came. Who were these men, was a question that long puzzled the gossips of the town. Endicott and Bellingham and others of the magistrates knew that these were of that bold band of men who had sat in judgment upon their king and had condemned him to death.

But it was not alone in England that tragedies were enacted. From the superstition of the time sprang the delusion which, a few years later, in Salem, wrought such atrocities as make men shudder even now, when they are recalled. Upon the family of Bellingham was the blow the first to fall. The deputy-governor, despairing and helpless to save her from her dreadful fate, saw his sister led forth to death.1 Thus another and a blacker shadow fell upon Richard Bellingham's life. With the death of Endicott was removed the last obstacle to the full realization of Bellingham's hopes. Twice had he been elected governor, but for only a year at each time had he enjoyed his exaltation. There were those who, following the superstitious ideas of the day, fully believed that to his faithlessness to Ezekiel might be ascribed all his woes and disappointments. Some said that the young secretary's gesture, at parting with the governor and Penelope, upon their bridal evening, was an unuttered curse, and that this, hovering like a cloud above the two, hung between them and the sunlight of happiness. As one by one, the little ones were laid away in the tomb, the more superstitious among the townspeople shook their heads gravely and whispered one to another, as the funerals passed: "Behold, here is yet another withered blossom." And when, for the second time, Bellingham failed to hold the lofty position that he had acquired, a few were left of these, who said solemnly among themselves: "Nay, but this must needs be so. Bellingham hath brought upon himself his own debasement.'

But at length his last rival for gubernatorial honors was gone. Winthrop had preceded Endicott to the unseen country

1 Mrs. Ann Hibbens, widow of William Hibbens, and sister of Deputy-Governor Bellingham, hanged for witchcraft on Boston Common, June, 1656. Vide New England Historical Genealogical Register, Vol. VI., p. 283; also, Hutchinson Papers, published by Massachusetts Historical Society, Second Series, Vol. VI.; also Records and Archives of Massachusetts General Court, 1656.

by nearly a score of years. Dudley, too, was gone, and now, save Bellingham, scarce one remained of that band of leaders who for so many years had stood at the head of the affairs of state. He was an old man now. Twenty-four years had passed since first he claimed the title of governor. But now, at last, when he had come into the full fruition of a life-long hope,1 his youth and middle age were long past. A childless old man, too, he was, for John, the hope of his years, a young man, stalwart and strong, the son of his old age, had been taken.2

This last blow was a crushing one to Governor Bellingham and to his wife, Penelope. But as they stood by the open tomb, where already they had laid away so much of precious dust, the stern old man stood immovable amid the throng of onlookers, and gave no token of the great grief with which his proud heart was filled. But Penelope, as she gazed down into the gulf, and saw at her feet the row of tiny coffins, remembered suddenly her dream of years before. As vividly as then she saw the row of graves, now become to her a terrible reality; and as she turned away from the tomb and left, in his long sleep, the last child of her heart, her tearful eyes met a look of the deepest sympathy and sorrow, upon an unfamiliar face.

Then, again, came to her mind her dream, and she saw once more, but now in the flesh, the sad, patient face, fringed about with hair like hoar-frost. She saw the deep, blue eyes, and in them that same look of unutterable love, which was cast upon her when Ezekiel, her betrothed and forsaken, left her presence forever. she went to her home and wept.

And

But Governor Bellingham, when alone in his chamber, paced the floor with clenched hands, and cried aloud in his

1 Richard Bellingham was deputy-governor of the colony of Massachusetts Bay in 1635, and again in 1640. In 1641 he was elected governor, but held that office but one year. In 1653 he was again elected deputy-governor, and in 1654 was for a single year advanced to the position of gov ernor. In 1655 he was made deputy-governor and held that office by successive re-elections, with Endicott as governor, until the death of the latter in 1665. Bellingham was then elected governor, and held that office until his death in 1672, at the age of eighty-one years.

2 John Bellingham, son of Richard and Penelope Bellingham, graduated at Harvard College in 1660, and died about the year 1670.

agony: "O, my son, Absalom! my son, my son, Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom! my son, my son !" Governor Bellingham did not long survive his son. Beyond his three-score years and ten when last chosen governor, he was readily persuaded to allow the younger and more vigorous deputy-governor, Willoughby, and later the ambitious Leverett, to perform many of the functions of the higher office. But when the son of his old age was taken from him, his heart broke. For two years he lingered, until he had fully rounded his four-score years. But one day, when the leaves were yellow upon the trees, a long procession wound its way to the old burying-ground, and Richard Bellingham was gathered to his fathers.1

The stern old man's career was ended, and beside the son whom he so greatly loved and the little children who had come to him only for a season he was laid away to rest. A great concourse looked on in solemn silence. Among them all there was but one soul which grieved for him; one whose once golden locks were now turned to silver, though more from grief than age; for she had sold a heart's love for wealth and station, and had purchased but an empty token. What now remained to Penelope, save a generation of widowhood, a faded ribbon close about her neck, and a hope of immortality?

But what of Governor Bellingham? A Nemesis had followed him through life, and even in the grave, where all troubles of this earth should end, it still pursued him. Suns rose and set; seasons came and went; the province succeeded the colony; a war for liberty came, and the waves of conflict surged about his restingplace; soldiers clad in scarlet played cards upon his tombstone. Then the forces of Britain were driven back, and peace came and spread her white wings over a longstricken people. Then came a long line of governors of a free state, and one of these sought a place of sepulture for his family. But the old burying-ground was crowded with silent forms, mustered thither through a century and a half of living and dying. Then said Governor Sullivan:

1 Governor Richard Bellingham died December 7, 1672, in the eighty-first year of his age. Vide his tombstone in Granary Burying-ground, Boston.

"Behold, here is the tomb of this ancient governor of the colony. Who, indeed, was Richard Bellingham, save, as the records tell us, for a while, a hundred years ago, governor of the colony of Massachusetts Bay? He has no descendants to claim or to care for his resting-place. Why should not I, James Sullivan, claim this tomb to be mine?" And it was so ordered by the selectmen of the town, and the name of another was carved above that of Richard Bellingham, upon his tombstone.1 And it came to pass, in the lapse of time, that Governor Sullivan, too, was gathered to his fathers, and once more was seen a great concourse of people following a governor's bier to his resting-place. It is many years ago that Governor Sullivan was laid away for his long sleep beside Governor Bellingham. But still it is one of the traditions which hover about the old Granary Burying-ground in Boston, that they who opened the tomb, whose entrance had been sealed for a hundred years, started, with a sudden shock, at that which was revealed. Lo! the earth itself, from which we all sprang, and to which we must return, had recoiled from him who would betray a friend. Gushing from her depths, a spring had bubbled forth and filled the space; and upon the surface of the dark water floated an ancient oaken coffin. Upon its lid was written the name of Richard Bellingham."

XV.

LITTLE remains to be recorded. Penelope Bellingham, a sad-faced widow, went from her husband's grave to her deserted mansion. It was but a step or two distant, and from certain windows of her home she might see, if she would, the tomb which held all for which she had lived. But it is said that from these windows the lonely woman never looked, and passers-by re

1 Ibid. "The Bellingham family being extinct, the selectmen of Boston, in the year 1782, assigned this tomb to James Sullivan, Esquire." Description of Boston, p. 214. 2 Vide Shurtleff's Topographical and Historical "The soil was springy and exceedingly damp. It is said that when Judge Sullivan, at the close of the last century, repaired the Bellingham tomb, he found the coffin and remains of the old governor died on the seventh of December, 1672, in the eighty-first year of his age-floating around in the ancient vault."

who

marked that at them the curtains were never drawn. Trouble and sorrow, to which she had been no stranger for years, did not desert her now. The records of the courts of Massachusetts contain no uch long-contested suit at law as that which, for one hundred and fourteen years, was waged concerning the last will and testament of Governor Bellingham. During the thirty long years of her widowhood she knew no day when the wealth for which she bargained the love of her youth was not the subject of legal controversy. At Chelsea, at Ipswich, at Salem, she tarried for a time, as if to seek rest for a troubled spirit. But as surely as the metal returns to the lodestone, so did Madame Bellingham return to the place of her triumph and of her sorrow. She seldom looked upon the tomb which held her all, for inseparable from it was the mental vision of those sad eyes which looked upon her once and yet again, so full of love and of compassion. On rare occasions was she seen in public. Sometimes, at dusk, attended only by a servant, would she venture forth from her gloomy mansion, from whose quaint windows the light of social hospitality never shone. The younger people of the town looked upon her with reverence, mingled with awe; the children regarded the mysterious woman with dread, and fled if they saw her approaching in the gloaming. At infrequent intervals she attended church, where she sat with other aged dames or spinsters in the foreseat for women.1 As the congregation dispersed, she would return with silent dignity the greetings of these relics of a past age, and of the very few who remained of her husband's contemporaries. These for malities over, she would hasten away, with downcast eyes and closely drawn veil, as if fearful lest she might encounter one whose glance would bring to her heaviness of spirit for days to come.

Meanwhile great matters were happening in the mother-country across the sea. The second Charles had flashed, and revelled, and died, a disappointed man that he had left none of his line to succeed him. The second James had mounted the throne, but to view from its height a sea of blood; and at last, a fugitive, he was king no longer, and the first of the line of Protestant mon

1 Vide Diary of Samuel Sewell. "Madame Bellingham in the foreseat for women."

archs ascended England's throne. William and Mary reigned together over Britain. Then Mary died and William was left to rule alone.

One bright day in May, 1702, a great buzzing was heard in the market-place and about the streets of Boston. A town-house had been built in the open stead, since the days of Governor Bellingham, where all the public affairs were transacted. About it were clustered groups of excited men. Not a few women, too, attracted by the unusual concourse, paused to learn the meaning of it all. There were not many in the throng, whom we saw gathered here upon the morning of Bellingham's first election. More than sixty years had passed since that memorable morning. Here and there was seen an aged man, whose thin, white locks told of a generation long past. There were others, gray-haired men too, who, in recalling their childhood's days, told of that bright June morning when Winthrop and Endicott and Bellingham and Saltonstall walked together in the solemn procession.

"How, now!" asked a late-comer. "What meaneth this great concourse? Hast news of moment from our lord, the king?"

"Amen!" responded the other. And the magistrates are but now met together within the town house, and the speech of all is that soon after midday a proclamation shall be made to the people, that the virtuous princess Anne hath become our queen."

"Long live her Gracious Majesty!"

So ran the gossip of the town, and rapidly the tidings flew, from street to street, from house to house, until all had heard the great news. Then were seen, hurrying to the place of rendezvous, soldiers, bearing their glittering halberds. Now and then, amid the din, was heard the sound of a drum or fife. At length, amid the excited throng in the market-place, went up a shrill cry.

"Back! good people, back! They come!"

A sudden hush followed. Then the people, parting upon either side, made way for the grand procession. Crowded in a vast throng, they stood in solemn silence. Upon paling and gate-post were clustered the boys and the youth of the town. Even the roofs were black with human forms, while the windows which afforded a view of the market stead were filled with the matrons and maidens, interested spectators of the scene below. No sound but the tramp of the coming procession broke the stillness.

First came into view a platoon of horsemen, their brilliant uniforms and polished halberds glittering in the sun. Behind them came the Company of Artillery, though Robert Keayne no longer marched at its head. Then came the civic procession, the representatives to the General Court, the ministers, the justices in their robes of office, and citizens of wealth and prominence. Last of all came the life guard of horse, escorting the council of state, which that year performed the gubernatorial functions. Halting at the head of the market-place, the regiment divided into two ranks which, facing inward, were aligned upon either side of the open stead. Before the town house, in the centre of the open space, stood the color-bearer, holding aloft the standard of Britain. Within the lines of soldiery on either side were ranged the dignitaries, civil and ecclesiastical, who had formed a part of the solemn procession.

When all were in their places, Sheriff Gookin advanced to the centre of the open stead, and in a loud voice, though surely it seemed quite unnecessary, commanded all to keep silence. Then a figure, clad in black velvet, left his place among the ranks of official personages, and took his position beneath the folds of England's flag. It was Mr. Secretary Addington.

A deeper silence than before fell upon the vast assemblage. All listened for his voice, and soon, clear and full, it broke upon the air. In breathless silence the great throng stood, until the last words of the proclamation of Anne, as Queen of England, had died away. Then, amid the rolling of drums, long and loud burst forth from every throat a great cry: "Long live the Queen!"

Slowly the great crowd dispersed, and

as they went, the church bells took up the joyful refrain. From out their brazen throats rang forth a pæan of solemn rejoicing, sending far out over the sea, as if striving to reach the farther shore, the joyful tones of welcome to the sovereign of England, Old and New.

Suddenly the tones of rejoicing ceased, and, as the last tremulous vibrations thrilled the air and died away in space, a hush pervaded the town. All stilled their sounds of merry-making, and, looking at each other, said:

"Behold, what meaneth this sudden silence?”

In a moment more the bell began a solemn toll, and then all knew that, amid the rejoicing, some soul had passed to its final account.' A breathless, awe-struck stillness fell upon all as, at last, the tolling ceased. Then, after a pause, while all wondered who it was that had passed, the bell, in measured, but rapid strokes, again began its utterance:

"One! two! three! four! five! six! seven! eight! nine! ten!"

"It cannot be a child, then, whose soul has passed," said the listeners. "Fifteen sixteen! seventeen! eighteen!"

"It can be no youth," said another.

"Nor yet a young man or woman," argued a third, as the strokes reached and passed the twenties and entered upon the thirties.

Still the bell tolled on. Forty, fifty, and sixty were passed; and then the feeling of solemn awe deepened upon the listening town.

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Who, forsooth, can it be, whose spirit hath passed?" said they, one to another.

1 Vide Diary of Samuel Sewell, Vol. II. " May 28, 1702. Burrington from Newfoundland brings prints of the King's death, March 8 at 8 A.M.

At last the Gazette containing the proclaiming the Queen came to hand. Then we resolved to proclaim her Majesty here, which was done accordingly, below the Townhouse. Regiment drawn up and Life Guards of Horse; Council, Representatives, Ministers, Justices, Gentlemen taken with the Guard. Mr. Secretary on foot read the order of the Council, the Proclamation and Queen's Proclamation for continuing ComMr. Sheriff Gookin gave it to the Proclamation was made people. Volleys, guns. between 3 and 4 o'clock. At 5 P.M. Madam Bellingham dies, a vertuous Gentlewoman, antiquis, moribus, prisca fide, who has lived a widow just about 30 years."

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