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 the grave historian. Nothing impressed me more than a story of a black mysterious picture, which used to hang in one of the chambers of the Province House, directly above the room where we were now sitting. The following is as correct a version of the fact as the reader would be likely to obtain from any other source, although, assuredly, it has a tinge of romance approaching to the marvellous.
In one of the apartments of the Province House there was
long preserved 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 a touch of the painter's art could be discerned.
Time had thrown an impenetrable veil over it, and left
to tradition and fable and conjecture to say what had once been
there portrayed. During the rule of many successive governors
it had hung, by prescriptive and undisputed right, over the
mantel-piece of the same chamber; and it still kept its place
when Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson assumed the administration
of the province, on the departure of Sir Francis Bernard.
The Lieutenant-Governor sat, one afternoon, resting his head against the carved back of his stately armchair, and gazing up thoughtfully at the void blackness of the picture. It was scarcely a time for such inactive musing, when affairs of the deepest
