son, moving uneasily in his chair. "It was his lot to taste the bitterness of popular odium."

"Our annals tell us," continued the Captain of Castle William, "that the curse of the people followed this Randolph where he went, 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 itself outward, and was visible on the wretched man's countenance, making it too horrible to be looked upon. If so, and if this picture truly represented his aspect, it was in mercy that the cloud of blackness has gathered over it."

"These traditions are folly, to one who has proved, as I have, how little of historic truth lies at the bottom," said the Lieutenant-Governor. "As regards the life and character of Edward Randolph, too implicit credence has been given to Dr. Cotton Mather, who-I must say it, though some of his blood runs in my veins—has filled our early history with old women's tales, as fanciful and extravagant as those of Greece 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 not without a cause that it has hung so long in a chamber of the Province House. When the rulers feel themselves irresponsible, it were well that they should be reminded of the awful weight of a people's curse."

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The Lieutenant-Governor started, and gazed for a moment at his niece, as if her girlish fantasies had struck upon some feeling in his own breast, 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 ever before addressed the gentle Alice. "The rebuke of a king is more to be dreaded than the clamour of a wild, misguided multitude. Captain Lincoln, it is decided. The fortress of Castle William must be occupied by the Royal troops. The two remaining regiments shall be billeted in the town, or encamped upon the Common. It is time, after years of tumult, and almost rebellion, that His Majesty's Government should have a wall of strength about it."

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"Young man, it is decided," repeated Hutchinson, rising from his chair. "A British officer will be in attendance this evening to receive the necessary instructions for the disposal of the Royal troops. 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, whispering together, and once pausing to glance back at the mysterious picture. The captain of Castle William fancied that the girl's air and mien were such as might have belonged to one of those spirits of fable-fairies, or creatures of a more antique mythology—who sometimes mingled their agency with mortal affairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensibility to human weal or woe. As he held the door for her to pass, Alice beckoned to the picture and smiled. "Come forth, dark and evil Shape," cried she; "it is thine hour!"

In the evening, Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson sat in the same chamber where the foregoing scene had occurred, surrounded by several persons whose various interests had summoned them together. There were the Selectmen of Boston, plain, patriarchal fathers of the people, excellent representatives of the old Puritanical founders, whose sombre strength had stamped so deep an impress upon the New England character. Contrasting with these were one or two members of Council, richly dressed in the white wigs, the embroidered waistcoats, and other magnificence of the time, and making a somewhat ostentatious display of courtier-like ceremonial. In attendance, likewise, was a major of the British army, awaiting the Lieutenant-Governor's orders for the landing of the troops, which still remained on board the transports. The Captain of Castle William stood beside Hutchinson's chair, with folded arms, glancing rather haughtily at the British officer by whom he was soon to be superseded in his command. On a table, in the centre of the chamber, stood a branched silver candlestick, throwing down the glow of half-a-dozen wax lights upon a paper apparently ready for the Lieutentant-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 drapery of a lady's robe. It may appear strange that Alice Vane should have been there at such a time; but there was something so childlike, so wayward, in her singular character, so apart from ordinary rules, that her presence did not surprise the few who noticed it. Meantime, the chairman of the Selectmen was addressing to the Lieutenant-Governor a long and solemn protest against the reception of the British troops into the town.

"And if your honour," concluded this excellent

but somewhat prosy old gentleman, "shall see fit to persist in bringing these mercenary sworders and musketeers into our quiet streets, not on our heads be the responsibility. Think, sir, while there is yet time, that if one drop of blood be shed, that blood shall be an eternal stain upon your honour's memory. You, sir, have written with an able pen the deeds of our forefathers. The more to be desired is it, therefore, that yourself should deserve honourable mention, as a true patriot and upright ruler, when your own doings shall be written down in history."

"I am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural desire to stand well in the annals of my country," replied Hutchinson, controlling his impatience into courtesy; "nor know I any better method of attaining that end than by withstanding the merely temporary spirit of mischief which, with your pardon, seems to have infected elder men than myself. Would you have me wait till the mob shall sack the Province House, as they did my private mansion? Trust me, sir, the time may come when you will be glad to flee for protection to the King's banner, the raising of which is now so distasteful to you."

"Yes," said the British major, who was impatiently expecting the Lieutenant-Governor's orders. "The demagogues of this province have raised the devil, and cannot lay him again. We will exorcise him, in God's name and the King's." "If you meddle with the devil, take care of his claws!" answered the Captain of Castle William, stirred by the taunt against his countrymen.

"Craving your pardon, young sir," said the venerable Selectman, "let not an evil spirit enter into your words. We will strive against the oppressor with prayer and fasting, as our forefathers would have done. Like them, moreover, we will submit to whatever lot a wise Providence may send us-always, after our own best exertions to amend it."

"And there peep forth the devil's claws!" muttered Hutchinson, who well understood the nature of Puritan submission. "This matter shall be expedited forthwith. When there shall be a sentinel at every corner, and a court of guard before the town-house, a loyal gentleman may venture to walk abroad. What to me is the outcry of a mob in this remote province of the realm ? The King is my master, and England is my country! Upheld by their armed strength, I set my foot upon the rabble, and defy them!" He snatched a pen, and was about to affix his signature to the paper that lay on the table, when the Captain of Castle William placed his hand upon his shoulder. The freedom of the action, so contrary to the ceremonious respect which was then considered due to rank and dignity, awakened genoral surprise, and in none more than in the

Lieutenant-Governor himself. Looking angrily up, he perceived that his young relative was pointing his finger to the opposite wall. Hutchinson's eye followed the signal; and he saw, what had hitherto been unobserved, that a black silk curtain was suspended before the mysterious picture, so as completely to conceal it. His thoughts immediately recurred to the scene of the preceding afternoon; and in his surprise, confused by indistinct emotions, yet sensible that his niece must have had an agency in this 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 snatched away the sable curtain that concealed the portrait. An exclamation of surprise burst from every beholder; but the Lieutenant-Governor's voice had a tone of horror.

"By Heaven," said he, in a low, inward murmur, speaking rather to himself than to those around him, "if the spirit of Edward Randolph were to appear among us from the place of torment, he could not wear more of the terrors of hell upon his face!"

"For some wise end," said the aged Selectman, solemnly, "hath Providence scattered away the mist of years that had so long hid this dreadful effigy. Until this hour no living man hath seen what we behold!"

It

Within the antique frame, which so recently had enclosed a sable waste of canvas, now appeared a visible picture, still dark, indeed, in its hues and shadings, but thrown forward in strong relief. was a half-length figure of a gentleman in a rich, but very old-fashioned dress of embroidered velvet, with a broad ruff and a beard, and wearing a hat, the brim of which overshadowed his forehead. Beneath this cloud the eyes had a peculiar glare, which was almost lifelike. The whole portrait started so distinctly out of the back-ground, that it had the effect of a person looking down from the wall at the astonished and awe-stricken spectators. The expression of the face, if any words can convey an idea of it, was that of a wretch detected in some hideous guilt, and exposed to the bitter hatred, and laughter, and withering scorn of a vast surrounding multitude. Thero was the struggle of defiance, beaten down and overwhelmed by the crushing weight of ignominy. The torture of the soul had come forth upon the countenance. It seemed as if the picture, while hidden behind the cloud of immemorial years, had been all the time acquiring an intenser depth and darkness of expression, till now it gloomed forth again, and threw its evil omen over the present hour. Such, if the wild legend may be credited, was the portrait of Edward Randolph, as be

appeared when a people's curse had wrought its influence upon his nature.

""Twould drive me mad-that awful face," said Hutchinson, who seemed fascinated 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 characteristic feature-he strove to shake off the spell of Randolph's counte

nance.

"Girl," cried he, laughing bitterly, as he turned to Alice, "have you brought hither your painter's art, your Italian spirit of intrigue, your tricks of stage-effect, and think to influence the councils of rulers and the affairs of nations by such shallow contrivances ? See here!"

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Stay yet awhile," said the Selectman, as Hutchinson again snatched the pen; "for if ever mortal man received a warning from a tormented soul, your honour is that man!"

"Away!" answered Hutchinson, fiercely. "Though yonder senseless picture cried 'Forbear,' it should not move me!"

Casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face (which seemed at that moment to intensify the horror of its miserable and wicked look), he scrawled on the paper, in characters that betokened it a deed of desperation, the name of Thomas Hutchinson. Then, it is said, he shuddered 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 Alice Vane, like the voice of a good spirit flitting away.

When morning came there was a stifled whisper through the household, and, spreading thence about the town, that the dark, mysterious picture had started from the wall, and spoken face to face with Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson. If such a miracle had been wrought, however, no traces of it remained behind; for, within the antique frame, nothing could be discerned save the impenetrable cloud which had covered the canvas since the memory of man. If the figure had, indeed, stepped forth, it had fled back, spirit-like, at the day-dawn, and hidden itself behind a century's obscurity. The truth probably was, that Alice Vane's secret for restoring the hues of the picture had merely effected a temporary renovation. But those who, in that brief interval, had beheld the awful visage of Edward Randolph, desired no second glance, and ever afterwards trembled at the recollection of the scene, as if an evil spirit had appeared visibly among them. And as for Hutchinson, when, far over the ocean, his dying hour drew on, he gasped for breath, and complained that he was choking with the blood of the Boston Massacre; and Francis Lincoln, the former Captain of Castle William, who was standing at his bedside, perceived a likeness in his frenzied look to that of Edward Randolph. Did his broken spirit feel, at that dread hour, the tremendous burden of a people's curse?

ATHER ROACH was a good Irish priest,

Who stood in his stocking-feet,
six feet, at least.

I don't mean to say he'd six
feet in his stockings;
He only had two-so leave off
with your mockings.

I know that you think I was making a blunder:

If Paddy says lightning, you think he means thunder:

So I'll say, in his boots Father Roach stood to view

A fine comely man, of six feet two.

Oh, a pattern was he of a true Irish priest,
To carve the big goose at the big wedding feast,
To peel the big pratie, and take the big can
(With a very big picture upon it of "Dan"),

To pour out the punch for the bridegroom and bride, Who sat smiling and blushing on either side, While their health went around-and the innocent glee

Rang merrily under the old roof-tree.

Father Roach had a very big parish,

By the very big name of Knockdundherumdharish, With plenty of bog, and with plenty of mountain: The miles he'd to travel would throuble you countin'.

The duties were heavy, to go through them all, Of the wedding and christ'ning, the mass and

sick-call.

Up early, down late, was the good parish pastor. Few ponies than his were obliged to go faster. He'd a big pair o' boots, and a purty big pony, The boots greas'd with fat-but the baste was but bony;

For the pride of the flesh was so far from the pastor,

That the baste thought it manners to copy his master;

And, in this imitation, the baste, by degrees, Would sometimes attempt to go down on his knees;

But in this too great freedom the Father soon stopp'd him

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You will pause to inquire, and with wonder, perchance,

How so many perfections are plac'd, at a glance
In your view, of a poor Irish priest, who was fed
On potatoes, perhaps, or, at most, griddle bread;
Who ne'er rode in a coach, and whose simple
abode

Was a homely thatched cot, on a wild mountain road;

And Father Roach had a very big stick,

action,

And scatter, like chaff to the wind, ev'ry faction. If the leaders escap'd from the strong holy man, He made sure to be down on the heads of the clan, And the Blackfoot who courted each foeman's approach,

Round the innocent days of his infant bed

In heav'nward direction the boy's gentle mind, And stamp'd there the lessons its softness could take,

Which, strengthen'd in manhood, no power could

shake.

Father Roach had a very big mouth,

For the brave broad brogue of the beautiful South;

In saying the mass, sure his fine voice was famous,

It would do your heart good just to hear his "Oremus,"

Which brought down the broad-shoulder'd boys to their knees,

As aisy as winter shakes leaves from the trees: But the rude blast of winter could never approach

Father Roach had a brother beside;

His mother's own darling- his brother's fond pride;

Great things were expected from Frank, when the

world

Should see his broad banner of talent unfurl'd. But Fate cut him short-for the murderer's knife

Abridg'd the young days of Frank's innocent life;

And the mass for his soul was the only approach
To comfort now left for the fond Father Roach.

Father Roach had a penitent grim
Coming, of late, to confession to him;

Roach.

Father Roach had a very big heart,

And "a way of his own "-far surpassing all art;
His joke sometimes carried reproof to a clown;
He could chide with a smile-as the thistle sheds
down.

He was simple, tho' sage-he was gentle, yet

strong:

When he gave good advice, he ne'er made it too long,

But just rolled it up like a snowball, and pelted
It into your ear-where, in softness, it melted.

The good Father's heart, in its unworldly blindness,
Overflow'd with the milk of human kindness,
And he gave it so freely, the wonder was great
That it lasted so long-for, come early or late,
The unfortunate had it. Now some people deem
This milk is so precious, they keep it for cream;
But that's a mistake-for it spoils by degrees,
And, tho' exquisite milk, it makes very bad cheese.

The reverend Father, in all his time,
So dark a confession had never known,
As that now made to th' Eternal Throne;
And when he ask'd was the catalogue o'er,
The sinner replied-"I've a thrifle more."

"A trifle? What mean you, dark sinner,
say?
A trifle? Oh, think of your dying day!

A trifle more ?-what more dare meet
The terrible eye of the Judgment-seat
Than all I have heard?-the oath broken, the
theft

Of a poor maiden's honour-'twas all she had left!

Say what have you done that worse could be?" He whispered, "Your brother was murdered by me."

"O God!" groan'd the Priest, "but the trial is deep,

My own brother's murder a secret to keep,
And minister here to the murderer of mine-
But not my will, O Father, but Thine!”