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One afternoon, last summer, while walking along
Washington street, my eye was attracted by a signboard
protruding over a narrow arch-way, nearly opposite
the Old South Church. The sign represented
the front of a stately edifice, which was designated as
the “Old Province House, kept by Thomas Waite.”
I was glad to be thus reminded of a purpose, long entertained,
of visiting and rambling over the mansion
of the old royal governors of Massachusetts; and entering
the arched passage, which penetrated through
the middle of a brick row of shops, a few steps transported
me from the busy heart of modern Boston, into
a small and secluded court-yard. One side of this
space was occupied by the square front of the Province
House, three stories high, and surmounted by a cupola,
on the top of which a glided 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

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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.

The Province House is constructed of brick, which
seems recently to have been overlaid with a coat of
light colored paint. A flight of red free-stone steps,
fenced in by a balustrade of curiously wrought iron,
ascends from the court-yard to the spacious porch,
over which is a balcony, with an iron balustrade of
similar pattern and workmanship to that beneath.
These letters and figures—16 P.S. 79—are wrought
into the iron work of the balcony, and probably express
the date of the edifice, with the initials of its
founder's name. A wide door with double leaves
admitted me into the hall or entry, on the right of
which is the entrance to the bar-room.

It was in this apartment, I presume, that the ancient
governors held their levees, with vice-regal pomp,
surrounded by the military men, the counsellors, the
judges, and other officers of the crown, while all the
loyalty of the province thronged to do them honor.
But the room, in its present condition, cannot boast
even of faded magnificence. The paneled wainscot
is covered with dingy paint, and acquires a duskier
hue from the deep shadow into which the Province
House is thrown by the brick block that shuts it in from
Washington street. A ray of sunshine never visits
this apartment any more than the glare of the festal
torches, which have been extinguished from the era
of the revolution. The most venerable and

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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 sate beside this fireplace, and
told her children the story of each blue tile. A bar
in modern style, well replenished with decanters,
bottles, cigar-boxes, and net-work bags of lemons,
and provided with a beer-pump and a soda-fount, extends
along one side of the room. At my entrance,
an elderly person was smacking his lips, with a zest
which satisfied me that the cellars of the Province
House still hold good liquor, though doubtless of other
vintages than were quaffed by the old governors.
After sipping a glass of port-sangaree, prepared by
the skilful hands of Mr. Thomas Waite, I besought
that worthy successor and representative of so many
historic personages to conduct me over their time-honored
mansion.

He readily complied; but, to confess the truth, I
was forced to draw strenuously upon my imagination,
in order to find aught that was interesting in a house
which, without its historic associations, would have
seemed merely such a tavern as is usually favored by
the custom of decent city boarders, and old fashioned
country gentlemen. The chambers, which were probably
spacious in former times, are now cut up by
partitions, and subdivided into little nooks, each affording
scanty room for the narrow bed, and chair,
and dressing table, of a single lodger. The great
staircase, however, may be termed, without much
hyperbole, a feature of grandeur and magnificence.

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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
frame-work, so much more massive than the frames
of modern houses, and thereby resembling an antique
skeleton. The brick walls, the materials of which
were imported from Holland, and the timbers of the
mansion, are still as sound as ever; but the floors and
other interior parts being greatly decayed, it is contemplated
to gut the whole, and build a new house
within the ancient frame and brick work. Among
other inconveniences of the present edifice, mine host

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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.

We stepped forth from the great front window into
the balcony, where, in old times, it was doubtless the
custom of the king's representative to show himself to
a loyal populace, requiting their huzzas and tossed-up
hats with stately bendings of his dignified person.
In those days, the front of the Province House looked
upon the street; and the whole site now occupied by
the brick range of stores, as well as the present courtyard,
was laid out in grass plats, overshadowed by
trees and bordered by a wrought iron fence. Now,
the old aristocratic edifice hides its time-worn visage
behind an upstart modern building; at one of the
back windows I observed some pretty tailoresses,
sewing, and chatting, and laughing, with now and
then a careless glance towards the balcony. Descending
thence, we again entered the bar-room, where the
elderly gentleman above mentioned, the smack of
whose lips had spoken so favorably for Mr. Waite's
good liquor, was still lounging in his chair. He seemed
to be, if not a lodger, at least a familiar visiter of the
house, who might be supposed to have his regular
score at the bar, his summer seat at the open window,
and his prescriptive corner at the winter's fireside.
Being of a sociable aspect, I ventured to address him
with a remark, calculated to draw forth his historical
reminiscences, if any such were in his mind; and it
gratified me to discover, that, between memory and
tradition, the old gentleman was really possessed of

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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.

At one of the entertainments given at the Province
House, during the latter part of the siege of Boston,
there passed a scene which has never yet been satisfactorily
explained. The officers of the British army,
and the loyal gentry of the province, most of whom
were collected within the beleagured town, had been
invited to a masqued ball; for it was the policy of
Sir William Howe to hide the distress and danger of
the period, and the desperate aspect of the siege, under
an ostentation of festivity. The spectacle of this
evening, if the oldest members of the provincial court
circle might be believed, was the most gay and gorgeous
affair that had occurred in the annals of the
government. The brilliantly lighted apartments were
thronged with figures that seemed to have stepped
from the dark canvass of historic portraits, or to have
flitted forth from the magic pages of romance, or a
least to have flown hither from one of the London
theatres, without a change of garments. Steeled

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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 particolored
Merry Andrew, jingling his cap and bells; a
Falstaffe, almost as provocative of laughter as his
prototype; and a Don Quixote, with a bean-pole for
a lance, and a pot-lid for a shield.

But the broadest merriment was excited by a
group of figures ridiculously dressed in old regimentals,
which seemed to have been purchased at
a military rag-fair, or pilfered from some receptacle
of the cast-off clothes of both the French and British
armies. Portions of their attire had probably been
worn at the siege of Louisburg, and the coats of most
recent cut might have been rent and tattered by
sword, ball, or bayonet, as long ago as Wolfe's victory.
One of these worthies—a tall, lank figure,
brandishing a rusty sword of immense longitude—
purported to be no less a personage than General
George Washington; and the other principal officers
of the American army, such as Gates, Lee, Putnam,
Schuyler, Ward and Heath, were represented by
similar scare-crows. An interview in the mock heroic
style, between the rebel warriors and the British
commander-in-chief, was received with immense applause,
which came loudest of all from the loyalists
of the colony. There was one of the guests, however,
who stood apart, eyeing these antics sternly
and scornfully, at once with a frown and a bitter
smile.

It was an old man, formerly of high station and

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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
grand-daughter under his arm; and there, amid all
the mirth and buffoonery, stood this stern old figure,
the best sustained character in the masquerade, because
so well representing the antique spirit of his
native land. The other guests affirmed that Colonel
Joliffe's black puritanical scowl threw a shadow round
about him; although in spite of his sombre influence,
their gaiety continued to blaze higher, like—(an ominous
comparison)—the flickering brilliancy of a
lamp which has but a little while to burn. Eleven
strokes, full half an hour ago, had pealed from the
clock of the Old South, when a rumor was circulated
among the company that some new spectacle or pageant
was about to be exhibited, which should put a
fitting close to the splendid festivities of the night.

`What new jest has your Excellency in hand?'
asked the Reverend Mather Byles, whose Presbyterian
scruples had not kept him from the entertainment.
`Trust me, sir, I have already laughed more than
beseems my cloth, at your Homeric confabulation
with yonder ragamuffin General of the rebels. One
other such fit of merriment, and I must throw off my
clerical wig and band.'

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`Not so, good Doctor Byles,' answered Sir William
Howe; `if mirth were a crime, you had never
gained your doctorate in divinity. As to this new
foolery, I know no more about it than yourself; perhaps
not so much. Honestly now, Doctor, have you
not stirred up the sober brains of some of your countrymen
to enact a scene in our masquerade?'

`Perhaps,' slyly remarked the grand-daughter of
Colonel Joliffe, whose high spirit had been stung by
many taunts against New England—`perhaps we
are to have a masque of allegorical figures. Victory,
with trophies from Lexington and Bunker Hill.
Plenty, with her overflowing horn, to typify the present
abundance in this good town—and Glory, with a
wreath for his Excellency's brow.'

Sir William Howe smiled at words which he would
have answered with one of his darkest frowns, had
they been uttered by lips that wore a beard. He was
spared the necessity of a retort, by a singular interruption.
A sound of music was heard without the
house, as if proceeding from a full band of military
instruments stationed in the street, playing not such a
festal strain as was suited to the occasion; but a slow
funeral march. The drums appeared to be muffled,
and the trumpets poured forth a wailing breath, which
at once hushed the merriment of the auditors, filling
all with wonder, and some with apprehension. The
idea occurred to many, that either the funeral procession
of some great personage had halted in front of
the Province House, or that a corpse, in a velvet-covered
and gorgeously decorated coffin, was about to

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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 is 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

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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.

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`In the devil's name, what is this?' muttered Sir
William Howe to a gentleman beside him; `a procession
of the regicide judges of King Charles the
martyr?'

`These,' said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence almost
for the first time that evening—`these, if I interpret
them aright, are the Puritan governors—the
rulers of the old, original Democracy of Massachusetts.
Endicott, with the banner from which he had
torn the symbol of subjection, and Winthrop, and Sir
Henry Vane, and Dudley, Haynes, Bellingham, and
Leverett.'

`Why had that young man a stain of blood upon
his ruff?' asked Miss Joliffe.

`Because, in after years,' answered her grandfather,
`he laid down the wisest head in England
upon the block, for the principles of liberty.'

`Will not your Excellency order out the guard?'
whispered Lord Percy, who, with other British officers,
had now assembled round the General. `There
may be a plot under this mummery.'

`Tush! we have nothing to fear,' carelessly replied
Sir William Howe. `There can be no worse treason
in the matter than a jest, and that somewhat of
the dullest. Even were it a sharp and bitter one, our
best policy would be to laugh it off. See—here
come more of these gentry.'

Another group of characters had now partly descended
the staircase. The first was a venerable and
white-bearded patriarch, who cautiously felt his way
downward with a staff. Treading hastily behind him,

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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 breastplate,
and a long sword, which rattled against the
stairs. Next was seen a stout man, dressed in rich
and courtly attire, but not of courtly demeanor; his
gait had the swinging motion of a seaman's walk;
and chancing to stumble on the staircase, he suddenly
grew wrathful, and was heard to mutter an oath. He
was followed by a noble-looking personage in a curled
wig, such as are represented in the portraits of Queen
Anne's time and earlier; and the breast of his coat
was decorated with an embroidered star. While advancing
to the door, he bowed to the right hand and
to the left, in a very gracious and insinuating style;
but as he crossed the threshold, unlike the early
Puritan governors, he seemed, to wring his hands with
sorrow.

`Prithee, play the part of a chorus, good Doctor
Byles,' said Sir William Howe. `What worthies are
these?'

`If it please your Excellency, they lived somewhat
before my day,' answered the doctor; `but
doubtless our friend, the Colonel, has been hand and
glove with them.'

`Their living faces I never looked upon,' said
Colonel Joliffe, gravely; `although I have spoken
face to face with many rulers of this land, and shall
greet yet another with an old man's blessing, ere I
die. But we talk of these figures. I take the venerable
patriarch to be Bradstreet, the last of the

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Puritans, who was governor at ninety, or thereabouts.
The next is Sir Edmund Andros, a tyrant, as any
New England school-boy will tell you; and therefore
the people cast him down from his high seat into a
dungeon. Then comes Sir William Phips, shepherd,
cooper, sea-captain and governor—may many of his
countrymen rise as high, from as low an origin!
Lastly, you saw the gracious Earl of Bellamont, who
ruled us under King William.'

`But what is the meaning of it all?' asked Lord
Percy.

`Now, were I a rebel,' said Miss Joliffe, half aloud,
`I might fancy that the ghosts of these ancient governors
had been summoned to form the funeral procession
of royal authority in New England.'

Several other figures were now seen at the turn
of the staircase. The one in advance had a thoughtful,
anxious, and somewhat crafty expression of face;
and in spite of his loftiness of manner, which was
evidently the result both of an ambitious spirit and of
long continuance in high stations, he seemed not incapable
of cringing to a greater than himself. A few
steps behind came an officer in a scarlet and embroidered
uniform, cut in a fashion old enough to have
been worn by the Duke of Marlborough. His nose
had a rubicund tinge, which, together with the twinkle
of his eye, might have marked him as a lover
of the wine cup and good fellowship; notwithstanding
which tokens, he appeared ill at ease, and often
glanced around him, as if apprehensive of some secret
mischief. Next came a portly gentleman, wearing a

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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!'

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It was certainly a fact that the large lamp which
illuminated the staircase, now burned dim and duskily:
so that several figures, which passed hastily down
the stairs and went forth from the porch, appeared
rather like shadows than persons of fleshly substance.
Sir William Howe and his guests stood at the doors
of the contiguous apartments, watching the progress
of this singular pageant, with various emotions of
anger, contempt, or half acknowledged fear, but still
with an anxious curiosity. The shapes, which now
seemed hastening to join the mysterious procession,
were recognised rather by striking peculiarities of
dress, or broad characteristics of manner, than by any
perceptible resemblance of features to their prototypes.
Their faces, indeed, were invariably kept in
deep shadow. But Doctor Byles, and other gentlemen
who had long been familiar with the successive
rulers of the province, were heard to whisper the
names of Shirley, of Pownal, of Sir Francis Bernard,
and of the well remembered Hutchinson; thereby
confessing that the actors, whoever they might be,
in this spectral march of governors, had succeeded in
putting on some distant portraiture of the real personages.
As they vanished from the door, still did these
shadows toss their arms into the gloom of night, with
a dread expression of wo. Following the mimic representative
of Hutchinson, came a military figure,
holding before his face the cocked hat which he had
taken from his powdered head; but his epaulettes
and other insignia of rank were those of a general
officer; and something in his mien reminded the

[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]

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 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

[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]

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 recognised the
frayed embroidery on the collar, as well as the gilded
scabbard of a sword which protruded from the folds
of the cloak, and glittered in a vivid gleam of light.
Apart from these trifling particulars there were characteristics
of gait and bearing, which impelled the
wondering guests to glance from the shrouded figure
to Sir William Howe, as if to satisfy themselves that
their host had not suddenly vanished from the midst
of them.

With a dark flush of wrath upon his brow, they saw
the General draw his sword and advance to meet the
figure in the cloak before the latter had stepped one
pace upon the floor.

`Villain, unmuffle yourself!' cried he. `You
pass no further!'

The figure, without blenching a hair's breadth from
the sword which was pointed at his breast, made a
solemn pause and lowered the cape of the cloak from
about his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators
to catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had
evidently seen enough. The sternness of his countenance
gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not
horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure,
and let fall his sword upon the floor. The martial
shape again drew the cloak about his features and

[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]

passed on; but reaching the threshold, with his back
towards the spectators, he was seen to stamp his
foot and shake his clenched hands in the air. It
was afterwards affirmed that Sir William Howe had
repeated that self-same gesture of rage and sorrow,
when, for the last time, and as the last royal governor,
he passed through the portal of the Province
House.

`Hark!—the procession moves,' said Miss Joliffe.

The music was dying away along the street, and
its dismal strains were mingled with the knell of midnight
from the steeple of the Old South, and with the
roar of artillery, which announced that the beleaguering
army of Washington had intrenched itself upon
a nearer height than before. As the deep boom of
the cannon smote upon his ear, Colonel Joliffe raised
himself to the full height of his aged form, and smiled
sternly on the British General.

`Would your Excellency inquire further into the
mystery of the pageant?' said he.

`Take care of your gray head!' cried Sir William
Howe, fiercely, though with a quivering lip.
`It has stood too long on a traitor's shoulders!'

`You must make haste to chop it off, then,'
calmly replied the Colonel; `for a few hours longer,
and not all the power of Sir William Howe, nor of his
master, shall cause one of these gray hairs to fall.
The empire of Britain, in this ancient province, is at
its last gasp to-night;—almost while I speak it is a
dead corpse;—and methinks the shadows of the old
governors are fit mourners at its funeral!'

[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]

With these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his
cloak, and drawing his grand-daughter's arm within
his own, retired from the last festival that a British
ruler ever held in the old province of Massachusetts
Bay. It was supposed that the Colonel and the
young lady possessed some secret intelligence in regard
to the mysterious pageant of that night. However
this might be, such knowledge has never become
general. The actors in the scene have vanished into
deeper obscurity than even that wild Indian band who
scattered the cargoes of the tea ships on the waves,
and gained a place in history, yet left no names.
But superstition, among other legends of this mansion,
repeats the wondrous tale, that on the anniversary
night of Britain's discomfiture, the ghosts of the
ancient governors of Massachusetts still glide through
the portal of the Province House. And, last of all,
comes a figure shrouded in a military cloak, tossing
his clenched hands into the air, and stamping his
iron-shod boots upon the broad free-stone steps, with
a semblance of feverish despair, but without the
sound of a foot-tramp.

When the truth-telling accents of the elderly gentleman
were hushed, I drew a long breath and looked
round the room, striving, with the best energy of my
imagination, to throw a tinge of romance and historic
grandeur over the realities of the scene. But my
nostrils snuffed up a scent of cigar-smoke, clouds of
which the narrator had emitted by way of visible

[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]

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
whisky punch, which Mr. Thomas Waite was mingling
for a customer. Nor did it add to the picturesque
appearance of the paneled walls, that the slate of
the Brookline stage was suspended against them,
instead of the armorial escutcheon of some fardescended
governor. A stage-driver sat at one of
the windows, reading a penny paper of the day—
the Boston Times—and presenting a figure which
could nowise be brought into any picture of `Times
in Boston,' seventy or a hundred years ago. On
the window-seat lay a bundle, neatly done up in
brown paper, the direction of which I had the idle
curiosity to read. “Miss Susan Huggins, at the
Province House.” A pretty chamber-maid, no
doubt. In truth, it is desperately hard work, when
we attempt to throw the spell of hoar antiquity over
localities with which the living world, and the day
that is passing over us, have aught to do. Yet, as I
glanced at the stately staircase, down which the procession
of the old governors had descended, and as I
emerged through the venerable portal, whence their
figures had preceded me, it gladdened me to be conscious
of a thrill of awe. Then diving through the
narrow archway, a few strides transported me into
the densest throng of Washington street.

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