In colonial days — Context and Discussion
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For In colonial days — Context and Discussion, the stored edition analysis reports 23,748 words, 1 hr 44 min estimated reading time, and 7 detected text sections.
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Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Short stories, American,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.
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from the steeple of the Old South, and with the roar of artillery, which announced that the beleaguering army of Washington had intrenched itself upon a nearer height than before. As the deep boom of the cannon smote upon his ear, Colonel Joliffe raised himself to the full height of his aged form, and smiled sternly on the British general.
“Would your Excellency inquire further into the mystery of the pageant?” said he.
“Take care of your gray head!” cried Sir William Howe, fiercely, though with a quivering lip. “It has stood too long on a traitor’s shoulders!”
“You must make haste to chop it off, then,” calmly replied the Colonel; “for a few hours longer, and not all the power of Sir William Howe, nor of his master, shall cause one of these gray hairs to fall. The empire of Britain, in this ancient province, is at its last gasp to-night; almost while I speak it is a dead corpse; and methinks the shadows of the old governors are fit mourners at its funeral!”
With these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his cloak, and, drawing his granddaughter’s arm within his own, retired from the last festival that a British ruler ever held in the old province of Massachusetts Bay. It was supposed that the Colonel and the young lady possessed some secret intelligence in regard to the mysterious pageant of that night. However this might be, such knowledge has never become general. The actors in the scene have vanished into deeper obscurity than even that wild Indian band who scattered the cargoes of the tea-ships on the waves, and gained a place in history, yet left no names. But superstition, among other legends of this mansion, repeats the wondrous tale, that on the anniversary night of Britain’s discomfiture, the ghosts of the ancient governors of Massachusetts still glide through the portal of the Province House. And last of all comes a figure shrouded in a military cloak, tossing his clinched hands into the air, and stamping his iron-shod boots upon the broad freestone steps with a semblance of feverish despair, but without the sound of a foot-tramp.
When the truth-telling accents of the elderly gentleman were hushed, I drew a long breath and looked round the room, striving, with the best energy of my imagination, to throw a tinge of romance and historic grandeur over the realities of the scene. But my nostrils snuffed up a scent of cigar-smoke, clouds of which the narrator had emitted by way of visible emblem, I suppose, of the nebulous obscurity of his tale. Moreover, my gorgeous fantasies were wofully disturbed by the rattling of the spoon in a tumbler of whiskey punch, which Mr. Thomas Waite was mingling for a customer. Nor did it add to the picturesque appearance of the panelled walls, that the slate of the Brookline stage was suspended against them, instead of the armorial escutcheon of some far-descended governor. A stage driver sat at one of the windows, reading a penny paper of the day,—the “Boston Times,”—and presenting a figure which could nowise be brought into any picture of “Times in Boston,” seventy or a hundred years ago. On the window-seat lay a bundle, neatly done up in brown paper, the direction of which I had the idle curiosity to read. “Miss SUSAN HUGGINS, at the PROVINCE HOUSE.” A pretty chambermaid, no doubt. In truth, it is desperately hard work, when we attempt to throw the spell of hoar antiquity over localities with which the living world, and the day that is passing over us, have aught to do. Yet, as I glanced at the stately staircase, down which the procession of the old governors had descended, and as I emerged through the venerable portal, whence their figures had preceded me, it gladdened me to be conscious of a thrill of awe. Then diving through the narrow archway, a few strides transported me into the densest throng of Washington Street.
II. EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT.
Hawthorne frames his four Province House tales as stories overheard in a decaying Boston mansion, where each narrative emerges from a specific object or threshold: a masquerade, a portrait, a mantle, a key. The collection moves between the narrator's present-day stroll and the colonial past, with each tale introduced by a detailed scene of the building's architecture—an arched passage, a contorted iron balustrade, a balcony. This structure creates a layered sense of time, where the past is not merely recalled but seems to press into the present through the very walls of the Province House.
Thresholds and Processions
The tales repeatedly stage arrivals and departures across thresholds. In "Howe's Masquerade," the narrator enters through a narrow archway; in "Lady Eleanore's Mantle," the coach halts before the iron balustrade, and a young man prostrates himself beside it. These moments of crossing—from street to house, from coach to ground—are charged with symbolic weight. The bell of the Old South tolls for a funeral as Lady Eleanore arrives, turning her entrance into a procession of calamity. Hawthorne uses these liminal spaces to blur the boundary between living and dead, past and present, as if the threshold itself is a portal through which history reenters.
Objects as Catalysts
Each tale centers on a charged object: a masquerade costume, a portrait, an embroidered mantle, a key. These items are not mere props but active agents that trigger the narrative. The mantle, for instance, is rumored to possess "magical properties of adornment," yet on the day of Lady Eleanore's arrival she wears a simple riding-habit, suggesting the object's power lies in perception rather than enchantment. Hawthorne describes the mantle as "wrought by the most skilful artist in London," grounding its allure in craftsmanship and rumor. The portrait in "Edward Randolph's Portrait" is similarly treated as a living presence, with characters addressing it directly. These objects accumulate meaning through repeated description and the reactions they provoke.
The Spectator's Gaze
Hawthorne frequently inserts a watching crowd or a single observer into the scenes. In "Lady Eleanore's Mantle," the crowd gathers on each side of the gateway, creating an "open avenue" for the coach. Their applause at Lady Eleanore's pride underscores their complicity in the drama. The narrator himself is a spectator, wandering through the Province House and listening to tales told by others. This framing device makes the reader aware of the act of looking—at the building, at the illustrations, at the past. The illustrations listed in the front matter, such as "Several Personages descending towards the Door" and "The Balcony," reinforce this visual emphasis, turning each tale into a tableau.
Recurring Figures and Motifs
Certain figures appear across the tales: the elderly gentleman, the young man in disorder, the military officer. In "Lady Eleanore's Mantle," Jervase Helwyse is described as "a pale young man, with his black hair all in disorder," a type that echoes the "tall, lank figure" and "stout man, dressed in rich and courtly attire" from earlier tales. These recurring types suggest a cast of archetypes rather than fully individuated characters. Motifs of descent and ascent—"descending towards the Door," "descended the flight of steps"—further unify the collection. The color plates listed in the illustrations, such as "The Shape of Gage, as True as in a Looking-glass" and "The Communication could be of no Agreeable Import," hint at moments of revelation or reversal that punctuate each story.
Readers may find it useful to attend to the way Hawthorne builds each tale around a single, often theatrical, scene. The collection rewards attention to the physical details of the Province House—the archway, the balcony, the iron balustrade—as these are not mere setting but active participants in the narrative. The tales are best read sequentially, as the framing narrator's voice and the building's atmosphere accumulate across the four stories, creating a unified impression of a past that refuses to stay buried.
In the Province House, Hawthorne’s figures step through thresholds, forever returning in costume and key. There is a quiet kinship in how Fiander's Widow: A Novel — Edition Insights likewise holds a dwelling’s past alive, not as spectacle, but as a weight one feels in the walls. Both books whisper that a house remembers, even when we only visit. Fiander's Widow: A Novel — Edition Insights.
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