[11] In this connection, the subjoined document--the original of which we have now at hand--may not be uninteresting, as showing the conditions on which the heirs of Governor John Hancock consented to sell so large a piece of the estate:--
"We the Subscribers, being a Committee of the town of Boston for the purpose of purchasing a piece of Land for the erection of public buildings, certify to all whom it may concern, that the Governor's pasture purchased by us, shall be conveyed to the Commonwealth for that use only, and that no private building shall be erected upon any part of said pasture. Witness our hands this 9th day of April, 1795.
WM. TUDOR, JOHN C. JONES, JOS. RUSSELL, WILLIAM EUSTIS, H. G. OTIS, THOS. DAWES, WILLIAM LITTLE, PEREZ MORTON."
[12] "Inclosed you have the dimensions of two Bed Chambers for each of which I want Wilton Carpets,--do let them be neat. The British Officers who possess'd my house totally defac'd & Ruined all my Carpets, & I must Submit."--_Extract from a Letter of John Hancock, dated Nov. 14, 1783, to Captain Scott, at Liverpool,--contained in Gov. Hancock's Letter-Book._
Brant Beach is a long promontory of rock and sand, jutting out at an acute angle from a barren portion of the coast. Its farthest extremity is marked by a pile of many-colored, wave-washed boulders; its junction with the main-land is the site of the Brant House, a watering-place of excellent repute.
The attractions of this spot are not numerous. There is surf-bathing all along the outer side of the beach, and good swimming on the inner. The fishing is fair; and in still weather, yachting is rather a favorite amusement. Further than this, there is little to be said, save that the hotel is conducted upon liberal principles, and the society generally select.
But to the lover of Nature--and who has the courage to avow himself aught else?--the sea-shore can never be monotonous. The swirl and sweep of ever-shifting waters,--the flying mist of foam breaking away into a gray and ghostly distance down the beach,--the eternal drone of ocean, mingling itself with one's talk by day and with the light dance-music in the parlors by night,--all these are active sources of a passive pleasure. And to lie at length upon the tawny sand, watching, through half-closed eyes, the heaving waves, that mount against a dark-blue sky wherein great silvery masses of cloud float idly on, whiter than the sunlit sails that fade and grow and fade along the horizon, while some fair damsel sits close by, reading ancient ballads of a simple metre, or older legends of love and romance,--tell me, my eater of the fashionable lotos, is not this a diversion well worth your having?