t each possessing features of its own, as if the owner's individual
taste had shaped it, and the whole presenting a picturesque
irregularity the absence of which is hardly compensated by any
beauties of our modern architecture. Such a scene, dimly vanishing
from the eye by the ray of here and there a tallow candle glimmering
through the small panes of scattered windows, would form a sombre
contrast to the street as I beheld it with the gaslights blazing from
corner to corner, flaming within the shops and throwing a noonday
brightness through the huge plates of glass. But the black, lowering
sky, as I turned my eyes upward, wore, doubtless, the same visage as
when it frowned upon the ante-Revolutionary New Englanders. The wintry
blast had the same shriek that was familiar to their ears. The Old
South Church, too, still pointed its antique spire into the darkness
and was lost between earth and heaven, and, as I passed, its clock,
which had warned so many generations how transitory was their
lifetime, spoke heavily and slow the same unregarded moral to myself.
"Only seven o'clock!" thought I. "My old friend's legends will
scarcely kill the hours 'twixt this and bedtime."

Passing through the narrow arch, I crossed the courtyard, the confined
precincts of which were made visible by a lantern over the portal of
the 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 me
with evident pleasure, for my rare properties as a patient listener
invariably make me a favorite with elderly gentlemen and ladies of
narrative propensites. Drawing a chair to the fire, I desired mine
host to favor us with a glass apiece of whiskey-punch, which was
speedily prepared, steaming hot, with a slice of lemon at the bottom,
a dark-red stratum of port wine upon the surface and a sprinkling of
nutmeg strewn over all. As we touched our glasses together, my
legendary friend made himself known to me as Mr. Bela Tiffany, and I
rejoiced at the oddity of the name, because it gave his image and
character a sort of individuality in my conception. The old
gentleman's draught acted as a solvent upon his memory, so that it
overflowed with tales, traditions, anecdotes of famous dead people and
traits of ancient manners, some of which were childish as a nurse's
lullaby, while others might have been worth the notice of