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 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 comes 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, soldier-like figure, equipped with a plumed cap
of steel, a bright breast-plate, 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, 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 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 recognized rather by striking peculiarities of dress, of
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 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 epaulettes 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.
"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 the 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 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 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 selfsame 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
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.
THE BIRTHMARK
In the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science, an
eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy, who not long
before our story opens had made experience of a spiritual affinity more
attractive than any chemical one. He had left his laboratory to the care
of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the furnace smoke,
washed the stain of acids from his fingers, and persuaded a beautiful
woman to become his wife. In those days when the comparatively recent
discovery of electricity and other kindred mysteries of Nature seemed to
open paths into the region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love
of science to rival the love of woman in its depth and absorbing energy.
The higher intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and even the heart
might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of
their ardent votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful
intelligence to another, until the philosopher should lay his hand on
the secret of creative force and perhaps make new worlds for himself. We
know not whether Aylmer possessed this degree of faith in man's ultimate
control over Nature. He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly
to scientific studies ever to be weaned from them by any second passion.
His love for his young wife might prove the stronger of the two; but it
could only be by intertwining itself with his love of science, and
uniting the strength of the latter to his own.
Such a union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly
remarkable consequences and a deeply impressive moral. One day, very
soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife with a trouble
in his countenance that grew stronger until he spoke.
"Georgiana," said he, "has it never occurred to you that the mark on
your cheek might be removed?"
"No, indeed," said she, smiling; but perceiving the seriousness of his
manner, she blushed deeply. "To tell you the truth it has been so often
called a charm that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so."
"Ah, upon another face perhaps it might," replied her husband; "but
never on yours. No, dearest Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect from
the hand of Nature that this slightest possible defect, which we
hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty, shocks me, as being the
visible mark of earthly imperfection."
"Shocks you, my husband!" cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at first
reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into tears. "Then why
did you take me from my mother's side? You cannot love what shocks you!"
To explain this conversation it must be mentioned that in the centre of
Georgiana's left cheek there was a singular mark, deeply interwoven, as
it were, with the texture and substance of her face. In the usual state
of her complexion--a healthy though delicate bloom--the mark wore a tint
of deeper crimson, which imperfectly defined its shape amid the
surrounding rosiness. When she blushed it gradually became more
indistinct, and finally vanished amid the triumphant rush of blood that
bathed the whole cheek with its brilliant glow. But if any shifting
motion caused her to turn pale there was the mark again, a crimson stain
upon the snow, in what Aylmer sometimes deemed an almost fearful
distinctness. Its shape bore not a little similarity to the human hand,
though of the smallest pygmy size. Georgiana's lovers were wont to say
that some fairy at her birth hour had laid her tiny hand upon the
infant's cheek, and left this impress there in token of the magic
endowments that were to give her such sway over all hearts. Many a
desperate swain would have risked life for the privilege of pressing his
lips to the mysterious hand. It must not be concealed, however, that the
impression wrought by this fairy sign manual varied exceedingly,
according to the difference of temperament in the beholders. Some
fastidious persons--but they were exclusively of her own sex--affirmed
that the bloody hand, as they chose to call it, quite destroyed the
effect of Georgiana's beauty, and rendered her countenance even hideous.
But it would be as reasonable to say that one of those small blue stains
which sometimes occur in the purest statuary marble would convert the
Eve of Powers to a monster. Masculine observers, if the birthmark did
not heighten their admiration, contented themselves with wishing it
away, that the world might possess one living specimen of ideal
loveliness without the semblance of a flaw. After his marriage,--for he
thought little or nothing of the matter before,--Aylmer discovered that
this was the case with himself.
Had she been less beautiful,--if Envy's self could have found aught else
to sneer at,--he might have felt his affection heightened by the
prettiness of this mimic hand, now vaguely portrayed, now lost, now
stealing forth again and glimmering to and fro with every pulse of
emotion that throbbed within her heart; but seeing her otherwise so
perfect, he found this one defect grow more and more intolerable with
every moment of their united lives. It was the fatal flaw of humanity
which Nature, in one shape or another, stamps ineffaceably on all her
productions, either to imply that they are temporary and finite, or that
their perfection must be wrought by toil and pain. The crimson hand
expressed the ineludible gripe in which mortality clutches the highest
and purest of earthly mould, degrading them into kindred with the
lowest, and even with the very brutes, like whom their visible frames
return to dust. In this manner, selecting it as the symbol of his wife's
liability to sin, sorrow, decay, and death, Aylmer's sombre imagination
was not long in rendering the birthmark a frightful object, causing him
more trouble and horror than ever Georgiana's beauty, whether of soul or
sense, had given him delight.
At all the seasons which should have been their happiest, he invariably
and without intending it, nay, in spite of a purpose to the contrary,
reverted to this one disastrous topic. Trifling as it at first appeared,
it so connected itself with innumerable trains of thought and modes of
feeling that it became the central point of all. With the morning
twilight Aylmer opened his eyes upon his wife's face and recognized the
symbol of imperfection; and when they sat together at the evening hearth
his eyes wandered stealthily to her cheek, and beheld, flickering with
the blaze of the wood fire, the spectral hand that wrote mortality where
he would fain have worshipped. Georgiana soon learned to shudder at his
gaze. It needed but a glance with the peculiar expression that his face
often wore to change the roses of her cheek into a deathlike paleness,
amid which the crimson hand was brought strongly out, like a bas-relief
of ruby on the whitest marble.
Late one night when the lights were growing dim, so as hardly to betray
the stain on the poor wife's cheek, she, herself, for the first time,
voluntarily took up the subject.
"Do you remember, my dear Aylmer," said she, with a feeble attempt at a
smile, "have you any recollection of a dream last night about this
odious hand?"
"None! none whatever!" replied Aylmer, starting; but then he added, in a
dry, cold tone, affected for the sake of concealing the real depth of
his emotion, "I might well dream of it; for before I fell asleep it had
taken a pretty firm hold of my fancy."
"And you did dream of it?" continued Georgiana, hastily; for she dreaded
lest a gush of tears should interrupt what she had to say. "A terrible
dream! I wonder that you can forget it. Is it possible to forget this
one expression?--'It is in her heart now; we must have it out!' Reflect,
my husband; for by all means I would have you recall that dream."
The mind is in a sad state when Sleep, the all-involving, cannot confine
her spectres within the dim region of her sway, but suffers them to
break forth, affrighting this actual life with secrets that perchance
belong to a deeper one. Aylmer now remembered his dream. He had fancied
himself with his servant Aminadab, attempting an operation for the
removal of the birthmark; but the deeper went the knife, the deeper sank
the hand, until at length its tiny grasp appeared to have caught hold of
Georgiana's heart; whence, however, her husband was inexorably resolved
to cut or wrench it away.