Twice Told Tales

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

  I.

  HOWE'S MASQUERADE.

  One afternoon last summer, while walking along Washington street, myeye was attracted by a sign-board protruding over a narrow archwaynearly opposite the Old South Church. The sign represented the frontof 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 oldroyal governors of Massachusetts, and, entering the arched passagewhich penetrated through the middle of a brick row of shops, a fewsteps transported me from the busy heart of modern Boston into a smalland secluded court-yard. One side of this space was occupied by thesquare front of the Province House, three stories high and surmountedby a cupola, on the top of which a gilded Indian was discernible, withhis bow bent and his arrow on the string, as if aiming at theweathercock on the spire of the Old South. The figure has kept thisattitude for seventy years or more, ever since good Deacon Drowne, acunning carver of wood, first stationed him on his long sentinel'swatch over the city.

  The Province House is constructed of brick, which seems recently tohave been overlaid with a coat of light-colored paint. A flight of redfreestone steps fenced in by a balustrade of curiously wrought ironascends from the court-yard to the spacious porch, over which is abalcony with an iron balustrade of similar pattern and workmanship tothat beneath. These letters and figures--"16 P.S. 79"--are wroughtinto the ironwork of the balcony, and probably express the date of theedifice, with the initials of its founder's name.

  A wide door with double leaves admitted me into the hall or entry, onthe right of which is the entrance to the bar-room. It was in thisapartment, I presume, that the ancient governors held their leveeswith vice-regal pomp, surrounded by the military men, the counsellors,the judges, and other officers of the Crown, while all the loyalty ofthe province thronged to do them honor. But the room in its presentcondition cannot boast even of faded magnificence. The panelledwainscot is covered with dingy paint and acquires a duskier hue fromthe deep shadow into which the Province House is thrown by the brickblock that shuts it in from Washington street. A ray of sunshine nevervisits this apartment any more than the glare of the festal torcheswhich have 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 from Scripture,and, for aught I know, the lady of Pownall or Bernard may have satbeside this fireplace and told her children the story of each bluetile. A bar in modern style, well replenished with decanters, bottles,cigar-boxes and network bags of lemons, and provided with a beer-pumpand a soda-fount, extends along one side of the room.

  At my entrance an elderly person was smacking his lips with a zestwhich satisfied me that the cellars of the Province House still holdgood liquor, though doubtless of other vintages than were quaffed bythe old governors. After sipping a glass of port-sangaree prepared bythe skilful hands of Mr. Thomas Waite, I besought that worthysuccessor and representative of so many historic personages to conductme over their time-honored mansion. He readily complied, but, toconfess the truth, I was forced to draw strenuously upon myimagination in order to find aught that was interesting in a housewhich, without its historic associations, would have seemed merelysuch a tavern as is usually favored by the custom of decent cityboarders and old-fashioned country gentlemen. The chambers, which wereprobably spacious in former times, are now cut up by partitions andsubdivided into little nooks, each affording scanty room for thenarrow bed and chair and dressing-table of a single lodger: The greatstaircase, however, may be termed, without much hyperbole, a featureof grandeur and magnificence. It winds through the midst of the houseby flights of broad steps, each flight terminating in a squarelanding-place, whence the ascent is continued toward the cupola. Acarved balustrade, freshly painted in the lower stories, but growingdingier as we ascend, borders the staircase with its quaintly twistedand intertwined pillars, from top to bottom. Up these stairs themilitary boots, or perchance the gouty shoes, of many a governor havetrodden as the wearers mounted to the cupola which afforded them sowide a view over their metropolis and the surrounding country. Thecupola is an octagon with several windows, and a door opening upon theroof. From this station, as I pleased myself with imagining, Gage mayhave beheld his disastrous victory on Bunker Hill (unless one of thetri-mountains intervened), and Howe have marked the approaches ofWashington's besieging army, although the buildings since erected inthe vicinity have shut out almost every object save the steeple of theOld South, which seems almost within arm's length. Descending from thecupola, I paused in the garret to observe the ponderous white-oakframework, so much more massive than the frames of modern houses, andthereby resembling an antique skeleton. The brick walls, the materialsof which were imported from Holland, and the timbers of the mansion,are still as sound as ever, but, the floors and other interior partsbeing greatly decayed, it is contemplated to gut the whole and build anew house within the ancient frame-and brickwork. Among otherinconveniences of the present edifice, mine host mentioned that anyjar or motion was apt to shake down the dust of ages out of theceiling of one chamber upon the floor of that beneath it.

  We stepped forth from the great front window into the balcony where inold times it was doubtless the custom of the king's representative toshow himself to a loyal populace, requiting their huzzas and tossed-uphats with stately bendings of his dignified person. In those days thefront of the Province House looked upon the street, and the whole sitenow occupied by the brick range of stores, as well as the presentcourt-yard, was laid out in grass-plats overshadowed by trees andbordered by a wrought-iron fence. Now the old aristocratic edificehides its time-worn visage behind an upstart modern building; at oneof the back windows I observed some pretty tailoresses sewing andchatting and laughing, with now and then a careless glance toward thebalcony. Descending thence, we again entered the bar-room, where theelderly gentleman above mentioned--the smack of whose lips had spokenso favorably for Mr. Waite's good liquor--was still lounging in hischair. He seemed to be, if not a lodger, at least a familiar visitorof the house who might be supposed to have his regular score at thebar, his summer seat at the open window and his prescriptive corner atthe winter's fireside. Being of a sociable aspect, I ventured toaddress him with a remark calculated to draw forth his historicalreminiscences, if any such were in his mind, and it gratified me todiscover that, between memory and tradition, the old gentleman wasreally possessed of some very pleasant gossip about the ProvinceHouse. The portion of his talk which chiefly interested me was theoutline of the following legend. He professed to have received it atone or two removes from an eye-witness, but this derivation, togetherwith the lapse of time, must have afforded opportunities for manyvariations of the narrative; so that, despairing of literal andabsolute truth, I have not scrupled to make such further changes asseemed conducive to the reader's profit and delight.

  * * * * *

  At one of the entertainments given at the province-house during thelatter part of the siege of Boston there passed a scene which hasnever yet been satisfactorily explained. The officers of the Britisharmy and the loyal gentry of the province, most of whom were collectedwithin the beleaguered town, had been invited to a masqued ball, forit was the policy for Sir William Howe to hide the distress and dangerof the period and the desperate aspect of the siege under anostentation of festivity. The spectacle of this evening, if the oldestmembers of 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 of historicportraits or to have flitted forth from the magic pages of romance, orat least to have flown hither from one of the London theatres withouta change of garments. Steeled knights of the Conquest, beardedstatesmen of Queen Elizabeth and high-ruffed ladies of her court weremingled with characters of comedy, such as a parti-colored MerryAn
drew jingling his cap and bells, a Falstaff almost as provocative oflaughter as his prototype, and a Don Quixote with a bean-pole for alance and a pot-lid for a shield.

  But the broadest merriment was excited by a group of figuresridiculously dressed in old regimentals which seemed to have beenpurchased at a military rag-fair or pilfered from some receptacle ofthe cast-off clothes of both the French and British armies. Portionsof their attire had probably been worn at the siege of Louisburg, andthe coats of most recent cut might have been rent and tattered bysword, ball or bayonet as long ago as Wolfe's victory. One of theseworthies--a tall, lank figure brandishing a rusty sword of immenselongitude--purported to be no less a personage than General GeorgeWashington, and the other principal officers of the American army,such as Gates, Lee, Putnam, Schuyler, Ward and Heath, were representedby similar scarecrows. An interview in the mock-heroic style betweenthe rebel warriors and the British commander-in-chief was receivedwith immense applause, which came loudest of all from the loyalists ofthe colony.

  There was one of the guests, however, who stood apart, eying theseantics sternly and scornfully at once with a frown and a bitter smile.It was an old man formerly of high station and great repute in theprovince, and who had been a very famous soldier in his day. Somesurprise had been expressed that a person of Colonel Joliffe's knownWhig principles, though now too old to take an active part in thecontest, should have remained in Boston during the siege, andespecially that he should consent to show himself in the mansion ofSir William Howe. But thither he had come with a fair granddaughterunder his arm, and there, amid all the mirth and buffoonery, stoodthis 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 puritanicalscowl threw a shadow round about him, although, in spite of his sombreinfluence, their gayety continued to blaze higher, like--an ominouscomparison--the flickering brilliancy of a lamp which has but a littlewhile to burn.

  Eleven strokes full half an hour ago had pealed from the clock of theOld South, when a rumor was circulated among the company that some newspectacle or pageant was about to be exhibited which should put afitting close to the splendid festivities of the night.

  "What new jest has Your Excellency in hand?" asked the Reverend MatherByles, whose Presbyterian scruples had not kept him from theentertainment. "Trust me, sir, I have already laughed more thanbeseems my cloth at your Homeric confabulation with yonder ragamuffingeneral of the rebels. One other such fit of merriment, and I mustthrow off my clerical wig and band."

  "Not so, good Dr. Byles," answered Sir William Howe; "if mirth were acrime, you had never gained your doctorate in divinity. As to this newfoolery, I know no more about it than yourself--perhaps not so much.Honestly, now, doctor, have you not stirred up the sober brains ofsome of your countrymen to enact a scene in our masquerade?"

  "Perhaps," slyly remarked the granddaughter of Colonel Joliffe, whosehigh spirit had been stung by many taunts against New England--"perhapswe are to have a masque of allegorical figures--Victory with trophiesfrom Lexington and Bunker Hill, Plenty with her overflowing horn totypify the present abundance in this good town, and Glory with awreath for His Excellency's brow."

  Sir William Howe smiled at words which he would have answered with oneof 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. Asound of music was heard without the house, as if proceeding from afull band of military instruments stationed in the street, playing,not such a festal strain as was suited to the occasion, but a slowfuneral-march. The drums appeared to be muffled, and the trumpetspoured forth a wailing breath which at once hushed the merriment ofthe auditors, filling all with wonder and some with apprehension. Theidea occurred to many that either the funeral procession of some greatpersonage had halted in front of the province-house, or that a corpsein a velvet-covered and gorgeously-decorated coffin was about to beborne from the portal. After listening a moment, Sir William Howecalled in a stern voice to the leader of the musicians, who hadhitherto 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 yourband silence that dead march, or, by my word, they shall havesufficient cause for their lugubrious strains. Silence it, sirrah!"

  "Please, Your Honor," answered the drum-major, whose rubicund visagehad lost all its color, "the fault is none of mine. I and my band areall here together, and I question whether there be a man of us thatcould play that march without book. I never heard it but once before,and that was at the funeral of his late Majesty, King George II."

  "Well, well!" said Sir William Howe, recovering his composure; "it isthe prelude to some masquerading antic. Let it pass."

  A figure now presented itself, but among the many fantastic masks thatwere dispersed through the apartments none could tell precisely fromwhence it came. It was a man in an old-fashioned dress of black sergeand having the aspect of a steward or principal domestic in thehousehold of a nobleman or great English landholder. This figureadvanced to the outer door of the mansion, and, throwing both itsleaves wide open, withdrew a little to one side and looked back towardthe grand staircase, as if expecting some person to descend. At thesame time, the music in the street sounded a loud and doleful summons.The eyes of Sir William Howe and his guests being directed to thestaircase, there appeared on the uppermost landing-place, that wasdiscernible from the bottom, several personages descending toward thedoor. The foremost was a man of stern visage, wearing asteeple-crowned hat and a skull-cap beneath it, a dark cloak and hugewrinkled boots that came halfway up his legs. Under his arm was arolled-up banner which seemed to be the banner of England, butstrangely rent and torn; he had a sword in his right hand and graspeda Bible in his left. The next figure was of milder aspect, yet full ofdignity, wearing a broad ruff, over which descended a beard, a gown ofwrought velvet and a doublet and hose of black satin; he carried aroll of manuscript in his hand. Close behind these two came a youngman of very striking countenance and demeanor with deep thought andcontemplation on his brow, and perhaps a flash of enthusiasm in hiseye; his garb, like that of his predecessors, was of an antiquefashion, and there was a stain of blood upon his ruff. In the samegroup with 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 funeral thathad halted in front of the province-house, yet that supposition seemedto be contradicted by the air of triumph with which they waved theirhands as they crossed the threshold and vanished through the portal.

  "In the devil's name, what is this?" muttered Sir William Howe to agentleman beside him. "A procession of the regicide judges of KingCharles the martyr?"

  "These," said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence almost for the firsttime that evening--"these, if I interpret them aright, are thePuritan governors, the rulers of the old original democracy ofMassachusetts--Endicott with the banner from which he had torn thesymbol 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 MissJoliffe.

  "Because in after-years," answered her grandfather, "he laid down thewisest 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 thatsomewhat of the dullest. Even were it a sharp and bitter one, our bestpolicy 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 cautiouslyfelt his way downward with a staff. Treading hastily behind him, andstretching forth his gauntleted hand as if to grasp the old man'sshoulder, came a tall soldier-like figure equipped with a plumed capof steel, a bright breastplate and a long sword, which rattled againstthe stairs. Next was seen a stout man dressed in rich and courtlyattire, but not of courtly demeanor; his gait had the swinging motionof a 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 as arerepresented in the portraits of Queen Anne's time and earlier, and thebreast of his coat was decorated with an embroidered star. Whileadvancing to the door he bowed to the right hand and to the left in avery gracious and insinuating style, but as he crossed the threshold,unlike the early Puritan governors, he seemed to wring his hands withsorrow.

  "Prithee, play the part of a chorus, good Dr. Byles," said Sir WilliamHowe. "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 beenhand 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 thisland, and shall greet yet another with an old man's blessing ere Idie. But we talk of these figures. I take the venerable patriarch tobe Bradstreet, the last of the Puritans, who was governor at ninety orthereabouts. The next is Sir Edmund Andros, a tyrant, as any NewEngland schoolboy will tell you, and therefore the people cast himdown from his high seat into a dungeon. Then comes Sir William Phipps,shepherd, cooper, sea-captain and governor. May many of his countrymenrise as high from as low an origin! Lastly, you saw the gracious earlof 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 fancythat the ghosts of these ancient governors had been summoned to formthe funeral procession of royal authority in New England."

  Several other figures were now seen at the turn of the staircase. Theone in advance had a thoughtful, anxious and somewhat craftyexpression of face, and in spite of his loftiness of manner, which wasevidently the result both of an ambitious spirit and of longcontinuance in high stations, he seemed not incapable of cringing to agreater than himself. A few steps behind came an officer in a scarletand embroidered uniform cut in a fashion old enough to have been wornby the duke of Marlborough. His nose had a rubicund tinge, which,together with the twinkle of his eye, might have marked him as a loverof the wine-cup and good-fellowship; notwithstanding which tokens, heappeared ill at ease, and often glanced around him as if apprehensiveof some secret mischief. Next came a portly gentleman wearing a coatof shaggy cloth lined with silken velvet; he had sense, shrewdness andhumor in his face and a folio volume under his arm, but his aspect wasthat of a man vexed and tormented beyond all patience and harassedalmost to death. He went hastily down, and was followed by a dignifiedperson dressed in a purple velvet suit with very rich embroidery; hisdemeanor would have possessed much stateliness, only that a grievousfit of the gout compelled him to hobble from stair to stair withcontortions of face and body. When Dr. Byles beheld this figure on thestaircase, he shivered as with an ague, but continued to watch himsteadfastly until the gouty gentleman had reached the threshold, madea 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!" gaspedDr. Byles. "This is an awful mockery."

  "A tedious foolery, rather," said Sir William Howe, with an air ofindifference. "But who were the three that preceded him?"

  "Governor Dudley, a cunning politician; yet his craft once brought himto a prison," replied Colonel Joliffe. "Governor Shute, formerly acolonel under Marlborough, and whom the people frightened out of theprovince, and learned Governor Burnett, whom the legislature tormentedinto a mortal fever."

  "Methinks they were miserable men--these royal governors ofMassachusetts," observed Miss Joliffe. "Heavens! how dim the lightgrows!"

  It was certainly a fact that the large lamp which illuminated thestaircase now burned dim and duskily; so that several figures whichpassed hastily down the stairs and went forth from the porch appearedrather like shadows than persons of fleshly substance.

  Sir William Howe and his guests stood at the doors of the contiguousapartments watching the progress of this singular pageant with variousemotions of anger, contempt or half-acknowledged fear, but still withan anxious curiosity. The shapes which now seemed hastening to jointhe mysterious procession were recognized rather by strikingpeculiarities of dress or broad characteristics of manner than by anyperceptible resemblance of features to their prototypes. Their faces,indeed, were invariably kept in deep shadow, but Dr. Byles and othergentlemen who had long been familiar with the successive rulers of theprovince were heard to whisper the names of Shirley, of Pownall, ofSir Francis Bernard and of the well-remembered Hutchinson, therebyconfessing that the actors, whoever they might be, in this spectralmarch of governors had succeeded in putting on some distantportraiture of the real personages. As they vanished from the door,still did these shadows toss their arms into the gloom of night with adread expression of woe. Following the mimic representative ofHutchinson came a military figure holding before his face the cockedhat which he had taken from his powdered head, but his epaulettes andother insignia of rank were those of a general officer, and somethingin his mien reminded the beholders of one who had recently been masterof the province-house and chief of all the land.

  "The shape of Gage, as true as in a looking-glass!" exclaimed LordPercy, turning pale.

  "No, surely," cried Miss Joliffe, laughing hysterically; "it could notbe 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, fixinghis eyes with a very marked expression upon the immovable visage ofher grandfather. "I have long enough delayed to pay the ceremonies ofa host to these departing guests; the next that takes his leave shallreceive due courtesy."

  A wild and dreary burst of music came through the open door. It seemedas it the procession, which had been gradually filling up its ranks,were now about to move, and that this loud peal of the wailingtrumpets and roll of the muffled drums were a call to some loiterer tomake haste. Many eyes, by an irresistible impulse, were turned uponSir William Howe, as if it were he whom the dreary music summoned tothe funeral of 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, although sodusky was the region whence it emerged some of the spectators fanciedthat they had seen this human shape suddenly moulding itself amid thegloom. Downward the figure came with a stately and martial tread, and,reaching the lowest stair, was observed to be a tall man booted andwrapped in a military cloak, which was drawn up around the face so asto meet the napped brim of a laced hat; the features, therefore, werecompletely hidden. But the British officers deemed that they had seenthat military cloak before, and even recognized the frayed embroideryon the collar, as well as the gilded scabbard of a sword whichprotruded from the folds of the cloak and glittered in a vivid gleamof light. 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, as ifto satisfy themselves that their host had not suddenly vanished fromthe midst of them. With a dark flush of wrath upon his brow, they sawthe general draw his sword and advance to meet the figure in the cloakbefore 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 whichwas pointed at his breast, made
a solemn pause and lowered the cape ofthe cloak from about his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectatorsto catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had evidently seenenough. The sternness of his countenance gave place to a look of wildamazement, if not horror, while he recoiled several steps from thefigure and let fall his sword upon the floor. The martial shape againdrew the cloak about his features and passed on, but, reaching thethreshold with his back toward the spectators, he was seen to stamphis foot and shake his clenched hands in the air. It was afterwardaffirmed that Sir William Howe had repeated that selfsame gesture ofrage and sorrow when for the last time, and as the last royalgovernor, 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 weremingled with the knell of midnight from the steeple of the Old Southand with the roar of artillery which announced that the beleagueredarmy of Washington had intrenched itself upon a nearer height thanbefore. As the deep boom of the cannon smote upon his ear ColonelJoliffe raised himself to the full height of his aged form and smiledsternly 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 a traitor'sshoulders."

  "You must make haste to chop it off, then," calmly replied thecolonel, "for a few hours longer, and not all the power of Sir WilliamHowe, 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 gaspto-night; almost while I speak it is a dead corpse, and methinks theshadows of the old governors are fit mourners at its funeral."

  With these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his cloak, and, drawing hisgranddaughter's arm within his own, retired from the last festivalthat a British ruler ever held in the old province of MassachusettsBay. It was supposed that the colonel and the young lady possessedsome secret intelligence in regard to the mysterious pageant of thatnight. However this might be, such knowledge has never become general.The actors in the scene have vanished into deeper obscurity than eventhat wild Indian hand who scattered the cargoes of the tea-ships onthe waves and gained a place in history, yet left no names. Butsuperstition, among other legends of this mansion, repeats thewondrous tale that on the anniversary night of Britain's discomfiturethe ghosts of the ancient governors of Massachusetts still glidethrough the portal of the Province House. And last of all comes afigure shrouded in a military cloak, tossing his clenched hands intothe air and stamping his iron-shod boots upon the broad freestonesteps with a semblance of feverish despair, but without the sound of afoot-tramp.

  * * * * *

  When the truth-telling accents of the elderly gentleman were hushed, Idrew a long breath and looked round the room, striving with the bestenergy of my imagination to throw a tinge of romance and historicgrandeur over the realities of the scene. But my nostrils snuffed up ascent of cigar-smoke, clouds of which the narrator had emitted by wayof visible emblem, I suppose, of the nebulous obscurity of his tale.Moreover, my gorgeous fantasies were woefully disturbed by therattling of the spoon in a tumbler of whiskey-punch which Mr. ThomasWaite was mingling for a customer. Nor did it add to the picturesqueappearance of the panelled walls that the slate of the Brookline stagewas suspended against them, instead of the armorial escutcheon of somefar-descended governor. A stage-driver sat at one of the windowsreading a penny paper of the day--the Boston _Times_--and presenting afigure which could nowise be brought into any picture of "Times inBoston" seventy or a hundred years ago. On the window-seat lay abundle neatly done up in brown paper, the direction of which I had theidle curiosity to read: "MISS SUSAN HUGGINS, at the PROVINCE HOUSE." Apretty chambermaid, no doubt. In truth, it is desperately hard workwhen we attempt to throw the spell of hoar antiquity over localitieswith which the living world and the day that is passing over us haveaught to do. Yet, as I glanced at the stately staircase down which theprocession of the old governors had descended, and as I emergedthrough the venerable portal whence their figures had preceded me, itgladdened me to be conscious of a thrill of awe. Then, diving throughthe narrow archway, a few strides transported me into the densestthrong of Washington street.