stly sounds that roared
and murmured in our ears when I took leave of the circle round the
fireside of the Province House and, plunging down the doorsteps,
fought my way homeward against a drifting snow-storm.

III.

LADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE.

Mine excellent friend the landlord of the Province House was pleased
the other evening to invite Mr. Tiffany and myself to an
oyster-supper. This slight mark of respect and gratitude, as he
handsomely observed, was far less than the ingenious tale-teller, and
I, the humble note-taker of his narratives, had fairly earned by the
public notice which our joint lucubrations had attracted to his
establishment. Many a cigar had been smoked within his premises, many
a glass of wine or more potent _aqua vitae_ had been quaffed, many
a dinner had been eaten, by curious strangers who, save for the
fortunate conjunction of Mr. Tiffany and me, would never have ventured
through that darksome avenue which gives access to the historic
precincts of the Province House. In short, if any credit be due to the
courteous assurances of Mr. Thomas Waite, we had brought his forgotten
mansion almost as effectually into public view as if we had thrown
down the vulgar range of shoe-shops and dry-good stores which hides
its aristocratic front from Washington street. It may be unadvisable,
however, to speak too loudly of the increased custom of the house,
lest Mr. Waite should find it difficult to renew the lease on so
favorable terms as heretofore.

Being thus welcomed as benefactors, neither Mr. Tiffany nor myself
felt any scruple in doing full justice to the good things that were
set before us. If the feast were less magnificent than those same
panelled walls had witnessed in a bygone century; if mine host
presided with somewhat less of state than might have befitted a
successor of the royal governors; if the guests made a less imposing
show than the bewigged and powdered and embroidered dignitaries who
erst banqueted at the gubernatorial table and now sleep within their
armorial tombs on Copp's Hill or round King's Chapel,--yet never, I
may boldly say, did a more comfortable little party assemble in the
province-house from Queen Anne's days to the Revolution. The occasion
was rendered more interesting by the presence of a venerable personage
whose own actual reminiscences went back to the epoch of Gage and
Howe, and even supplied him with a doubtful anecdote or two of
Hutchinson. He was one of t