor — were stricken by this fatal scourge. It was
noticed, with an ungenerous bitterness of feeling,
that the four gentlemen — the Virginian, the British
officer, the young clergyman, and the Governor's
secretary — who had been her most devoted attendants
on the evening of the ball, were the foremost on
whom the plague-stroke fell. But the disease, pursuing
its onward progress, soon ceased to be exclusively
a prerogative of aristocracy. Its red brand was no
knighthood. It threaded its way through the narrow
and crooked streets, and entered the low, mean, darksome
dwellings, and laid its hand of death upon the
artisans and laboring classes of the town. It compelled
rich and poor to feel themselves brethren,
then; and stalking to and fro across the Three Hills,
with a fierceness which made it almost a new pestilence,
there was that mighty conqueror — that scourge
and horror of our forefathers — the Small Pox!
We cannot estimate the affright which this plague
inspired of yore, by contemplating it as the fangless
monster of the present day. We must remember,
rather, with what awe we watched the gigantic footsteps
of the Asiatic cholera, striding from shore to
shore of the Atlantic, and marching like destiny upon
cities far remote, which flight had already half depopulated.
There is no other fear so horrible and
unhumanizing, as that which makes man dread to
breathe Heaven's vital air, lest it be poison, or to
grasp the hand of a brother or friend, lest the gripe
of the pestilence should clutch him. Such was the
dismay that now followed in the track of the disease,
or ran before it throughout the town. Graves were
hastily dug, and the pestilential relics, as hastily covered,
because the dead were enemies of the living,
and strove to draw them headlong, as it were, into
their own dismal pit. The public councils were suspended,
as if mortal wisdom might relinquish its devices,
now that an unearthly usurper had found his
way into the ruler's mansion. Had an enemy's fleet
on our soil, the people would probably have committed
their defence to that same direful conqueror, who
had wrought their own calamity, and would permit
no interference with his sway. This conqueror had
a symbol of his triumphs. It was a blood-red flag,
that fluttered in the tainted air, over the door of every
dwelling into which the Small Pox had entered.
Such a banner was long since waving over the
portal of the Province House; for thence, as was
proved by tracking its footsteps back, had all this dreadful
mischief issued. It had been traced back to a lady's
luxurious chamber — to the proudest of the proud —
to her that was so delicate, and hardly owned herself
of earthly mould — to the haughty one, who took her
stand above human sympathies — to Lady Eleanore!
There remained no room for doubt, that the contagion
had lurked in that gorgeous mantle, which threw so
strange a grace around her at the festival. Its fantastic
splendor had been conceived in the delirious
brain of a woman on her death-bed, and was the last
toil of her stiffening fingers, which had interwoven
fate and misery with its golden threads. This dark
tale, whispered at first, was now bruited far and wide.
The people raved against the Lady Eleanore, and
cried out that her pride and scorn had evoked a fiend,
and that, between them both, this monstrous evil had
been born. At times, their rage and despair took the
semblance of grinning mirth; and whenever the red
flag of the pestilence was hoisted over another, and
yet another door, they clapt their hands and shouted
new triumph for the Lady Eleanore!'
One day in the midst of these dismal times, a wild
figure approached the portal of the Province House,
and folding his arms, stood contemplating the scarlet
banner, which a passing breeze shook fitfully, as if to
fling abroad the contagion that it typified. At length,
climbing one of the pillars by means of the iron balustrade,
he took down the flag, and entered the mansion,
waving it above his head. At the foot of the
staircase he met the Governor, booted and spurred,
with his cloak drawn around him, evidently on the
point of setting forth upon a journey.
`Wretched lunatic, what do you seek here?' exclaimed
Shute, extending his cane to guard himself
from contact. `There is nothing here but Death.
Back — or you will meet him!'
`Death will not touch me, the banner-bearer of the
pestilence!' cried Jervase Helwyse, shaking the red
flag aloft. `Death, and the Pestilence, who wears
the aspect of the Lady Eleanore, will walk through
the streets to-night, and I must march before them
with this banner!'
`Why do I waste words on the fellow?' muttered
the Governor, drawing his cloak across his mouth.
`What matters his miserable life, when none of us
are sure of twelve hours' breath? On, fool, to your
own destruction!'
He made way for Jervase Helwyse, who immediately
ascended the staircase, but, on the first landing-place,
was arrested by the firm grasp of a hand upon
impulse to struggle with, and rend asunder his opponent,
he found himself powerless beneath a calm,
stern eye, which possessed the mysterious property
of quelling frenzy at its height. The person whom
he had now encountered was the physician, Doctor
Clarke, the duties of whose sad profession had led
him to the Province House, where he was an infrequent
guest in more prosperous times.
`Young man, what is your purpose?' demanded
he.
`I seek the Lady Eleanore,' answered Jervase
Helwyse, submissively.
`All have fled from her,' said the physician. `Why
do you seek her now? I tell you, youth, her nurse
fell death-stricken on the threshold of that fatal chamber.
Know ye not, that never came such a curse to
our shores as this lovely Lady Eleanore? — that her
breath has filled the air with poison? — that she has
shaken pestilence and death upon the land, from the
folds of her accursed mantle?'
`Let me look upon her!' rejoined the mad youth,
more wildly. `Let me behold her, in her awful
beauty, clad in the regal garments of the pestilence!
She and Death sit on a throne together. Let me
kneel down before them!'
`Poor youth!' said Doctor Clarke; and, moved
by a deep sense of human weakness, a smile of
caustic humor curled his lip even then. `Wilt thou
still worship the destroyer, and surround her image
with fantasies the more magnificent, the more evil
Approach, then! Madness, as I have noted, has that
good efficacy, that it will guard you from contagion
— and perchance its own cure may be found in yonder
chamber.'
Ascending another flight of stairs, he threw open
a door, and signed to Jervase Helwyse that he should
enter. The poor lunatic, it seems probable, had
cherished a delusion that his haughty mistress sat in
state, unharmed herself by the pestilential influence,
which, as by enchantment, she scattered round about
her. He dreamed, no doubt, that her beauty was
not dimmed, but brightened into superhuman splendor.
With such anticipations, he stole reverentially
to the door at which the physician stood, but paused
upon the threshold, gazing fearfully into the gloom
of the darkened chamber.
`Where is the Lady Eleanore?' whispered he.
`Call her,' replied the physician.
`Lady Eleanore! — Princess! — Queen of Death!'
cried Jervase Helwyse, advancing three steps into the
chamber. `She is not here! There, on yonder table,
I behold the sparkle of a diamond which once she
wore upon her bosom. There' — and he shuddered
— `there hangs her mantle, on which a dead woman
embroidered a spell of dreadful potency. But where
is the Lady Eleanore!'
Something stirred within the silken curtains of a
canopied bed; and a low moan was uttered, which,
listening intently, Jervase Helwyse began to distinguish
as a woman's voice, complaining dolefully of
tones.
`My throat! — my throat is scorched,' murmured
the voice. `A drop of water!'
`What thing art thou?' said the brain-stricken
youth, drawing near the bed and tearing asunder its
curtains. `Whose voice hast thou stolen for thy murmurs
and miserable petitions, as if Lady Eleanore
could be conscious of mortal infirmity? Fie! Heap
of diseased mortality, why lurkest thou in my lady's
chamber?'
`Oh, Jervase Helwyse,' said the voice — and as it
spoke, the figure contorted itself, struggling to hide its
blasted face — `look not now on the woman you once
loved! The curse of Heaven hath stricken me, because
I would not call man my brother, nor woman
sister. I wrapt myself in PRIDE as in a MANTLE, and
scorned the sympathies of nature; and therefore has
nature made this wretched body the medium of a
dreadful sympathy. You are avenged — they are
all avenged — Nature is avenged — for I am Eleanore
Rochcliffe!'
The malice of his mental disease, the bitterness
lurking at the bottom of his heart, mad as he was, for
a blighted and ruined life, and love that had been
paid with cruel scorn, awoke within the breast of Jervase
Helwyse. He shook his finger at the wretched
girl, and the chamber echoed, the curtains of the bed
were shaken, with his outburst of insane merriment.
`Another triumph for the Lady Eleanore!' he
to be the final victim as herself?'
Impelled by some new fantasy of his crazed intellect,
he snatched the fatal mantle, and rushed from
the chamber and the house. That night, a procession
passed, by torch light, through the streets, bearing
in the midst, the figure of a woman, enveloped
with a richly embroidered mantle; while in advance
stalked Jervase Helwyse, waving the red flag of the
pestilence. Arriving opposite the Province House,
the mob burned the effigy, and a strong wind came
and swept away the ashes. It was said, that, from
that very hour, the pestilence abated, as if its sway
had some mysterious connection, from the first
plague-stroke to the last, with Lady Eleanore's Mantle.
A remarkable uncertainty broods over that unhappy
lady's fate. There is a belief, however, that,
in a certain chamber of this mansion, a female form
may sometimes be duskily discerned, shrinking into
the darkest corner, and muffling her face within an
embroidered mantle. Supposing the legend true, can
this be other than the once proud Lady Eleanore?
Mine host, and the old loyalist, and I, bestowed no
little warmth of applause upon this narrative, in
which we had all been deeply interested; for the
reader can scarcely conceive how unspeakably the
effect of such a tale is heightened, when, as in the
present case, we may repose perfect confidence in
knowing how scrupulous is Mr. Tiffany to settle the
foundation of his facts, I could not have believed him
one whit the more faithfully, had he professed himself
an eye-witness of the doings and sufferings of
poor Lady Eleanore. Some skeptics, it is true,
might demand documentary evidence, or even require
him to produce the embroidered mantle, forgetting that
— Heaven be praised — it was consumed to ashes.
But now the old loyalist, whose blood was warmed
by the good cheer, began to talk, in his turn, about
the traditions of the Province House, and hinted that
he, if it were agreeable, might add a few reminiscences
to our legendary stock. Mr. Tiffany, having
no cause to dread a rival, immediately besought him
to favor us with a specimen; my own entreaties, of
course, were urged to the same effect; and our venerable
guest, well pleased to find willing auditors,
awaited only the return of Mr. Thomas Waite, who
had been summoned forth to provide accommodations
for several new arrivals. Perchance the public —
but be this as its own caprice and ours shall settle the
matter — may read the result in another Tale of the
Province House.
NUMBER IV.
OLD ESTHER DUDLEY.
Our host having resumed the chair, he, as well as
Mr. Tiffany and myself, expressed much eagerness
to be made acquainted with the story to which the
loyalist had alluded. That venerable man first of
all saw fit to moisten his throat with another glass of
wine, and then, turning his face towards our coal fire,
looked steadfastly for a few moments into the depths
of its cheerful glow. Finally, he poured forth a great
fluency of speech. The generous liquid that he had
imbibed, while it warmed his age-chilled blood, likewise
took off the chill from his heart and mind, and
gave him an energy to think and feel, which we
could hardly have expected to find beneath the snows
of fourscore winters. His feelings, indeed, appeared
to me more excitable than those of a younger man;
or, at least, the same degree of feeling manifested
itself by more visible effects, than if his judgment
and will had possessed the potency of meridian life.
melted into tears. When a breath of indignation
swept across his spirit, the blood flushed his withered
visage even to the roots of his white hair; and he
shook his clenched fist at the trio of peaceful auditors,
seeming to fancy enemies in those who felt very
kindly towards the desolate old soul. But ever and
anon, sometimes in the midst of his most earnest talk,
this ancient person's intellect would wander vaguely,
losing its hold of the matter in hand, and groping for
it amid misty shadows. Then would he cackle forth
a feeble laugh, and express a doubt whether his wits
— for by that phrase it pleased our ancient friend to
signify his mental powers — were not getting a little
the worse for wear.
Under these disadvantages, the old loyalist's story
required more revision to render it fit for the public
eye, than those of the series which have preceded it;
nor should it be concealed, that the sentiment and
tone of the affair may have undergone some slight, or
perchance more than slight metamorphosis, in its
transmission to the reader through the medium of a
thorough-going democrat. The tale itself is a mere
sketch, with no involution of plot, nor any great interest
of events, yet possessing, if I have rehearsed it
aright, that pensive influence over the mind, which
the shadow of the old Province House flings upon the
loiterer in its court-yard.
The hour had come — the hour of defeat and humiliation
— when Sir William Howe was to pass over
the threshold of the Province House, and embark, with
no such triumphal ceremonies as he once promised
himself, on board the British fleet. He bade his servants
and military attendants go before him, and lingered
a moment in the loneliness of the mansion, to
quell the fierce emotions that struggled in his bosom
as with a death-throb. Preferable, then, would he
have deemed his fate, had a warrior's death left him a
claim to the narrow territory of a grave, within the
soil which the King had given him to defend. With
an ominous perception that, as his departing footsteps
echoed adown the staircase, the sway of Britain was
passing forever from New England, he smote his
clenched hand on his brow, and cursed the destiny
that had flung the shame of a dismembered empire
upon him.
`Would to God,' cried he, hardly repressing his
tears of rage, `that the rebels were even now at the
door-step! A blood-stain upon the floor should then
bear testimony that the last British ruler was faithful
to his trust.'
The tremulous voice of a woman replied to his
exclamation.
`Heaven's cause and the King's are one,' it said.
`Go forth, Sir William Howe, and trust in Heaven to
bring back a Royal Governor in triumph.'
Subduing at once the passion to which he had
yielded only in the faith that it was unwitnessed, Sir
leaning on a gold-headed staff, was standing betwixt
him and the door. It was old Esther Dudley, who
had dwelt almost immemorial years in this mansion,
until her presence seemed as inseparable from it as
the recollections of its history. She was the daughter
of an ancient and once eminent family, which had
fallen into poverty and decay, and left its last descendant
no resource save the bounty of the King,
nor any shelter except within the walls of the Province
House. An office in the household, with merely
nominal duties, had been assigned to her as a pretext
for the payment of a small pension, the greater
part of which she expended in adorning herself with
an antique magnificence of attire. The claims of
Esther Dudley's gentle blood were acknowledged by
all the successive Governors; and they treated her
with the punctilious courtesy which it was her foible
to demand, not always with success, from a neglectful
world. The only actual share which she assumed in
the business of the mansion, was to glide through its
passages and public chambers, late at night, to see
that the servants had dropped no fire from their flaring
torches, nor left embers crackling and blazing on
the hearths. Perhaps it was this invariable custom of
walking her rounds in the hush of midnight, that
caused the superstition of the times to invest the old
woman with attributes of awe and mystery; fabling
that she had entered the portal of the Province House,
none knew whence, in the train of the first Royal
the last should have departed. But Sir William Howe,
if he ever heard this legend, had forgotten it.
`Mistress Dudley, why are you loitering here?'
asked he, with some severity of tone. `It is my
pleasure to be the last in this mansion of the King.'
`Not so, if it please your Excellency,' answered
the time-stricken woman. `This roof has sheltered
me long. I will not pass from it until they bear me
to the tomb of my forefathers. What other shelter is
there for old Esther Dudley, save the Province House
or the grave?'
`Now Heaven forgive me!' said Sir William Howe
to himself. `I was about to leave this wretched old
creature to starve or beg. Take this, good Mistress
Dudley,' he added, putting a purse into her hands.
`King George's head on these golden guineas is
sterling yet, and will continue so, I warrant you, even
should the rebels crown John Hancock their king.
That purse will buy a better shelter than the Province
House can now afford.'
`While the burthen of life remains upon me, I will
have no other shelter than this roof,' persisted Esther
Dudley, striking her staff upon the floor, with a gesture
that expressed immovable resolve. `And when
your Excellency returns in triumph, I will totter
into the porch to welcome you.'
`My poor old friend!' answered the British General,
— and all his manly and martial pride could no
longer restrain a gush of bitter tears. `This is an evil
hour for you and me. The province which the King
— perchance in disgrace — to return no more.
And you, whose present being is incorporated with the
past — who have seen Governor after Governor, in
stately pageantry, ascend these steps — whose whole
life has been an observance of majestic ceremonies,
and a worship of the King — how will you endure
the change? Come with us! Bid farewell to a land
that has shaken off its allegiance, and live still under
a Royal government, at Halifax.'
`Never, never!' said the pertinacious old dame.
`Here will I abide; and King George shall still have
one true subject in his disloyal province.'
`Beshrew the old fool!' muttered Sir William
Howe, growing impatient of her obstinacy, and
ashamed of the emotion into which he had been betrayed.
`She is the very moral of old-fashioned
prejudice, and could exist nowhere but in this musty
edifice. Well, then, Mistress Dudley, since you will
needs tarry, I give the Province House in charge to
you. Take this key, and keep it safe until myself, or
some other Royal Governor, shall demand it of you.'
Smiling bitterly at himself and her, he took the
heavy key of the Province House, and delivering it
into the old lady's hands, drew his cloak around him
for departure. As the General glanced back at Esther
Dudley's antique figure, he deemed her well-fitted
for such a charge, as being so perfect a representative
of the decayed past — of an age gone by,
with its manners, opinions, faith, and feelings, all
fallen into oblivion or scorn — of what had once
magnificence. Then Sir William Howe strode forth,
smiting his clenched hands together, in the fierce anguish
of his spirit; and old Esther Dudley was left
to keep watch in the lonely Province House, dwelling
there with memory: — and if Hope ever seemed to
flit around her, still it was Memory in disguise.
The total change of affairs that ensued on the departure
of the British troops did not drive the venerable
lady from her strong-hold. There was not, for
many years afterwards, a Governor of Massachusetts;
and the magistrates, who had charge of such matters,
saw no objection to Esther Dudley's residence in the
Province House, especially as they must otherwise
have paid a hireling for taking care of the premises,
which with her was a labor of love. And so they
left her the undisturbed mistress of the old historic
edifice. Many and strange were the fables which the
gossips whispered about her, in all the chimney-corners
of the town. Among the time-worn articles of
furniture that had been left in the mansion, there was
a tall, antique mirror, which was well worthy of a
tale by itself, and perhaps may hereafter be the theme
of one. The gold of its heavily-wrought frame was
tarnished, and its surface so blurred, that the old
woman's figure, whenever she paused before it,
looked indistinct and ghostlike. But it was the general
belief that Esther could cause the Governors of the
overthrown dynasty, with the beautiful ladies who had
once adorned their festivals, the Indian chiefs who
had come up to the Province House to hold council or
severe clergymen — in short, all the pageantry of
gone days — all the figures that ever swept across the
broad plate of glass in former times — she could
cause the whole to reappear, and people the inner
world of the mirror with shadows of old life. Such
legends as these, together with the singularity of her
isolated existence, her age, and the infirmity that
each added winter flung upon her, made Mistress
Dudley the object both of fear and pity; and it was
partly the result of either sentiment, that, amid all the
angry license of the times, neither wrong nor insult
ever fell upon her unprotected head. Indeed, there
was so much haughtiness in her demeanor towards
intruders, among whom she reckoned all persons acting
under the new authorities, that it was really an
affair of no small nerve to look her in the face. And
to do the people justice, stern republicans as they had
now become, they were well content that the old gentlewoman,
in her hoop-petticoat and faded embroidery,
should still haunt the palace of ruined pride and overthrown
power, the symbol of a departed system, embodying
a history in her person. So Esther Dudley
dwelt, year after year, in the Province House, still
reverencing all that others had flung aside, still faithful
to her King, who, so long as the venerable dame
yet held her post, might be said to retain one true
subject in New England, and one spot of the empire
that had been wrested from him.
And did she dwell there in utter loneliness? Rumor
said, not so. Whenever her chill and withered
black slave of Governor Shirley's from the blurred
mirror, and send him in search of guests who had
long ago been familiar in those deserted chambers.
Forth went the sable messenger, with the starlight or
the moonshine gleaming through him, and did his
errand in the burial-grounds, knocking at the iron
doors of tombs, or upon the marble slabs that covered
them, and whispering to those within: `My mistress,
old Esther Dudley, bids you to the Province House
at midnight.' And punctually as the clock of the
Old South told twelve, came the shadows of the
Olivers, the Hutchinsons, the Dudleys, all the grandees
of a bygone generation, gliding beneath the portal
into the well-known mansion, where Esther mingled
with them as if she likewise were a shade.
Without vouching for the truth of such traditions, it is
certain that Mistress Dudley sometimes assembled a
few of the stanch, though crest-fallen old tories,
who had lingered in the rebel town during those days
of wrath and tribulation. Out of a cobwebbed bottle,
containing liquor that a Royal Governor might have
smacked his lips over, they quaffed healths to the
King, and babbled treason to the Republic, feeling as
if the protecting shadow of the throne were still flung
around them. But, draining the last drops of their
liquor, they stole timorously homeward, and answered
not again, if the rude mob reviled them in the
street.
Yet Esther Dudley's most frequent and favored
guests were the children of the town. Towards them
hindered elsewhere from its free course by a thousand
rocky prejudices, lavished itself upon these little
ones. By bribes of gingerbread of her own making,
stamped with a royal crown, she tempted their sunny
sportiveness beneath the gloomy portal of the Province
House, and would often beguile them to spend a
whole play-day there, sitting in a circle round the
verge of her hoop-petticoat, greedily attentive to her
stories of a dead world. And when these little boys
and girls stole forth again from the dark mysterious
mansion, they went bewildered, full of old feelings
that graver people had long ago forgotten, rubbing
their eyes at the world around them as if they had
gone astray into ancient times, and become children
of the past. At home, when their parents asked
where they had loitered such a weary while, and
with whom they had been at play, the children would
talk of all the departed worthies of the Province, as
far back as Governor Belcher, and the haughty dame
of Sir William Phips. It would seem as though they
had been sitting on the knees of these famous personages,
whom the grave had hidden for half a century,
and had toyed with the embroidery of their
rich waistcoats, or roguishly pulled the long curls of
their flowing wigs `But Governor Belcher has been
dead this many a year,' would the mother say to her
little boy. `And did you really see him at the Province
House?' `Oh, yes, dear mother! yes!' the
half dreaming child would answer. `But when old
Esther had done speaking about him he faded away
guests, she led them by the hand into the chambers
of her own desolate heart, and made childhood's fancy
discern the ghosts that haunted there.
Living so continually in her own circle of ideas,
and never regulating her mind by a proper reference
to present things, Esther Dudley appears to have
grown partially creazed. It was found that she had
no right sense of the progress and true state of the
Revolutionary war, but held a constant faith that the
armies of Britain were victorious on every field, and
destined to be ultimately triumphant. Whenever the
town rejoiced for a battle won by Washington, or
Gates, or Morgan, or Greene, the news, in passing
through the door of the Province House, as through
the ivory gate of dreams, became metamorphosed into
a strange tale of the prowess of Howe, Clinton, or
Cornwallis. Sooner or later; it was her invincible
belief, the colonies would be prostrate at the footstool
of the King. Sometimes she seemed to take for
granted that such was already the case. On one occasion,
she startled the town's people by a brilliant
illumination of the Province House, with candles at
every pane of glass, and a transparency of the King's
initials and a crown of light, in the great balcony
window. The figure of the aged woman, in the most
gorgeous of her mildewed velvets and brocades, was
seen passing from casement to casement, until she
paused before the balcony, and flourished a huge key
above her head. Her wrinkled visage actually gleamed
with triumph, as if the soul within her were a festal
lamp.
`What means this blaze of light? What does old
Esther's joy portend?' whispered a spectator. `It
is frightful to see her gliding about the chambers,
and rejoicing there without a soul to bear her company.'
`It is as if she were making merry in a tomb,'
said another.
`Pshaw! It is no such mystery,' observed an old
man, after some brief exercise of memory. `Mistress
Dudley is keeping jubilee for the King of England's
birth-day.'
Then the people laughed aloud, and would have
thrown mud against the blazing transparency of the
King's crown and initials, only that they pitied the
poor old dame, who was so dismally triumphant amid
the wreck and ruin of the system to which she appertained.
Oftentimes it was her custom to climb the weary
staircase that wound upward to the cupola, and thence
strain her dimmed eyesight seaward and countryward,
watching for a British fleet, or for the march of a
grand procession, with the King's banner floating over
it. The passengers in the street below would discern
her anxious visage, and send up a shout — `When
the golden Indian on the Province House shall shoot
his arrow, and when the cock on the Old South spire
shall crow, then look for a Royal Governor again!'
— for this had grown a by-word through the town.
And at last, after long, long years, old Esther Dudley
knew, or perchance she only dreamed, that a Royal
Governor was on the eve of returning to the Province
Howe had committed to her charge. Now it was the
fact, that intelligence bearing some faint analogy to
Esther's version of it, was current among the town's
people. She set the mansion in the best order that
her means allowed, and arraying herself in silks and
tarnished gold, stood long before the blurred mirror to
admire her own magnificence. As she gazed, the
gray and withered lady moved her ashen lips, murmuring
half aloud, talking to shapes that she saw
within the mirror, to shadows of her own fantasies,
to the household friends of memory, and bidding them
rejoice with her, and come forth to meet the Governor.
And while absorbed in this communion, Mistress Dudley
heard the tramp of many footsteps in the street,
and looking out at the window, beheld what she construed
as the Royal Governor's arrival.
`Oh, happy day! oh, blessed, blessed hour!' she
exclaimed. `Let me but bid him welcome within the
portal, and my task in the Province House, and on
earth, is done!'
Then with tottering feet, which age and tremulous
joy caused to tread amiss, she hurried down the grand
staircase, her silks sweeping and rustling as she went,
so that the sound was as if a train of spectral courtiers
were thronging from the dim mirror. And Esther
Dudley fancied, that as soon as the wide door
should be flung open, all the pomp and splendor of
by-gone times would pace majestically into the Province
House, and the gilded tapestry of the past
would be brightened by the sunshine of the present.
unclosed the door — and stept across the threshold.
Advancing up the court-yard, appeared a person of
most dignified mien, with tokens, as Esther interpreted
them, of gentle blood, high rank, and long accustomed
authority, even in his walk and every gesture.
He was richly dressed, but wore a gouty shoe, which,
however, did not lessen the stateliness of his gait.
Around and behind him were people in plain civic
dresses, and two or three war-worn veterans, evidently
officers of rank, arrayed in a uniform of blue and
buff. But Esther Dudley, firm in the belief that had
fastened its roots about her heart, beheld only the
principal personage, and never doubted that this was
the long-looked-for Governor, to whom she was to
surrender up her charge. As he approached, she
involuntarily sank down on her knees, and tremblingly
held forth the heavy key.
`Receive my trust! take it quickly!' cried she;
`for methinks Death is striving to snatch away my
triumph. But he comes too late. Thank Heaven
for this blessed hour! God save King George!'
`That, Madam, is a strange prayer to be offered up
at such a moment,' replied the unknown guest of the
Province House, and couricously removing his hat, he
offered his arm to raise the aged woman. `Yet, in
reverence for your gray hairs and long-kept faith,
Heaven forbid that any here should say you nay.
Over the realms which still acknowledge his sceptre,
God save King George!'
Esther Dudley started to her feet, and hastily
at the stranger; and dimly and doubtfully, as if
suddenly awakened from a dream, her bewildered
eyes half recognised his face. Years ago, she had
known him among the gentry of the province. But
the ban of the King had fallen upon him! How,
then, came the doomed victim here? Proscribed, excluded
from mercy, the monarch's most dreaded and
hated foe, this New England merchant had stood triumphantly
against a kingdom's strength; and his foot
now trode upon humbled Royalty, as he ascended
the steps of the Province House, the people's chosen
Governor of Massachusetts.
`Wretch, wretch that I am!' muttered the old
woman, with such a heart-broken expression, that the
tears gushed from the stranger's eyes. `Have I
bidden a traitor welcome! Come, Death! come
quickly!'
`Alas, venerable lady!' said Governor Hancock,
lending her his support with all the reverence that a
courtier would have shown to a queen. `Your life
has been prolonged until the world has changed
around you. You have treasured up all that time
has rendered worthless — the principles, feelings,
manners, modes of being and acting, which another
generation has flung aside — and you are a symbol of
the past. And I, and these around me — we represent
a new race of men — living no longer in the
past, scarcely in the present — but projecting our
lives forward into the future. Ceasing to model ourselves
on ancestral superstitions, it is our faith and
he, turning to his attendants, `let us reverence, for
the last time, the stately and gorgeous prejudices of
the tottering Past!'
While the Republican Governor spoke, he had continued
to support the helpless form of Esther Dudley;
her weight grew heavier against his arm; but
at last, with a sudden effort to free herself, the ancient
woman sank down beside one of the pillars of
the portal. The key of the Province House fell from
her grasp, and clanked against the stone.
`I have been faithful unto death,' murmured she.
`God save the King!'
`She hath done her office!' said Hancock, solemnly.
`We will follow her reverently to the tomb
of her ancestors; and then, my fellow-citizens, onward
— onward! We are no longer children of the
Past!'
As the old loyalist concluded his narrative, the enthusiasm
which had been fitfully flashing within his
sunken eyes, and quivering across his wrinkled visage,
faded away, as if all the lingering fire of his
soul were extinguished. Just then, too, a lamp upon
the mantelpiece threw out a dying gleam, which vanished
as speedily as it shot upward, compelling our
eyes to grope for one another's features by the dim
glow of the hearth. With such a lingering fire, methought,
with such a dying gleam, had the glory of
the ancient system vanished from the Province House,
And now, again, the clock of the Old South threw its
voice of ages on the breeze, knolling the hourly knell
of the Past, crying out far and wide through the multitudinous
city, and filling our ears, as we sat in the
dusky chamber, with its reverberating depth of tone.
In that same mansion — in that very chamber — what
a volume of history had been told off into hours, by
the same voice that was now trembling in the air.
Many a Governor had heard those midnight accents,
and longed to exchange his stately cares for slumber.
And as for mine host, and Mr. Bela Tiffany, and the
old loyalist, and me, we had babbled about dreams of
the past, until we almost fancied that the clock was
still striking in a by-gone century. Neither of us
would have wondered, had a hoop-petticoated phantom
of Esther Dudley tottered into the chamber,
walking her rounds in the hush of midnight, as of
yore, and motioned us to quench the fading embers
of the fire, and leave the historic precincts to herself
and her kindred shades. But as no such vision was
vouchsafed, I retired unbidden, and would advise Mr.
Tiffany to lay hold of another auditor, being resolved
not to show my face in the Province House for a good
while hence — if ever.
| Twice-told tales | |