LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE
I
HOWE'S MASQUERADE
One afternoon, last summer, while walking along WashingtonStreet, my eye was attracted by a signboard protruding over anarrow archway, nearly opposite the Old South Church. The signrepresented the front of a stately edifice, which was designatedas the "OLD PROVINCE HOUSE, kept by Thomas Waite." I was glad tobe thus reminded of a purpose, long entertained, of visiting andrambling over the mansion of the old royal governors ofMassachusetts; and entering the arched passage, which penetratedthrough the middle of a brick row of shops, a few stepstransported me from the busy heart of modern Boston into a smalland secluded courtyard. One side of this space was occupied bythe square front of the Province House, three stories high, andsurmounted by a cupola, on the top of which a gilded Indian wasdiscernible, with his bow bent and his arrow on the string, as ifaiming at the weathercock on the spire of the Old South. Thefigure has kept this attitude for seventy years or more, eversince good Deacon Drowne, a cunning carver of wood, firststationed him on his long sentinel's watch over the city.
The Province House is constructed of brick, which seems recentlyto have been overlaid with a coat of light-colored paint. Aflight of red freestone steps, fenced in by a balustrade ofcuriously wrought iron, ascends from the court-yard to thespacious porch, over which is a balcony, with an iron balustradeof similar pattern and workmanship to that beneath. These lettersand figures--16 P.S. 79--are wrought into the iron work of thebalcony, and probably express the date of the edifice, with theinitials of its founder's name. A wide door with double leavesadmitted me into the hall or entry, on the right of which is theentrance to the bar-room.
It was in this apartment, I presume, that the ancient governorsheld their levees, with vice-regal pomp, surrounded by themilitary men, the councillors, the judges, and other officers ofthe crown, while all the loyalty of the province thronged to dothem honor. But the room, in its present condition, cannot boasteven of faded magnificence. The panelled wainscot is covered withdingy paint, and acquires a duskier hue from the deep shadow intowhich the Province House is thrown by the brick block that shutsit in from Washington Street. A ray of sunshine never visits thisapartment any more than the glare of the festal torches, whichhave been extinguished from the era of the Revolution. The mostvenerable and ornamental object is a chimney-piece set round withDutch tiles of blue-figured China, representing scenes fromScripture; and, for aught I know, the lady of Pownall or Bernardmay have sat beside this fireplace, and told her children thestory of each blue tile. A bar in modern style, well replenishedwith decanters, bottles, cigar boxes, and net-work bags oflemons, and provided with a beer pump, and a soda fount, extendsalong one side of the room. At my entrance, an elderly person wassmacking his lips with a zest which satisfied me that the cellarsof the Province House still hold good liquor, though doubtless ofother vintages than were quaffed by the old governors. Aftersipping a glass of port sangaree, prepared by the skilful handsof Mr. Thomas Waite, I besought that worthy successor andrepresentative of so many historic personages to conduct me overtheir time honored mansion.
He readily complied; but, to confess the truth, I was forced todraw strenuously upon my imagination, in order to find aught thatwas interesting in a house which, without its historicassociations, would have seemed merely such a tavern as isusually favored by the custom of decent city boarders, andold-fashioned country gentlemen. The chambers, which wereprobably spacious in former times, are now cut up by partitions,and subdivided into little nooks, each affording scanty room forthe narrow bed and chair and dressing-table of a single lodger.The great staircase, however, may be termed, without muchhyperbole, a feature of grandeur and magnificence. It windsthrough the midst of the house by flights of broad steps, eachflight terminating in a square landing-place, whence the ascentis continued towards the cupola. A carved balustrade, freshlypainted in the lower stories, but growing dingier as we ascend,borders the staircase with its quaintly twisted and intertwinedpillars, from top to bottom. Up these stairs the military boots,or perchance the gouty shoes, of many a governor have trodden, asthe wearers mounted to the cupola, which afforded them so wide aview over their metropolis and the surrounding country. Thecupola is an octagon, with several windows, and a door openingupon the roof. From this station, as I pleased myself withimagining, Gage may have beheld his disastrous victory on BunkerHill (unless one of the tri-mountains intervened), and Howe havemarked the approaches of Washington's besieging army; althoughthe buildings since erected in the vicinity have shut out almostevery object, save the steeple of the Old South, which seemsalmost within arm's length. Descending from the cupola, I pausedin the garret to observe the ponderous white-oak framework, somuch more massive than the frames of modern houses, and therebyresembling an antique skeleton. The brick walls, the materials ofwhich were imported from Holland, and the timbers of the mansion,are still as sound as ever; but the floors and other interiorparts 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 hostmentioned that any jar or motion was apt to shake down the dustof ages out of the ceiling of one chamber upon the floor of thatbeneath it.
We stepped forth from the great front window into the balcony,where, in old times, it was doubtless the custom of the king'srepresentative to Show himself to a loyal populace, requitingtheir huzzas and tossed-up hats with stately bendings of hisdignified person. In those days the front of the Province Houselooked upon the street; and the whole site now occupied by thebrick range of stores, as well as the present court-yard, waslaid out in grass plats, overshadowed by trees and bordered by awrought-iron fence. Now, the old aristocratic edifice hides itstime-worn visage behind an upstart modern building; at one of theback windows I observed some pretty tailoresses, sewing andchatting and laughing, with now and then a careless glancetowards the balcony. Descending thence, we again entered thebar-room, where the elderly gentleman above mentioned, the smackof whose lips had spoken so favorably for Mr. Waite's goodliquor, was still lounging in his chair. He seemed to be, if nota lodger, at least a familiar visitor of the house, who might besupposed to have his regular score at the bar, his summer seat atthe open window, and his prescriptive corner at the winter'sfireside. Being of a sociable aspect, I ventured to address himwith a remark calculated to draw forth his historicalreminiscences, if any such were in his mind; and it gratified meto discover, that, between memory and tradition, the oldgentleman was really possessed of some very pleasant gossip aboutthe Province House. The portion of his talk which chieflyinterested me was the outline of the following legend. Heprofessed to have received it at one or two removes from aneye-witness; but this derivation, together with the lapse oftime, must have afforded opportunities for many variations of thenarrative; so that despairing of literal and absolute truth, Ihave not scrupled to make such further changes as seemedconducive to the reader's profit and delight.
At one of the entertainments given at the ProvinceHouse, during the latter part of the siege of Boston, therepassed a scene which has never yet been satisfactorily explained.The officers of the British army, and the loyal gentry of theprovince, most of whom were collected within the beleagueredtown, had been invited to a masked ball; for it was the policy ofSir William Howe to hide the distress and danger of the period,and the desperate aspect of the siege, under an ostentation offestivity. The spectacle of this evening, if the oldest membersof the provincial court circle might be believed, was the mostgay and gorgeous affair that had occurred in the annals of thegovernment. The brilliantly-lighted apartments were thronged withfigures that seemed to have stepped from the dark canvas ofhistoric portraits, or to have flitted forth from the magic pagesof romance, or at least to have flown hither from one of theLondon theatres, without a change of garments. Steeled knights ofthe Conquest, bearded statesmen of Queen Elizabeth, andhigh-ruffled ladies of her court, were mingled with characters ofcomedy, such as a party-
colored Merry Andrew, jingling his capand bells; a Falstaff, almost as provocative of laughter as hisprototype; and a Don Quixote, with a bean pole for a lance, and apot lid for a shield.
But the broadest merriment was excited by a group of figuresridiculously dressed in old regimentals, which seemed to havebeen purchased at a military rag fair, or pilfered from somereceptacle of the cast-off clothes of both the French and Britisharmies. Portions of their attire had probably been worn at thesiege of Louisburg, and the coats of most recent cut might havebeen rent and tattered by sword, ball, or bayonet, as long ago asWolfe's victory. One of these worthies--a tall, lank figure,brandishing a rusty sword of immense longitude--purported to beno less a personage than General George Washington; and the otherprincipal officers of the American army, such as Gates, Lee,Putnam, Schuyler, Ward and Heath, were represented by similarscarecrows. An interview in the mock heroic style, between therebel warriors and the British commander-in-chief, was receivedwith immense applause, which came loudest of all from theloyalists of the colony. There was one of the guests, however,who stood apart, eyeing these antics sternly and scornfully, atonce with a frown and a bitter smile.
It was an old man, formerly of high station and great repute inthe province, and who had been a very famous soldier in his day.Some surprise had been expressed that a person of ColonelJoliffe's known Whig principles, though now too old to take anactive part in the contest, should have remained in Boston duringthe siege, and especially that he should consent to show himselfin the mansion of Sir William Howe. But thither he had come, witha fair granddaughter under his arm; and there, amid all the mirthand buffoonery, stood this stern old figure, the best sustainedcharacter in the masquerade, because so well representing theantique spirit of his native land. The other guests affirmed thatColonel Joliffe's black puritanical scowl threw a shadow roundabout him; although in spite of his sombre influence their gayetycontinued to blaze higher, like--(an ominous comparison)--theflickering brilliancy of a lamp which has but a little while toburn. Eleven strokes, full half an hour ago, had pealed from theclock of the Old South, when a rumor was circulated among thecompany that some new spectacle or pageant was about to beexhibited, which should put a fitting close to the splendidfestivities of the night.
"What new jest has your Excellency in hand?" asked the Rev.Mather Byles, whose Presbyterian scruples had not kept him fromthe entertainment. "Trust me, sir, I have already laughed morethan beseems my cloth at your Homeric confabulation with yonderragamuffin General of the rebels. One other such fit ofmerriment, and I must throw off my clerical wig and band."
"Not so, good Doctor Byles," answered Sir William Howe; "if mirthwere a crime, you had never gained your doctorate in divinity. Asto this new foolery, I know no more about it than yourself;perhaps not so much. Honestly now, Doctor, have you not stirredup the sober brains of some of your countrymen to enact a scenein our masquerade?"
"Perhaps," slyly remarked the granddaughter of Colonel Joliffe,whose high spirit had been stung by many taunts against NewEngland,--"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 inthis good town--and Glory, with a wreath for his Excellency'sbrow."
Sir William Howe smiled at words which he would have answeredwith one of his darkest frowns had they been uttered by lips thatwore a beard. He was spared the necessity of a retort, by asingular interruption. A sound of music was heard without thehouse, as if proceeding from a full band of military instrumentsstationed in the street, playing not such a festal strain as wassuited to the occasion, but a slow funeral march. The drumsappeared to be muffled, and the trumpets poured forth a wailingbreath, which at once hushed the merriment of the auditors,filling all with wonder, and some with apprehension. The ideaoccurred to many that either the funeral procession of some greatpersonage had halted in front of the Province House, or that acorpse, in a velvet-covered and gorgeously-decorated coffin, wasabout to be borne from the portal. After listening a moment, SirWilliam Howe called, in a stern voice, to the leader of themusicians, who had hitherto enlivened the entertainment with gayand lightsome melodies. The man was drum-major to one of theBritish regiments.
"Dighton," demanded the general, "what means this foolery? Bidyour band silence that dead march--or, by my word, they shallhave sufficient cause for their lugubrious strains! Silence it,sirrah!"
"Please your honor," answered the drum-major, whose rubicundvisage had lost all its color, "the fault is none of mine. I andmy band are all here together, and I question whether there be aman of us that could play that march without book. I never heardit but once before, and that was at the funeral of his lateMajesty, King George the Second."
"Well, well!" said Sir William Howe, recovering hiscomposure--"it is the prelude to some masquerading antic. Let itpass."
A figure now presented itself, but among the many fantastic masksthat were dispersed through the apartments none could tellprecisely from whence it came. It was a man in an old-fashioneddress of black serge and having the aspect of a steward orprincipal domestic in the household of a nobleman or greatEnglish landholder. This figure advanced to the outer door of themansion, and throwing both its leaves wide open, withdrew alittle to one side and looked back towards the grand staircase asif expecting some person to descend. At the same time the musicin the street sounded a loud and doleful summons. The eyes of SirWilliam Howe and his guests being directed to the staircase,there appeared, on the uppermost landing-place that wasdiscernible from the bottom, several personages descendingtowards the door. The foremost was a man of stern visage, wearinga steeple-crowned hat and a skull-cap beneath it; a dark cloak,and huge wrinkled boots that came half-way up his legs. Under hisarm was a rolled-up banner, which seemed to be the banner ofEngland, but strangely rent and torn; he had a sword in his righthand, and grasped a Bible in his left. The next figure was ofmilder aspect, yet full of dignity, wearing a broad ruff, overwhich descended a beard, a gown of wrought velvet, and a doubletand hose of black satin. He carried a roll of manuscript in hishand. Close behind these two came a young man of very strikingcountenance and demeanor, with deep thought and contemplation onhis brow, and perhaps a flash of enthusiasm in his eye. Hisgarb, like that of his predecessors, was of an antique fashion,and there was a stain of blood upon his ruff. In the same groupwith these were three or four others, all men of dignity andevident command, and bearing themselves like personages who wereaccustomed to the gaze of the multitude. It was the idea of thebeholders that these figures went to join the mysterious funeralthat had halted in front of the Province House; yet thatsupposition seemed to be contradicted by the air of triumph withwhich they waved their hands, as they crossed the threshold andvanished through the portal.
"In the devil's name what is this?" muttered Sir William Howe toa gentleman beside him; "a procession of the regicide judges ofKing Charles the martyr?"
"These," said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence almost for thefirst time that evening,--"these, if I interpret them aright, arethe Puritan governors--the rulers of the old original Democracyof Massachusetts. Endicott, with the banner from which he hadtorn 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?" askedMiss Joliffe.
"Because, in after years," answered her grandfather, "he laiddown the wisest head in England upon the block for the principlesof liberty."
"Will not your Excellency order out the guard?" whispered LordPercy, who, with other British officers, had now assembled roundthe General. "There may be a plot under this mummery."
"Tush! we have nothing to fear," carelessly replied Sir WilliamHowe. "There can be no worse treason in the matter than a jest,and that somewhat of the dullest. Even were it a sharp and bitterone, our best policy would be to laugh it off. See--here comemore of these gentry."
Another group of characters had now partly descended thest
aircase. The first was a venerable and white-bearded patriarch,who cautiously felt his way downward with a staff. Treadinghastily behind him, and stretching forth his gauntleted hand asif to grasp the old man's shoulder, came a tall, soldier-likefigure, equipped with a plumed cap of steel, a brightbreastplate, 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 ofa seaman's walk, and chancing to stumble on the staircase, hesuddenly grew wrathful, and was heard to mutter an oath. He wasfollowed by a noble-looking personage in a curled wig, such asare represented in the portraits of Queen Anne's time andearlier; and the breast of his coat was decorated with anembroidered star. While advancing to the door, he bowed to theright hand and to the left, in a very gracious and insinuatingstyle; but as he crossed the threshold, unlike the early Puritangovernors, he seemed to wring his hands with sorrow.
"Prithee, play the part of a chorus, good Doctor Byles," said SirWilliam 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, hasbeen 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 ofthis land, and shall greet yet another with an old man's blessingere I die. But we talk of these figures. I take the venerablepatriarch to be Bradstreet, the last of the Puritans, who wasgovernor at ninety, or thereabouts. The next is Sir EdmundAndros, a tyrant, as any New England school-boy will tell you;and therefore the people cast him down from his high seat into adungeon. Then comes Sir William Phipps, shepherd, cooper,sea-captain, and governor--may many of his countrymen rise ashigh from as low an origin! Lastly, you saw the gracious Earl ofBellamont, 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 mightfancy that the ghosts of these ancient governors had beensummoned to form the funeral procession of royal authority in NewEngland."
Several other figures were now seen at the turn of the staircase.The one in advance had a thoughtful, anxious, and somewhat craftyexpression of face, and in spite of his loftiness of manner,which was evidently the result both of an ambitious spirit and oflong continuance in high stations, he seemed not incapable ofcringing to a greater than himself. A few steps behind came anofficer in a scarlet and embroidered uniform, cut in a fashionold enough to have been worn by the Duke of Marlborough. His nosehad a rubicund tinge, which, together with the twinkle of hiseye, might have marked him as a lover of the wine cup and goodfellowship; notwithstanding which tokens he appeared ill at ease,and often glanced around him as if apprehensive of some secretmischief. Next came a portly gentleman, wearing a coat of shaggycloth, lined with silken velvet; he had sense, shrewdness, andhumor in his face, and a folio volume under his arm; but hisaspect was that of a man vexed and tormented beyond all patience,and harassed almost to death. He went hastily down, and wasfollowed by a dignified person, dressed in a purple velvet suitwith very rich embroidery; his demeanor would have possessed muchstateliness, only that a grievous fit of the gout compelled himto hobble from stair to stair, with contortions of face and body.When Dr. Byles beheld this figure on the staircase, he shiveredas with an ague, but continued to watch him steadfastly, untilthe gouty gentleman had reached the threshold, made a gesture ofanguish and despair, and vanished into the outer gloom, whitherthe 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 airof indifference. "But who were the three that preceded him?"
"Governor Dudley, a cunning politician--yet his craft oncebrought him to a prison," replied Colonel Joliffe. "GovernorShute, formerly a Colonel under Marlborough, and whom the peoplefrightened out of the province; and learned Governor Burnet, whomthe legislature tormented into a mortal fever."
"Methinks they were miserable men, these royal governors ofMassachusetts," observed Miss Joliffe. "Heavens, how dim thelight grows!"
It was certainly a fact that the large lamp which illuminated thestaircase now burned dim and duskily: so that several figures,which passed hastily down the stairs and went forth from theporch, appeared rather like shadows than persons of fleshlysubstance. Sir William Howe and his guests stood at the doors ofthe contiguous apartments, watching the progress of this singularpageant, with various emotions of anger, contempt, orhalf-acknowledged fear, but still with an anxious curiosity. Theshapes which now seemed hastening to join the mysteriousprocession were recognized rather by striking peculiarities ofdress, or broad characteristics of manner, than by anyperceptible resemblance of features to their prototypes. Theirfaces, indeed, were invariably kept in deep shadow. But DoctorByles, and other gentlemen who had long been familiar with thesuccessive rulers of the province, were heard to whisper thenames of Shirley, of Pownall, of Sir Francis Bernard, and of thewell-remembered Hutchinson; thereby confessing that the actors,whoever they might be, in this spectral march of governors, hadsucceeded in putting on some distant portraiture of the realpersonages. As they vanished from the door, still did theseshadows toss their arms into the gloom of night, with a dreadexpression of woe. Following the mimic representative ofHutchinson came a military figure, holding before his face thecocked hat which he had taken from his powdered head; but hisepaulettes and other insignia of rank were those of a generalofficer, and something in his mien reminded the beholders of onewho had recently been master of the Province House, and chief ofall the land.
"The shape of Gage, as true as in a looking-glass," exclaimedLord Percy, turning pale.
"No, surely," cried Miss Joliffe, laughing hysterically; "itcould not be Gage, or Sir William would have greeted his oldcomrade in arms! Perhaps he will not suffer the next to passunchallenged."
"Of that be assured, young lady," answered Sir William Howe,fixing his eyes, with a very marked expression, upon theimmovable visage of her grandfather. "I have long enough delayedto pay the ceremonies of a host to these departing guests. Thenext that takes his leave shall receive due courtesy."
A wild and dreary burst of music came through the open door. Itseemed as if the procession, which had been gradually filling upits ranks, were now about to move, and that this loud peal of thewailing trumpets, and roll of the muffled drums, were a call tosome loiterer to make haste. Many eyes, by an irresistibleimpulse, were turned upon Sir William Howe, as if it were he whomthe dreary music summoned to the funeral or departed power.
"See!--here comes the last!" whispered Miss Joliffe, pointing hertremulous finger to the staircase.
A figure had come into view as if descending the stairs; althoughso dusky was the region whence it emerged, some of the spectatorsfancied that they had seen this human shape suddenly mouldingitself amid the gloom. Downward the figure came, with a statelyand martial tread, and reaching the lowest stair was observed tobe a tall man, booted and wrapped in a military cloak, which wasdrawn up around the face so as to meet the flapped brim of alaced hat. The features, therefore, were completely hidden. Butthe British officers deemed that they had seen that militarycloak before, and even recognized the frayed embroidery on thecollar, as well as the gilded scabbard of a sword which protrudedfrom the folds of the cloak, and glittered in a vivid gleam oflight. Apart from these trifling particulars, there werecharacteristics of gait and bearing which impelled the wonderingguests to glance from the shrouded figure to Sir William Howe, asif to satisfy themselves that their host had not suddenlyvanished from the midst of them.
With a dark flush of wrath upon his brow they saw the Generaldraw his sword and advance to meet the figure in the cloak beforethe 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 swordwhich was pointed at his breast, made a solemn pause and loweredthe cape of the cloak from about his face, yet not sufficientlyfor the spectators to catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howehad evidently seen enough. The sternness of his countenance gaveplace to a look of wild amazement, if not horror, while herecoiled several steps from the figure and let fall his swordupon the floor. The martial shape again drew the cloak about his,features and passed on; but reaching the threshold, with his backtowards the spectators, he was seen to stamp his foot and shakehis clinched hands in the air. It was afterwards affirmed thatSir William Howe had repeated that selfsame gesture of rage andsorrow, 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 strainswere mingled with the knell of midnight from the steeple of theOld South, and with the roar of artillery, which announced thatthe beleaguering army of Washington had intrenched itself upon anearer height than before. As the deep boom of the cannon smoteupon his ear, Colonel Joliffe raised himself to the full heightof his aged form, and smiled sternly on the British General.
"Would your Excellency inquire further into the mystery of thepageant?" said he.
"Take care of your gray head!" cried Sir William Howe, fiercely,though with a quivering lip. "It has stood too long on atraitor's shoulders!"
"You must make haste to chop it off, then," calmly replied theColonel; "for a few hours longer, and not all the power of SirWilliam Howe, nor of his master, shall cause one of these grayhairs to fall. The empire of Britain in this ancient province isat its last gasp to-night;--almost while I speak it is a deadcorpse;--and methinks the shadows of the old governors are fitmourners at its funeral!"
With these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his cloak, and drawinghis granddaughter's arm within his own, retired from the lastfestival that a British ruler ever held in the old province ofMassachusetts Bay. It was supposed that the Colonel and the younglady possessed some secret intelligence in regard to themysterious pageant of that night. However this might be, suchknowledge has never become general. The actors in the scene havevanished into deeper obscurity than even that wild Indian bandwho scattered the cargoes of the tea ships on the waves, andgained 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 theghosts of the ancient governors of Massachusetts still glidethrough the portal of the Province House. And, last of all, comesa figure shrouded in a military cloak, tossing his clinched handsinto the air, and stamping his iron-shod boots upon the broadfreestone steps, with a semblance of feverish despair, butwithout the sound of a foot-tramp.
When the truth-telling accents of the elderlygentleman were hushed, I drew a long breath and looked round theroom, striving, with the best energy of my imagination, to throwa tinge of romance and historic grandeur over the realities ofthe scene. But my nostrils snuffed up a scent of cigar smoke,clouds of which the narrator had emitted by way of visibleemblem, I suppose, of the nebulous obscurity of his tale.Moreover, my gorgeous fantasies were wofully disturbed by therattling of the spoon in a tumbler of whiskey punch, which Mr.Thomas Waite was mingling for a customer. Nor did it add to thepicturesque appearance of the panelled walls that the slate ofthe Brookline stage was suspended against them, instead of thearmorial escutcheon of some far-descended governor. Astage-driver sat at one of the windows, reading a penny paper ofthe day--the Boston Times--and presenting a figure which couldnowise be brought into any picture of "Times in Boston" seventyor a hundred years ago. On the window seat lay a bundle, neatlydone up in brown paper, the direction of which I had the idlecuriosity to read. "MISS SUSAN HUGGINS, at the PROVINCE HOUSE." Apretty chambermaid, no doubt. In truth, it is desperately hardwork, when we attempt to throw the spell of hoar antiquity overlocalities with which the living world, and the day that ispassing over us, have aught to do. Yet, as I glanced at thestately staircase down which the procession of the old governorshad descended, and as I emerged through the venerable portalwhence their figures had preceded me, it gladdened me to beconscious of a thrill of awe. Then, diving through the narrowarchway, a few strides transported me into the densest throng ofWashington Street.
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