matter in hand, and groping for it amid misty shadows. Then would he cackle forth a feeble laugh, and express a doubt whether his wits—for by that phrase it pleased our ancient friend to signify his mental powers—were not getting a little the worse for wear.
Under these disadvantages, the old loyalist's story required more revision to render it fit for the public eye than those of the series which have preceded it; nor should it be concealed that the sentiment and tone of the affair may have undergone some slight, or perchance more than slight metamorphosis, in its transmission to the reader through the medium of a thorough-*going democrat. The tale itself is a mere sketch, with no involution of plot, nor any great interest of events, yet possessing, if I have rehearsed it aright, that pensive influence over the mind, which the shadow of the old Province House flings upon the loiterer in its courtyard.
The hour had come—the hour of defeat and humiliation—when
Sir William Howe was to pass over the threshold of the
Province House, and embark, with no such triumphal ceremonies
as he once promised himself, on board the British fleet. He
bade his servants and military attendants go before him, and
lingered a moment in the loneliness of the mansion, to quell the
fierce emotions that struggled in his bosom as with a death-throb.
Preferable, then, would he have deemed his fate had a warrior's
death left him a claim to the narrow territory of a grave, within
the soil which the king had given him to defend. With an
ominous perception that, as his departing footsteps echoed
adown the staircase, the sway of Britain was passing forever
from New England, he smote his clinched hand on his brow,
