II.
EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT.
The old legendary guest of the Province House abode in my remembrancefrom midsummer till January. One idle evening last winter, confidentthat he would be found in the snuggest corner of the bar-room, Iresolved to pay him another visit, hoping to deserve well of mycountry by snatching from oblivion some else unheard-of fact ofhistory. The night was chill and raw, and rendered boisterous byalmost a gale of wind which whistled along Washington street, causingthe gaslights to flare and flicker within the lamps.
As I hurried onward my fancy was busy with a comparison between thepresent aspect of the street and that which it probably wore when theBritish governors inhabited the mansion whither I was now going. Brickedifices in those times were few till a succession of destructivefires had swept, and swept again, the wooden dwellings and warehousesfrom the most populous quarters of the town. The buildings stoodinsulated and independent, not, as now, merging their separateexistences into connected ranges with a front of tiresome identity,but each 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, dimly vanishingfrom the eye by the ray of here and there a tallow candle glimmeringthrough the small panes of scattered windows, would form a sombrecontrast to the street as I beheld it with the gaslights blazing fromcorner to corner, flaming within the shops and throwing a noondaybrightness through the huge plates of glass. But the black, loweringsky, as I turned my eyes upward, wore, doubtless, the same visage aswhen it frowned upon the ante-Revolutionary New Englanders. The wintryblast had the same shriek that was familiar to their ears. The OldSouth Church, too, still pointed its antique spire into the darknessand was lost between earth and heaven, and, as I passed, its clock,which had warned so many generations how transitory was theirlifetime, spoke heavily and slow the same unregarded moral to myself."Only seven o'clock!" thought I. "My old friend's legends willscarcely kill the hours 'twixt this and bedtime."
Passing through the narrow arch, I crossed the courtyard, the confinedprecincts of which were made visible by a lantern over the portal ofthe Province House. On entering the bar-room, I found, as I expected,the old tradition-monger seated by a special good fire of anthracite,compelling clouds of smoke from a corpulent cigar. He recognized mewith evident pleasure, for my rare properties as a patient listenerinvariably make me a favorite with elderly gentlemen and ladies ofnarrative propensites. Drawing a chair to the fire, I desired minehost to favor us with a glass apiece of whiskey-punch, which wasspeedily prepared, steaming hot, with a slice of lemon at the bottom,a dark-red stratum of port wine upon the surface and a sprinkling ofnutmeg strewn over all. As we touched our glasses together, mylegendary friend made himself known to me as Mr. Bela Tiffany, and Irejoiced at the oddity of the name, because it gave his image andcharacter a sort of individuality in my conception. The oldgentleman's draught acted as a solvent upon his memory, so that itoverflowed with tales, traditions, anecdotes of famous dead people andtraits of ancient manners, some of which were childish as a nurse'slullaby, while others might have been worth the notice of the gravehistorian. Nothing impressed me more than a story of a blackmysterious picture which used to hang in one of the chambers of theProvince House, directly above the room where we were now sitting. Thefollowing is as correct a version of the fact as the reader would belikely to obtain from any other source, although, assuredly, it has atinge of romance approaching to the marvellous.
* * * * *
In one of the apartments of the province-house there was longpreserved an ancient picture the frame of which was as black as ebony,and the canvas itself so dark with age, damp and smoke that not atouch of the painter's art could be discerned. Time had thrown animpenetrable veil over it and left to tradition and fable andconjecture to say what had once been there portrayed. During the ruleof many successive governors it had hung, by prescriptive andundisputed right, over the mantel piece of the same chamber, and itstill kept its place when Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson assumed theadministration of the province on the departure of Sir FrancisBernard.
The lieutenant-governor sat one afternoon resting his head against thecarved back of his stately arm-chair and gazing up thoughtfully at thevoid blackness of the picture. It was scarcely a time for suchinactive musing, when affairs of the deepest moment required theruler's decision; for within that very hour Hutchinson had receivedintelligence of the arrival of a British fleet bringing threeregiments from Halifax to overawe the insubordination of the people.These troops awaited his permission to occupy the fortress of CastleWilliam and the town itself, yet, instead of affixing his signature toan official order, there sat the lieutenant-governor so carefullyscrutinizing the black waste of canvas that his demeanor attracted thenotice of two young persons who attended him. One, wearing a militarydress of buff, was his kinsman, Francis Lincoln, the provincialcaptain of Castle William; the other, who sat on a low stool besidehis chair, was Alice Vane, his favorite niece. She was clad entirelyin white--a pale, ethereal creature who, though a native of NewEngland, had been educated abroad and seemed not merely a strangerfrom another clime, but almost a being from another world. For severalyears, until left an orphan, she had dwelt with her father in sunnyItaly, and there had acquired a taste and enthusiasm for sculpture andpainting which she found few opportunities of gratifying in theundecorated dwellings of the colonial gentry. It was said that theearly productions of her own pencil exhibited no inferior genius,though perhaps the rude atmosphere of New England had cramped her handand dimmed the glowing colors of her fancy. But, observing her uncle'ssteadfast gaze, which appeared to search through the mist of years todiscover the subject of the picture, her curiosity was excited.
"Is it known, my dear uncle," inquired she, "what this old pictureonce represented? Possibly, could it be made visible, it might prove amasterpiece of some great artist; else why has it so long held such aconspicuous place?"
As her uncle, contrary to his usual custom--for he was as attentive toall the humors and caprices of Alice as if she had been his ownbest-beloved child--did not immediately reply, the young captain ofCastle William took that office upon himself.
"This dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin," said he, "has beenan heirloom in the province-house from time immemorial. As to thepainter, I can tell you nothing; but if half the stories told of it betrue, not one of the great Italian masters has ever produced somarvellous a piece of work as that before you."
Captain Lincoln proceeded to relate some of the strange fables andfantasies which, as it was impossible to refute them by oculardemonstration, had grown to be articles of popular belief in referenceto this old picture. One of the wildest, and at the same time thebest-accredited, accounts stated it to be an original and authenticportrait of the evil one, taken at a witch-meeting near Salem, andthat its strong and terrible resemblance had been confirmed by severalof the confessing wizards and witches at their trial in open court. Itwas likewise affirmed that a familiar spirit or demon abode behind theblackness of the picture, and had shown himself at seasons of publiccalamity to more than one of the royal governors. Shirley, forinstance, had beheld 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 had caughtglimpses of a visage frowning down upon them at morning or eveningtwilight, or in the depths of night while raking up the fire thatglimmered on the hearth beneath, although, if any were, bold enough tohold a torch before the picture, it would appear as black andundistinguishable as ever. The oldest inhabitant of Boston recollectedthat his father--in whose days the portrait had not wholly faded outof sight--had once looked upon it, but would never suffer himself tobe questioned as to the face which was there represented. Inconnection with such stories, it was remarkable that over the top ofthe frame there were some ragged remnants of black silk, ind
icatingthat a veil had formerly hung down before the picture until theduskiness of time had so effectually concealed it. But, after all, itwas the most 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, who hadoccasionally shuddered as well as smiled while her cousin spoke. "Itwould be almost worth while to wipe away the black surface of thecanvas, since the original picture can hardly be so formidable asthose which fancy paints instead of it."
"But would it be possible," inquired her cousin," to restore this darkpicture to its pristine hues?"
"Such arts are known in Italy," said Alice.
The lieutenant-governor had roused himself from his abstracted mood,and listened with a smile to the conversation of his young relatives.Yet his voice had something peculiar in its tones when he undertookthe explanation of the mystery.
"I am sorry, Alice, to destroy your faith in the legends of which youare so fond," remarked he, "but my antiquarian researches have longsince made me acquainted with the subject of this picture--if pictureit can be called--which is no more visible, nor ever will be, than theface of the long-buried man whom it once represented. It was theportrait of Edward Randolph, the founder of this house, a personfamous in the history of New England."
"Of that Edward Randolph," exclaimed Captain Lincoln, "who obtained therepeal of the first provincial charter, under which our forefathershad enjoyed almost democratic privileges--he that was styled thearch-enemy of New England, and whose memory is still held in detestationas the destroyer of our liberties?"
"It was the same Randolph," answered Hutchinson, moving uneasily inhis chair. "It was his lot to taste the bitterness of popular odium."
"Our annals tell us," continued the captain of Castle William, "thatthe curse of the people followed this Randolph where he went andwrought evil in all the subsequent events of his life, and that itseffect was seen, likewise, in the manner of his death. They say, too,that the inward misery of that curse worked itself outward and wasvisible on the wretched man's countenance, making it too horrible tobe looked upon. If so, and if this picture truly represented hisaspect, it was in mercy that the cloud of blackness has gathered overit."
"These traditions are folly to one who has proved, as I have, how littleof historic truth lies at the bottom," said the lieutenant-governor."As regards the life and character of Edward Randolph, too implicitcredence has been given to Dr. Cotton Mather, who--I must say it,though some of his blood runs in my veins--has filled our earlyhistory with old women's tales as fanciful and extravagant as those ofGreece or Rome."
"And yet," whispered Alice Vane, "may not such fables have a moral?And methinks, if the visage of this portrait be so dreadful, it is notwithout a cause that it has hung so long in a chamber of theprovince-house. When the rulers feel themselves irresponsible, it werewell that they should be reminded of the awful weight of a people'scurse."
The lieutenant-governor started and gazed for a moment at his niece,as if her girlish fantasies had struck upon some feeling in his ownbreast which all his policy or principles could not entirely subdue.He knew, indeed, that Alice, in spite of her foreign education,retained the native sympathies of a New England girl.
"Peace, silly child!" cried he, at last, more harshly than he had everbefore addressed the gentle Alice. "The rebuke of a king; is more tobe dreaded than the clamor of a wild, misguided multitude.--CaptainLincoln, it is decided: the fortress of Castle William must beoccupied by the royal troops. The two remaining regiments shall bebilleted in the town or encamped upon the Common. It is time, afteryears of tumult, and almost rebellion, that His Majesty's governmentshould have a wall of strength about it."
"Trust, sir--trust yet a while to the loyalty of the people," saidCaptain Lincoln, "nor teach them that they can ever be on other termswith British soldiers than those of brotherhood, as when they foughtside by side through the French war. Do not convert the streets ofyour native town into a camp. Think twice before you give up oldCastle William, the key of the province, into other keeping than thatof 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 the troops.Your presence also will be required. Till then, farewell."
With these words the lieutenant-governor hastily left the room, whileAlice and her cousin more slowly followed, whispering together, andonce pausing to glance back at the mysterious picture. The captain ofCastle William fancied that the girl's air and mien were such as mighthave belonged to one of those spirits of fable--fairies or creaturesof a more antique mythology--who sometimes mingled their agency withmortal affairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensibility to human wealor woe. 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 same chamberwhere the foregoing scene had occurred, surrounded by several personswhose various interests had summoned them together. There were theselectmen of Boston--plain patriarchal fathers of the people,excellent representatives of the old puritanical founders whose sombrestrength had stamped so deep an impress upon the New Englandcharacter. Contrasting with these were one or two members of council,richly dressed in the white wigs, the embroidered waistcoats and othermagnificence of the time, and making a somewhat ostentatious displayof courtier-like ceremonial. In attendance, likewise, was a major ofthe British army, awaiting the lieutenant-governor's orders for thelanding of the troops, which still remained on board the transports.The captain of Castle William stood beside Hutchinson's chair, withfolded arms, glancing rather haughtily at the British officer by whomhe was soon to be superseded in his command. On a table in the centreof the chamber stood a branched silver candlestick, throwing down theglow of half a dozen waxlights upon a paper apparently ready for thelieutenant-governor's signature.
Partly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of the window-curtains,which fell from the ceiling to the floor, was seen the white draperyof a lady's robe. It may appear strange that Alice Vane should havebeen there at such a time, but there was something so childlike, sowayward, in her singular character, so apart from ordinary rules, thather presence did not surprise the few who noticed it. Meantime, thechairman of the selectmen was addressing to the lieutenant-governor along and solemn protest against the reception of the British troopsinto the town.
"And if Your Honor," concluded this excellent but somewhat prosy oldgentleman, "shall see fit to persist in bringing these mercenarysworders and musketeers into our quiet streets, not on our heads bethe responsibility. Think, sir, while there is yet time, that if onedrop of blood be shed, that blood shall be an eternal stain upon YourHonor's memory. You, sir, have written with an able pen the deeds ofour forefathers; the more to be desired is it, therefore, thatyourself should deserve honorable mention as a true patriot andupright ruler when your own doings shall be written down in history."
"I am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural desire to stand wellin the annals of my country," replied Hutchinson, controlling hisimpatience into courtesy, "nor know I any better method of attainingthat end than by withstanding the merely temporary spirit of mischiefwhich, with your pardon, seems to have infected older men than myself.Would you have me wait till the mob shall sack the province-house asthey did my private mansion? Trust me, sir, the time may come when youwill be glad to flee for protection to the king's banner, the raisingof which is now so distasteful to you."
"Yes," said the British major, who was impatiently expecting thelieutenant-governor's orders. "The demagogues of this province haveraised the devil, and cannot lay him again. We will exorcise him inGod's name and the king's."
"If you meddle with the devil, take care of his claws," answered thecaptain of
Castle William, stirred by the taunt against hiscountrymen.
"Craving your pardon, young sir," said the venerable selectman, "letnot an evil spirit enter into your words. We will strive against theoppressor with prayer and fasting, as our forefathers would have done.Like them, moreover, we will submit to whatever lot a wise Providencemay send us--always after our own best exertions to amend it."
"And there peep forth the devil's claws!" muttered Hutchinson, whowell understood the nature of Puritan submission. "This matter shallbe expedited forthwith. When there shall be a sentinel at every cornerand a court of guard before the town-house, a loyal gentleman mayventure to walk abroad. What to me is the outcry of a mob in thisremote province of the realm? The king is my master, and England is mycountry; upheld by their armed strength, I set my foot upon the rabbleand defy them."
He snatched a pen and was about to affix his signature to the paperthat lay on the table, when the captain of Castle William placed hishand upon his shoulder. The freedom of the action, so contrary to theceremonious respect which was then considered due to rank and dignity,awakened general surprise, and in none more than in thelieutenant-governor himself. Looking angrily up, he perceived that hisyoung relative was pointing his finger to the opposite wall.Hutchinson's eye followed the signal, and he saw what had hithertobeen unobserved--that a black silk curtain was suspended before themysterious picture, so as completely to conceal it. His thoughtsimmediately recurred to the scene of the preceding afternoon, and inhis surprise, confused by indistinct emotions, yet sensible that hisniece must have had an agency in this phenomenon, he called loudlyupon 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 snatched away thesable curtain that concealed the portrait. An exclamation of surpriseburst from every beholder, but the lieutenant-governor's voice had atone of horror.
"By Heaven!" said he, in a low inward murmur, speaking rather tohimself than to those around him; "if the spirit of Edward Randolphwere to appear among us from the place of torment, he could not wearmore 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 hid thisdreadful effigy. Until this hour no living man hath seen what webehold."
Within the antique frame which so recently had enclosed a sable wasteof canvas now appeared a visible picture-still dark, indeed, in itshues and shadings, but thrown forward in strong relief. It was ahalf-length figure of a gentleman in a rich but very old-fashioneddress of embroidered velvet, with a broad ruff and a beard, andwearing a hat the brim of which overshadowed his forehead. Beneaththis cloud the eyes had a peculiar glare which was almost lifelike.The whole portrait started so distinctly out of the background that ithad the effect of a person looking down from the wall at theastonished and awe-stricken spectators. The expression of the face, ifany words can convey an idea of it, was that of a wretch detected insome hideous 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 upon thecountenance. It seemed as if the picture, while hidden behind thecloud of immemorial years, had been all the time acquiring an intenserdepth and darkness of expression, till now it gloomed forth again andthrew its evil omen over the present hour. Such, if the wild legendmay be credited, was the portrait of Edward Randolph as he appearedwhen a people's curse had wrought its influence upon his nature.
"'Twould drive me mad, that awful face," said Hutchinson, who seemedfascinated by the contemplation of it.
"Be warned, then," whispered Alice. "He trampled on a people's rights.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 most characteristicfeature--he strove to shake off the spell of Randolph's countenance.
"Girl," cried he, laughing bitterly, as he turned to Alice, "have youbrought hither your painter's art, your Italian spirit of intrigue,your tricks of stage-effect, and think to influence the councils ofrulers and the affairs of nations by such shallow contrivances? Seehere!"
"Stay yet a while," said the selectman as Hutchinson again snatchedthe pen; "for if ever mortal man received a warning from a tormentedsoul, 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 at thatmoment to intensify the horror of its miserable and wicked look--hescrawled on the paper, in characters that betokened it a deed ofdesperation, the name of Thomas Hutchinson. Then, it is said, heshuddered, as if that signature had granted away his salvation.
"It is done," said he, and placed his hand upon his brow.
"May Heaven forgive the deed!" said the soft, sad accents of AliceVane, like the voice of a good spirit flitting away.
When morning came, there was a stifled whisper through the household, andspreading thence about the town, that the dark mysterious picture hadstarted from the wall and spoken face to face with Lieutenant-governorHutchinson. If such a miracle had been wrought, however, no traces ofit remained behind; for within the antique frame nothing could bediscerned save the impenetrable cloud which had covered the canvassince the memory of man. If the figure had, indeed, stepped forth, ithad fled back, spirit-like, at the day-dawn, and hidden itself behinda century's obscurity. The truth probably was that Alice Vane's secretfor restoring the hues of the picture had merely effected a temporaryrenovation. But those who in that brief interval had beheld the awfulvisage of Edward Randolph desired no second glance, and ever afterwardtrembled at the recollection of the scene, as if an evil spirit hadappeared visibly among them. And, as for Hutchinson, when, far overthe ocean, his dying-hour drew on, he gasped for breath and complainedthat he was choking with the blood of the Boston Massacre, and FrancisLincoln, the former captain of Castle William, who was standing at hisbedside, perceived a likeness in his frenzied look to that of EdwardRandolph. Did his broken spirit feel at that dread hour the tremendousburden of a people's curse?
* * * * *
At the conclusion of this miraculous legend I inquired of mine hostwhether the picture still remained in the chamber over our heads, butMr. Tiffany informed me that it had long since been removed, and wassupposed to be hidden in some out-of-the-way corner of the New EnglandMuseum. Perchance some curious antiquary may light upon it there, and,with the assistance of Mr. Howorth, the picture-cleaner, may supply anot unnecessary proof of the authenticity of the facts here set down.
During the progress of the story a storm had been gathering abroad andraging and rattling so loudly in the upper regions of the ProvinceHouse that it seemed as if all the old governors and great men wererunning riot above stairs while Mr. Bela Tiffany babbled of thembelow. In the course of generations, when many people have lived anddied in an ancient house, the whistling of the wind through itscrannies and the creaking of its beams and rafters become strangelylike the tones of the human voice, or thundering laughter, or heavyfootsteps treading the deserted chambers. It is as if the echoes ofhalf a century were revived. Such were the ghostly sounds that roaredand murmured in our ears when I took leave of the circle round thefireside of the Province House and, plunging down the doorsteps,fought my way homeward against a drifting snow-storm.