IN COLONIAL DAYS
[Illustration:
“Several Personages descending towards the Door”
]
[Illustration]
_In
Colonial
Days_
_By_
_NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE_
_L. C. PAGE & COMPANY_
_Boston_
_PUBLISHERS_
[Illustration: Copyright, 1896, by JOSEPH KNIGHT COMPANY Copyright,
1906, by L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (Incorporated)]
_Copyright, 1896, by_
JOSEPH KNIGHT COMPANY
_Copyright, 1906, by_
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(Incorporated)
Third Impression, March, 1911
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: List of Illustrations by Frank T. Merrill.]
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
“Several Personages descending towards the Door” (_color
plate_) _Frontispiece_
COPYRIGHT iv
LADY READING viii
HOWE’S MASQUERADE (_Half-title_) ix
YE OLD PROVINCE HOUSE x
INITIAL 1
THE INDIAN 2
“THE STORY OF EACH BLUE TILE” 3
“GAGE MAY HAVE BEHELD HIS DISASTROUS VICTORY” 5
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN 6
THE BALCONY 7
“ONE OF THESE WORTHIES—A TALL, LANK FIGURE” 10
COLONEL JOLIFFE AND GRANDDAUGHTER 12
“PLEASE YOUR HONOR, THE FAULT IS NONE OF MINE” 15
“A STOUT MAN, DRESSED IN RICH AND COURTLY ATTIRE” 18
“THE SHAPE OF GAGE, AS TRUE AS IN A LOOKING-GLASS” 22
“A TALL MAN, BOOTED AND WRAPPED IN A MILITARY CLOAK” 23
“HE RECOILED SEVERAL STEPS FROM THE FIGURE” (_color
plate_) _facing_ 24
“A STAGE DRIVER SAT AT ONE OF THE WINDOWS READING A
PENNY PAPER” 27
EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT (_Half-title_) 29
YE YOUNG CAPTAINE OF YE CASTLE TELLS YE STORY OF YE
PICTURE 35
“SOME OF THESE FABLES ARE REALLY AWFUL” (_color plate_) _facing_ 38
ALICE BECKONED TO THE PICTURE 41
“THE CHAIRMAN OF THE SELECTMEN WAS ADDRESSING TO THE
LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR A LONG AND SOLEMN PROTEST” (_color
plate_) _facing_ 42
“SHE SNATCHED AWAY THE SABLE CURTAIN” 45
“_Choking with the Blood of the Boston Massacre_” 47
_Lady Eleanore’s Mantle_ (_Half-title_) 51
YE BEAUTEOUS LADY ELEANORE COMETH TO BOSTON 57
“A PALE YOUNG MAN ... PROSTRATED HIMSELF BESIDE THE
COACH” (_color plate_) _facing_ 59
GOVERNOR SHUTE DESCENDED THE FLIGHT OF STEPS 60
A GATHERING OF RANK, WEALTH, AND BEAUTY 63
“I PRAY YOU TAKE ONE SIP OF THIS HOLY WINE” 67
“KEEP MY IMAGE IN YOUR REMEMBRANCE” 71
“THE COMMUNICATION COULD BE OF NO AGREEABLE IMPORT” 73
“YOUNG MAN, WHAT IS YOUR PURPOSE?” 77
“WHAT THING ART THOU?” 80
“THAT NIGHT A PROCESSION PASSED BY TORCHLIGHT” (_color
plate_) _facing_ 81
OLD ESTHER DUDLEY (_Half-title_) 83
“HEAVEN’S CAUSE AND THE KING’S ARE ONE” 89
“TAKE THIS KEY AND KEEP IT SAFE” 92
“A FEW OF THE STANCH, THOUGH CRESTFALLEN OLD TORIES” 95
THE KING OF ENGLAND’S BIRTHDAY 99
“RECEIVE MY TRUST” (_color plate_) _facing_ 101
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH 104
[Illustration]
[Illustration: HOWE’S MASQUERADE.]
[Illustration: Yͤ Province House.]
IN COLONIAL DAYS
I.
HOWE’S MASQUERADE.
[Illustration: One]
One afternoon, last summer, while walking along Washington Street, my
eye was attracted by a signboard protruding over a narrow archway 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 courtyard. 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 South. The figure has kept this attitude for seventy
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.
[Illustration]
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
freestone steps, fenced in by a balustrade of curiously wrought iron,
ascends from the courtyard 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.
[Illustration:
“The story of each blue tile”
]
It was in this apartment, I presume, that the ancient governors held
their levees, with vice-regal pomp, surrounded by the military men, the
councillors, 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 panelled
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 object is a chimney-piece set round with Dutch
tiles of blue-figured china, representing scenes from Scripture; and,
for aught I know, the lady of Pownall or Bernard may have sat 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 network 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.
[Illustration]
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. It winds through the midst of the
house by flights of 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
framework, 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 mentioned that any jar
or motion was apt to shake down the dust of ages out of the ceiling of
one chamber upon the floor of that beneath it.
[Illustration]
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 visitor 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
some very pleasant gossip about the Province House. 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.
[Illustration]
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
beleaguered town, had been invited to a masked 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 canvas 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 knights of the Conquest, bearded statesmen of Queen Elizabeth,
and high-ruffled ladies of her court, were mingled with characters of
comedy, such as a party-colored Merry Andrew, jingling his cap and
bells; a Falstaff, almost as provocative of laughter as his prototype;
and a Don Quixote, with a bean-pole for a lance and a potlid for a
shield.
[Illustration]
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—purporting 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 scarecrows. 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, eying
these antics sternly and scornfully, at once with a frown and a bitter
smile.
It was an old man, formerly of high station and great repute in the
province, and who had been a 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 granddaughter 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
gayety 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.
[Illustration]
“What new jest has your Excellency in hand?” asked the Rev. 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 Dr. 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 granddaughter of Colonel Joliffe, whose
high spirit had been stung by many taunts against New England,—“perhaps
we are to have a mask 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 be borne
from the portal. After listening a moment, 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 band
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 the street sounded a loud and doleful summons. The
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 skullcap
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.
[Illustration:
“Please your honor.”
“The fault is none of mine.”
]
“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.”
[Illustration]
“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, and
stretching forth his gauntleted hand as if to grasp the old man’s
shoulder, came a tall, soldierlike 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 Dr. 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-in-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, who was governor at ninety, or thereabouts.
The next is Sir Edmund Andros, a tyrant, as any New England schoolboy
will tell you; and therefore the people cast him down from his high seat
into a dungeon. Then comes Sir William Phipps, 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 coat of shaggy cloth,
lined with silken velvet; he 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 Dr. 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
Dr. 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 dusky: 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 recognized 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 Dr. 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 Pownall, 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 woe. 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 epaulets and other insignia of rank were those of a
general officer; and something in his mien reminded the beholders of one
who had recently been master of the Province House, and chief of all the
land.
[Illustration]
“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.”
[Illustration]
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 was observed to be a tall man, booted and
wrapped 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 recognized 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 farther!”
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 at 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 passed on; but reaching the threshold, with his
back towards the spectators, he was seen to stamp his foot and shake his
clinched 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.
[Illustration:
“He recoiled Several Steps from the Figure.”
]
“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
granddaughter’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 clinched hands into the air, and stamping his
iron-shod boots upon the broad freestone 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 emblem, I suppose, of the nebulous obscurity of his tale.
Moreover, my gorgeous fantasies were wofully disturbed by the rattling
of the spoon in a tumbler of whiskey punch, which Mr. Thomas Waite was
mingling for a customer. Nor did it add to the picturesque appearance of
the panelled 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 chambermaid, 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.
[Illustration:
A stage driver sat at one of the windows reading a penny paper
]
[Illustration: EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT]
II.
EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT.
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 gaslights 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 gaslights 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 courtyard, 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 made 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?”
[Illustration:
y^e young captaine of y^e castle tells y^e story of y^e picture.
]
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.”
[Illustration:
“Some of these fables are really awful”
]
“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.”