The old legendary guest of the Province House abode in my
remembrance from midsummer till January. One idle evening last
winter, confident that he would be found in the snuggest corner
of the bar-room, 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 warehouses from the
most populous quarters of the town. The buildings stood insulated
and independent, not, as now, 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 lifetime,
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 bedtime."
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
special good fire of anthracite, compelling clouds of smoke from
a corpulent cigar. He recognized 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 apiece of whiskey 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 of which
was as black as ebony, and the canvas itself 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
mantel-piece 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 armchair, 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 creature, who,
though a native of New England, had 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 heirloom 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 remnants of black silk, indicating that a veil
had 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 fables have a
moral? And, methinks, if the visage 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 of courtier-like
ceremonial. In attendance, likewise, 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 forefathers. The more to be
desired is it, therefore, 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 eyes, with the other snatched
away the sable curtain 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 inclosed 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 lifelike. The whole portrait started so
distinctly out of the background, 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 by the crushing
weight of ignominy. The 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.
"'T would 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 a while," 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 yonder senseless
picture cried 'Forbear!'--it 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, sad 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 daydawn, 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 of the
scene, as if an evil spirit had appeared 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 burden 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 the
human voice, or thundering laughter, or heavy 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.