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 vitæ, 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-goods 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
