History, having much to say of Beacon Hill generally, has, on the
present occasion, something to say particularly of a certain street
which bends over the eminence, sloping steeply down to its base. It
is an old street,--quaint, quiet, and somewhat picturesque. It was
young once, though,--having been born before the Revolution, and was
then given to the city by its father, Mr. Middlecott, who died without
heirs, and did this much for posterity. Posterity has not been grateful
to Mr. Middlecott. The street bore his name till he was dust, and then
got the more aristocratic epithet of Bowdoin. Posterity has paid him
by effacing what would have been his noblest epitaph. We may expect,
after this, to see Faneuil Hall robbed of its name, and called Smith
Hall! Republics are proverbially ungrateful. What safer claim to
public remembrance has the old Huguenot, Peter Faneuil, than the old
Englishman, Mr. Middlecott? Ghosts, it is said, have risen from the
grave to reveal wrongs done them by the living; but it needs no ghost
from the grave to prove the proverb about republics.

Bowdoin Street only differs from its kindred, in a certain shady, grave,
old-fogy, fossil aspect, just touched with a pensive solemnity, as if
it thought to itself, "I'm getting old, but I'm highly respectable;
that's a comfort." It has, moreover, a dejected, injured air, as if
it brooded solemnly on the wrong done to it by taking away its original
name and calling it Bowdoin; but as if, being a very conservative street,
it was resolved to keep a cautious silence on the subject, lest the
Union should go to pieces. Sometimes it wears a profound and mysterious
look, as if it could tell something if it had a mind to, but thought
it best not. Something of the ghost of its father--it was the only child
he ever had!--walking there all the night, pausing at the corners to
look up at the signs, which bear a strange name, and wringing his