LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE
II
EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT
The old legendary guest of the Province House abode in myremembrance from midsummer till January. One idle evening lastwinter, confident that he would be found in the snuggest cornerof the bar-room, I resolved to pay him another visit, hoping todeserve well of my country by snatching from oblivion some elseunheard-of fact of history. The night was chill and raw, andrendered boisterous by almost a gale of wind, which whistledalong Washington Street, causing the gas-lights to flare andflicker within the lamps. As I hurried onward, my fancy was busywith a comparison between the present aspect of the street andthat which it probably wore when the British governors inhabitedthe mansion whither I was now going. Brick edifices in thosetimes were few, till a succession of destructive fires had swept,and swept again, the wooden dwellings and warehouses from themost populous quarters of the town. The buildings stood insulatedand independent, not, as now, merging their separate existencesinto connected ranges, with a front of tiresome identity,--buteach possessing features of its own, as if the owner's individualtaste had shaped it,--and the whole presenting a picturesqueirregularity, the absence of which is hardly compensated by anybeauties of our modern architecture. Such a scene, dimlyvanishing from the eye by the ray of here and there a tallowcandle, glimmering through the small panes of scattered windows,would form a sombre contrast to the street as I beheld it, withthe gas-lights blazing from corner to corner, flaming within theshops, and throwing a noonday brightness through the huge platesof glass.
But the black, lowering sky, as I turned my eyes upward, wore,doubtless, the same visage as when it frowned upon theante-revolutionary New Englanders. The wintry blast had the sameshriek that was familiar to their ears. The Old South Church,too, still pointed its antique spire into the darkness, and waslost between earth and heaven; and as I passed, its clock, whichhad warned so many generations how transitory was their lifetime,spoke heavily and slow the same unregarded moral to myself. "Onlyseven o'clock," thought I. "My old friend's legends will scarcelykill the hours 'twixt this and bedtime."
Passing through the narrow arch, I crossed the court-yard, theconfined precincts of which were made visible by a lantern overthe portal of the Province House. On entering the bar-room, Ifound, as I expected, the old tradition monger seated by aspecial good fire of anthracite, compelling clouds of smoke froma corpulent cigar. He recognized me with evident pleasure; for myrare properties as a patient listener invariably make me afavorite with elderly gentlemen and ladies of narrativepropensities. Drawing a chair to the fire, I desired mine host tofavor us with a glass apiece of whiskey punch, which was speedilyprepared, steaming hot, with a slice of lemon at the bottom, adark-red stratum of port wine upon the surface, and a sprinklingof nutmeg strewn over all. As we touched our glasses together, mylegendary friend made himself known to me as Mr. Bela Tiffany;and I rejoiced at the oddity of the name, because it gave hisimage and character a sort of individuality in my conception. Theold gentleman's draught acted as a solvent upon his memory, sothat it overflowed with tales, traditions, anecdotes of famousdead people, and traits of ancient manners, some of which werechildish as a nurse's lullaby, while others might have been worththe notice of the grave historian. Nothing impressed me more thana story of a black mysterious picture, which used to hang in oneof the chambers of the Province House, directly above the roomwhere we were now sitting. The following is as correct a versionof the fact as the reader would be likely to obtain from anyother source, although, assuredly, it has a tinge of romanceapproaching to the marvellous.
In one of the apartments of the Province Housethere was long preserved an ancient picture, the frame of whichwas 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 bediscerned. Time had thrown an impenetrable veil over it, and leftto tradition and fable and conjecture to say what had once beenthere portrayed. During the rule of many successive governors, ithad hung, by prescriptive and undisputed right, over themantel-piece of the same chamber; and it still kept its placewhen Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson assumed the administration ofthe province, on the departure of Sir Francis Bernard.
The Lieutenant-Governor sat, one afternoon, resting his headagainst the carved back of his stately armchair, and gazing upthoughtfully at the void blackness of the picture. It wasscarcely a time for such inactive musing, when affairs of thedeepest moment required the ruler's decision, for within thatvery hour Hutchinson had received intelligence of the arrival ofa British fleet, bringing three regiments from Halifax to overawethe insubordination of the people. These troops awaited hispermission to occupy the fortress of Castle William, and the townitself. Yet, instead of affixing his signature to an officialorder, there sat the Lieutenant-Governor, so carefullyscrutinizing the black waste of canvas that his demeanorattracted the notice of two young persons who attended him. One,wearing a military dress of buff, was his kinsman, FrancisLincoln, the Provincial Captain of Castle William; the other, whosat on a low stool beside his chair, was Alice Vane, his favoriteniece.
She was clad entirely in white, a pale, ethereal creature, who,though a native of New England, had been educated abroad, andseemed not merely a stranger from another clime, but almost abeing from another world. For several years, until left anorphan, she had dwelt with her father in sunny Italy, and therehad acquired a taste and enthusiasm for sculpture and paintingwhich she found few opportunities of gratifying in theundecorated dwellings of the colonial gentry. It was said thatthe early productions of her own pencil exhibited no inferiorgenius, though, perhaps, the rude atmosphere of New England hadcramped her hand, and dimmed the glowing colors of her fancy. Butobserving her uncle's steadfast gaze, which appeared to searchthrough 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 oldpicture once represented? Possibly, could it be made visible, itmight prove a masterpiece of some great artist--else, why has itso long held such a conspicuous place?"
As her uncle, contrary to his usual custom (for he was asattentive to all the humors and caprices of Alice as if she hadbeen his own best-beloved child), did not immediately reply, theyoung Captain of Castle William took that office upon himself.
"This dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin," said he, "hasbeen an heirloom in the Province House from time immemorial. Asto the painter, I can tell you nothing; but, if half the storiestold of it be true, not one of the great Italian masters has everproduced so marvellous a piece of work as that before you."
Captain Lincoln proceeded to relate some of the strange fablesand fantasies which, as it was impossible to refute them byocular demonstration, had grown to be articles of popular belief,in reference to this old picture. One of the wildest, and at thesame time the best accredited, accounts, stated it to be anoriginal and authentic portrait of the Evil One, taken at a witchmeeting near Salem; and that its strong and terrible resemblancehad been confirmed by several of the confessing wizards andwitches, at their trial, in open court. It was likewise affirmedthat a familiar spirit or demon abode behind the blackness of thepicture, and had shown himself, at seasons of public calamity, tomore than one of the royal governors. Shirley, for instance, hadbeheld this ominous apparition, on the eve of GeneralAbercrombie's shameful and bloody defeat under the walls ofTiconderoga. Many of the servants of the Province House hadcaught glimpses of a visage frowning down upon them, at morningor evening twilight,--or in the depths of night, while raking upthe fire that glimmered on the hearth beneath; although, if anywere bold enough to hold a torch before the picture, it wouldappear as black and undistinguishable as ever. The oldestinhabitant of Boston recollected that his father, in whose daysthe portrait had not wholly faded out of sight, had once lookedupon it, but would never suffer himself to be questioned as tothe face which was there represented. In connection with suchstories, it was remarkable that over the top of the frame therewere
some ragged remnants of black silk, indicating that a veilhad formerly hung down before the picture, until the duskiness oftime had so effectually concealed it. But, after all, it was themost singular part of the affair that so many of the pompousgovernors of Massachusetts had allowed the obliterated picture toremain in the state chamber of the Province House.
"Some of these fables are really awful," observed Alice Vane, whohad occasionally shuddered, as well as smiled, while her cousinspoke. "It would be almost worth while to wipe away the blacksurface of the canvas, since the original picture can hardly beso formidable as those which fancy paints instead of it."
"But would it be possible," inquired her cousin, "to restore thisdark picture to its pristine hues?"
"Such arts are known in Italy," said Alice.
The Lieutenant-Governor had roused himself from his abstractedmood, and listened with a smile to the conversation of his youngrelatives. Yet his voice had something peculiar in its tones whenhe undertook the explanation of the mystery.
"I am sorry, Alice, to destroy your faith in the legends of whichyou are so fond," remarked he; "but my antiquarian researcheshave long since made me acquainted with the subject of thispicture--if picture it can be called--which is no more visible,nor ever will be, than the face of the long buried man whom itonce represented. It was the portrait of Edward Randolph, thefounder of this house, a person famous in the history of NewEngland."
"Of that Edward Randolph," exclaimed Captain Lincoln, "whoobtained the repeal of the first provincial charter, under whichour forefathers had enjoyed almost democratic privileges! He thatwas styled the arch-enemy of New England, and whose memory isstill held in detestation as the destroyer of our liberties!"
"It was the same Randolph," answered Hutchinson, moving uneasilyin his chair. "It was his lot to taste the bitterness of popularodium."
"Our annals tell us," continued the Captain of Castle William,"that the curse of the people followed this Randolph where hewent, 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 itselfoutward, and was visible on the wretched man's countenance,making it too horrible to be looked upon. If so, and if thispicture truly represented his aspect, it was in mercy that thecloud of blackness has gathered over it."
"These traditions are folly to one who has proved, as I have, howlittle of historic truth lies at the bottom," said theLieutenant-Governor. "As regards the life and character of EdwardRandolph, too implicit credence has been given to Dr. CottonMather, who--I must say it, though some of his blood runs in myveins--has filled our early history with old women's tales, asfanciful and extravagant as those of Greece or Rome."
"And yet," whispered Alice Vane, "may not such fables have amoral? And, methinks, if the visage of this portrait be sodreadful, it is not without a cause that it has hung so long in achamber of the Province House. When the rulers feel themselvesirresponsible, it were well that they should be reminded of theawful weight of a people's curse."
The Lieutenant-Governor started, and gazed for a moment at hisniece, as if her girlish fantasies had struck upon some feelingin his own breast, which all his policy or principles could notentirely subdue. He knew, indeed, that Alice, in spite of herforeign education, retained the native sympathies of a NewEngland girl.
"Peace, silly child," cried he, at last, more harshly than he hadever before addressed the gentle Alice. "The rebuke of a king ismore to be dreaded than the clamor of a wild, misguidedmultitude. Captain Lincoln, it is decided. The fortress of CastleWilliam must be occupied by the royal troops. The two remainingregiments shall be billeted in the town, or encamped upon theCommon. It is time, after years of tumult, and almost rebellion,that his majesty's government should have a wall of strengthabout it."
"Trust, sir--trust yet awhile to the loyalty of the people," saidCaptain Lincoln; "nor teach them that they can ever be on otherterms with British soldiers than those of brotherhood, as whenthey fought side by side through the French War. Do not convertthe streets of your native town into a camp. Think twice beforeyou give up old Castle William, the key of the province, intoother keeping than that of true-born New Englanders."
"Young man, it is decided," repeated Hutchinson, rising from hischair. "A British officer will be in attendance this evening, toreceive the necessary instructions for the disposal of thetroops. Your presence also will be required. Till then,farewell."
With these words the Lieutenant-Governor hastily left the room,while Alice and her cousin more slowly followed, whisperingtogether, and once pausing to glance back at the mysteriouspicture. The Captain of Castle William fancied that the girl'sair and mien were such as might have belonged to one of thosespirits of fable-fairies, or creatures of a more antiquemythology--who sometimes mingled their agency with mortalaffairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensibility to human weal orwoe. As he held the door for her to pass, Alice beckoned to thepicture and smiled.
"Come forth, dark and evil Shape!" cried she. "It is thine hour!"
In the evening, Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson sat in the samechamber where the foregoing scene had occurred, surrounded byseveral persons whose various interests had summoned themtogether. There were the selectmen of Boston, plain, patriarchalfathers of the people, excellent representatives of the oldpuritanical founders, whose sombre strength had stamped so deepan impress upon the New England character. Contrasting with thesewere one or two members of Council, richly dressed in the whitewigs, the embroidered waistcoats and other magnificence of thetime, and making a somewhat ostentatious display of courtier-likeceremonial. In attendance, likewise, was a major of the Britisharmy, awaiting the Lieutenant-Governor's orders for the landingof the troops, which still remained on board the transports. TheCaptain of Castle William stood beside Hutchinson's chair withfolded arms, glancing rather haughtily at the British officer, bywhom he was soon to be superseded in his command. On a table, inthe centre of the chamber, stood a branched silver candlestick,throwing down the glow of half a dozen wax-lights upon a paperapparently ready for the Lieutenant-Governor's signature.
Partly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of the windowcurtains, which fell from the ceiling to the floor, was seen thewhite drapery of a lady's robe. It may appear strange that AliceVane should have been there at such a time; but there wassomething so childlike, so wayward, in her singular character, soapart from ordinary rules, that her presence did not surprise thefew who noticed it. Meantime, the chairman of the Selectmen wasaddressing to the Lieutenant-Governor a long and solemn protestagainst the reception of the British troops into the town.
"And if your Honor," concluded this excellent but somewhat prosyold gentleman, "shall see fit to persist in bringing thesemercenary sworders and musketeers into our quiet streets, not onour heads be the responsibility. Think, sir, while there is yettime, that if one drop of blood be shed, that blood shall be aneternal stain upon your Honor's memory. You, sir, have writtenwith an able pen the deeds of our forefathers. The more to bedesired is it, therefore, that yourself should deserve honorablemention, as a true patriot and upright ruler, when your owndoings shall be written down in history."
"I am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural desire to standwell in the annals of my country," replied Hutchinson,controlling his impatience into courtesy, "nor know I any bettermethod of attaining that end than by withstanding the merelytemporary spirit of mischief, which, with your pardon, seems tohave infected elder men than myself. Would you have me wait tillthe mob shall sack the Province House, as they did my privatemansion? Trust me, sir, the time may come when you will be gladto flee for protection to the king's banner, the raising of whichis now so distasteful to you."
"Yes," said the British major, who was impatiently expecting theLieutenant-Governor's orders. "The demagogues of this Provincehave raised the devil and cannot lay him again. We will exorcisehim, in God's name and the king's."
"If you meddle with the devil,
take care of his claws!" answeredthe Captain of Castle William, stirred by the taunt against hiscountrymen.
"Craving your pardon, young sir," said the venerable Selectman,"let not an evil spirit enter into your words. We will striveagainst the oppressor with prayer and fasting, as our forefatherswould have done. Like them, moreover, we will submit to whateverlot a wise Providence may send us,--always, after our own bestexertions to amend it."
"And there peep forth the devil's claws!" muttered Hutchinson,who well understood the nature of Puritan submission. "Thismatter shall be expedited forthwith. When there shall be asentinel at every corner, and a court of guard before the townhouse, a loyal gentleman may venture to walk abroad. What to meis the outcry of a mob, in this remote province of the realm? Theking is my master, and England is my country! Upheld by theirarmed strength, I set my foot upon the rabble, and defy them!"
He snatched a pen, and was about to affix his signature to thepaper that lay on the table, when the Captain of Castle Williamplaced his hand upon his shoulder. The freedom of the action, socontrary to the ceremonious respect which was then considered dueto rank and dignity, awakened general surprise, and in none morethan in the Lieutenant-Governor himself. Looking angrily up, heperceived that his young relative was pointing his finger to theopposite wall. Hutchinson's eye followed the signal; and he saw,what had hitherto been unobserved, that a black silk curtain wassuspended before the mysterious picture, so as completely toconceal it. His thoughts immediately recurred to the scene of thepreceding afternoon; and, in his surprise, confused by indistinctemotions, yet sensible that his niece must have had an agency inthis phenomenon, he called loudly upon her.
"Alice!--come hither, Alice!"
No sooner had he spoken than Alice Vane glided from her station,and pressing one hand across her eyes, with the other snatchedaway the sable curtain that concealed the portrait. Anexclamation of surprise burst from every beholder; but theLieutenant-Governor's voice had a tone of horror.
"By Heaven!" said he, in a low, inward murmur, speaking rather tohimself than to those around him, "if the spirit of EdwardRandolph were to appear among us from the place of torment, hecould not wear more of the terrors of hell upon his face!"
"For some wise end," said the aged Selectman, solemnly, "hathProvidence scattered away the mist of years that had so long hidthis dreadful effigy. Until this hour no living man hath seenwhat we behold!"
Within the antique frame, which so recently had inclosed a sablewaste of canvas, now appeared a visible picture, still dark,indeed, in its hues and shadings, but thrown forward in strongrelief. It was a half-length figure of a gentleman in a rich butvery old-fashioned dress of embroidered velvet, with a broad ruffand a beard, and wearing a hat, the brim of which overshadowedhis forehead. Beneath this cloud the eyes had a peculiar glare,which was almost lifelike. The whole portrait started sodistinctly out of the background, that it had the effect of aperson looking down from the wall at the astonished andawe-stricken spectators. The expression of the face, if any wordscan convey an idea of it, was that of a wretch detected in somehideous guilt, and exposed to the bitter hatred and laughter andwithering scorn of a vast surrounding multitude. There was thestruggle of defiance, beaten down and overwhelmed by the crushingweight of ignominy. The torture of the soul had come forth uponthe countenance. It seemed as if the picture, while hidden behindthe cloud of immemorial years, had been all the time acquiring anintenser depth and darkness of expression, till now it gloomedforth again, and threw its evil omen over the present hour. Such,if the wild legend may be credited, was the portrait of EdwardRandolph, as he appeared when a people's curse had wrought itsinfluence upon his nature.
"'T would drive me mad--that awful face!" said Hutchinson, whoseemed fascinated by the contemplation of it.
"Be warned, then!" whispered Alice. "He trampled on a people'srights. Behold his punishment--and avoid a crime like his!"
The Lieutenant-Governor actually trembled for an instant; but,exerting his energy--which was not, however, his mostcharacteristic feature--he strove to shake off the spell ofRandolph's countenance.
"Girl!" cried he, laughing bitterly as he turned to Alice, "haveyou brought hither your painter's art--your Italian spirit ofintrigue--your tricks of stage effect--and think to influence thecouncils of rulers and the affairs of nations by such shallowcontrivances? See here!"
"Stay yet a while," said the Selectman, as Hutchinson againsnatched the pen; "for if ever mortal man received a warning froma tormented soul, your Honor is that man!"
"Away!" answered Hutchinson fiercely. "Though yonder senselesspicture cried 'Forbear!'--it should not move me!"
Casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face (which seemed atthat moment to intensify the horror of its miserable and wickedlook), he scrawled on the paper, in characters that betokened ita deed of desperation, the name of Thomas Hutchinson. Then, it issaid, he shuddered, as if that signature had granted away hissalvation.
"It is done," said he; and placed his hand upon his brow.
"May Heaven forgive the deed," said the soft, sad accents ofAlice Vane, like the voice of a good spirit flitting away.
When morning came there was a stifled whisper through thehousehold, and spreading thence about the town, that the dark,mysterious picture had started from the wall, and spoken face toface with Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson. If such a miracle hadbeen wrought, however, no traces of it remained behind, forwithin the antique frame nothing could be discerned save theimpenetrable cloud, which had covered the canvas since the memoryof man. If the figure had, indeed, stepped forth, it had fledback, spirit-like, at the daydawn, and hidden itself behind acentury's obscurity. The truth probably was, that Alice Vane'ssecret for restoring the hues of the picture had merely effecteda temporary renovation. But those who, in that brief interval,had beheld the awful visage of Edward Randolph, desired no secondglance, and ever afterwards trembled at the recollection of thescene, as if an evil spirit had appeared visibly among them. Andas for Hutchinson, when, far over the ocean, his dying hour drewon, he gasped for breath, and complained that he was choking withthe blood of the Boston Massacre; and Francis Lincoln, the formerCaptain of Castle William, who was standing at his bedside,perceived a likeness in his frenzied look to that of EdwardRandolph. Did his broken spirit feel, at that dread hour, thetremendous burden of a People's curse?
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