University of Virginia Library

3. CHAP. III.

Bryant.

The political principles of Frederic Somerville were
rather the result of habit and education, than of personal
character. He was fresh from the classic schools
of Greece and Rome, and his own spirit was as free as
the untamed courser of the desert; but he had read
gorgeous descriptions of feudal power,—he had gazed
on old baronial castles, the massive grandeur of the
Gothic, and the lighter and more graceful outline of
Saxon architecture, till his imagination was wedded to
pompous pageantry, and his heart bowed down before
the crown, the coronet, and the mitre.

But he was enthusiastic, ardent, and capricious; and
those who knew him well, would have felt no surprise
at seeing him as valiant a champion for the rights of
man as he now was for the supremacy of his king.

Toward the evening of the 26th of August, he was
sitting in one of the alcoves which looked out upon the
garden, talking with his uncle concerning the arrival of
stamped paper, when a small arrow whizzed between
them, and fastened in the canvass hangings of the room.
Both started, and looked out at the window.

A lad, with cross-bow and quiver, was just scaling the
fence; but he was soon out of the reach of pursuit.

To the arrow was fastened a slip of paper, with these
words:

The Governor's face flushed to the very temples.

“Again reproached with the multiplicity of my
offices,” said he; “as if talents and education ought
not to command fortune.”

“Where is this tree, of which I have heard so much?”
inquired his nephew. “It seems these people are determined
that even their timber shall be implicated in
rebellion.”

“It is that large elm opposite Frog Lane,[1] where
the mob dared to suspend their insulting effigies on the
fourteenth of this month,” he replied.

“And what notice shall you take of this insulting
epistle?”

“Such notice as king George's representative should
take of the insolence of his subjects. I will never compromise
with their vengeance, nor govern them by
stratagem.”

“Spoken like Governor Hutchinson,” exclaimed
Somerville. He paused a moment, and looked anxiously

into the street, before he added, “Had I not
better go to the tree, and watch their proceedings?”

“As you please, sir. They will make no difference
in my arrangements, however. They will hardly dare
to touch my property; and if they do forget so far as
to pull down some of my fences, they will be compelled
to pay a pound for every penny I lose.”

With high ideas of English power, and with very gross
ignorance of the colonial character, Somerville regarded
the resistance of America as the discontented murmuring
of a wayward child; and as he now passed through the
principal streets of Boston, he was absolutely astonished
at the intense eagerness and portentous activity of the
crowd.

There was something in the hurried step of those
who were walking to and fro, and in the earnest manner
of those collected in groups, that seemed like the stormy
movements of the ocean, as it rises wave after wave,
and lashes itself to fury.

“There is the man that daddy calls the Breetish telltale,”
said a sturdy little fellow, who was helping his
companion fly a kite.

“By George, say that again, if you dare,” retorted
the son of a staunch tory, as he clenched his fist, and at
one blow prostrated him on the ground.

“I'm up again,” exclaimed the resolute little chap,
springing on his feet, and rubbing his ears.

“Let those who throw the infant Hercules, beware
his rising,” said a dark-eyed young man, whose flushed
cheek and sparkling eye betrayed the keen interest he
took in the scene.

Those who are the most enthusiastic in their opinions,
and the most impetuous in their conduct, are peculiarly
subject to violent reaction, and had Somerville at that
moment been alone in the world, without friends to
sway, or interest to guide him, he would have rebounded
from his long cherished aristocracy, to the extreme of
political freedom.

Desperate and wicked as he had been accustomed to
think the cause, he could not but admire the fearless
energy with which it was maintained; and with more
respect than he had ever before felt for the rebels, he
passed along to the place where a meeting with his uncle
had been appointed. There were clusters of people
within sight; but the immediate vicinity of the tree was
perfectly quiet.

A tall, slender man passed Somerville, with the slow
and irresolute step of one who has no other object in
walking than to while away a tedious interval. He
looked at his watch anxiously, and was about to retrace
the path he had just taken, when the young Englishman
arrested his attention. For a moment he seemed to
hesitate whether to speak, or not,—then suddenly
plunged into a narrow lane, the darkness of which soon
concealed him from view.

Willing to ascertain more fully the state of public
feeling, Somerville entered the White Horse tavern,
and carelessly glancing over the London Chronicle,
kept a watchful eye on those who entered and departed.

Several countrymen surrounded a gentleman in one
corner of the room, who was saying to them, “Be firm

Resist unto death; but,” added he, slowly and impressively
lowering his hand, “be moderate—be prudent.”

“Spoken like Samuel Adams,” said a young man,
who had that moment entered. Somerville immediately
recognised the figure that he had seen passing and repassing
the Liberty-tree, and the voice that had spoken
of the rising Hercules.

“Has he come, Doctor Willard,” inquired a dozen
voices.

“The person I sought is not yet where we expect
him,” answered he.

There was a long pause.

“Do you really think, after all Governor Hutchinson
has promised us, that he has dared to write to England,
advising them not to repeal this duty?” asked one of
the countrymen.

“It seems to be proved beyond all doubt,” replied
Willard.

“Let him look to 't, then,” said an old man, taking
out a huge quid of tobacco, and shaking his head most
significantly.

“And do you think, sir, this duty never will be
pealed?” inquired a ruddy-faced farmer.

“Franklin is making great exertions for us,” rejoined
Adams; “but the king is ignorant of the real state of
his Colonies, the ministry are obstinate, and their friends
here are wicked and selfish. We have much to fear.”

The farmer made a nod of defiance, similar to those
which a small boy ventures, when at a safe distance, to
direct toward the champion who has just thrown him.

“My friends,” said Adams, “remember that nothing
is to be gained by violence; much by calm and dignified
firmness. Let not the outrages of the 14th be re-acted.”

“Do you fear any open resistance?” asked Somerville,
stepping forward.

The two gentlemen looked anxiously at each other,
for his entrance had been unnoticed by all who stood in
that corner of the room; and Adams replied,

“I trust there will be no assault upon individual
property, sir; but there is no answering for the movements
of a populace, goaded and trampled on as we
have been.”

“I need not remind you of English power,” rejoined
Somerville; “and what will you do if they continue to
resolve that the duty shall be paid?”

“In such a case, hearts and hands will not be wanting,”
replied Willard. “To the nephew of Governor
Hutchinson, I shall say no more. Good evening, sir.”

“Ye 're a frind to your country, and I like ye for it,”
said the farmer. “But I 'll not stay here, nuther; for
I guess I should give too much of my mind to that
Breetish fellow.”

With an air of evident vexation, Somerville followed
them to the street, and the traces of recent indignation
were very conspicuous on his ingenuous countenance,
when he entered his uncle's library. This room contained
the finest collection of books then in the Colonies;
and bore obvious marks of the scholar, the
antiquarian, and the man of taste. It was hung with
canvass tapestry, on which was blazoned the coronation

of George II., here and there interspersed with the royal
arms. The portraits of Anne and the two Georges hung
in massive frames of antique splendour, and the crowded
shelves were surmounted with busts of the house of
Stuart. A table of polished black oak stood in the
centre, at which were seated the Governor and his
friend Doctor Byles.

“You are welcome, sir knight of the dolorous visage,”
said the facetious clergyman. “Your uncle and I have
been two hours endeavouring to decipher the black-letter
manuscript you brought us; but like the woeful messengers
that drove poor Job to desperation, each succeeding
hour has brought some one with rueful face and
direful tone, to tell us that the rebels are certainly about
to commit some dreadful outrage, and that we had better
prepare for the worst.”

“I come on the same mournful errand,” replied
Somerville, imitating the mock solemnity of his manner.
“But, to speak seriously, uncle, I have seen instances
of fearless audacity to-day, which leave no room to
doubt of the infuriated state of the populace.”

“Ill news are swallow-winged; but what is good walks
on crutches,” said Doctor Byles. “These discontented
wretches dare not insult one of his majesty's officers.”

Somerville repeated, very minutely, all he had heard
and seen during his absence.

“Why did you not treat the insolent rebels in the
manner they deserved?” inquired Governor Hutchinson.

“It was with difficulty that I did refrain in one instance,”
replied he; “but it is well I did; for you

know how much mischief Oliver's passionate friends
made on a similar occasion. After all, there is a touch
of spirit in this thing. I had rather see zeal in a bad
cause, than coldness in a good one. The mantle of
true English feeling must have descended on these
people, as they left our shores.”

“I confess, young man, I see no similarity to English—”

A confused noise in the distance here interrupted the
conversation For a few moments they listened with a
kind of stupefaction; and this gradually increased to a
bewildered, but intense fear of approaching danger, as
the sounds of drum and fife, mingled with the loud
shouts of men and boys, became terribly distinct.

“Lucretia is in the cupola,” said the Governor,
motioning to his nephew.

“My private papers are in that desk, Doctor Byles,”
added he. “They may be safer about your person than
mine. Get them into the hands of Mr. Osborne as soon
as possible.”

He was making other brief arrangements, with a
trembling eagerness that defeated his haste, when a
loud crash of falling glass announced that the multitude
had commenced the work of destruction.

Lucretia's voice was heard on the stairs, as she
screamed, “Aunt! aunt!” in an agony of terror.

Another tremendous wreck succeeded, as she burst
into the library.

“Oh, my God! where is aunt Sandford?” she exclaimed.
“Dear uncle, save yourself. Run, run to
Mr. Osborne's.”

The united voices of Somerville and Miss Sandford
were now heard, calling, “This way, Lucretia, this
way.”

With an involuntary wish to save something, she
caught two rolls of manuscripts, lying on the table, and
followed their direction.[2]

Quicker than it can be said, the whole family were
cautiously stealing through the back yard, on their way
to Mr. Osborne's.

As they came into the street in rear of the house,
bottles of Champaigne, and barrels of claret, brought
from the Governor's own cellar, were furiously broken
by the mob, who were drinking most immoderately.

“There goes stingy Tommy,” cried one.

“And Mather, the droll,” shouted another.

This recognition was followed by hats full of wine
thrown in their faces, with loud cries of “Don't it go
to your heart, stingy Tom?”

With difficulty they forced their way a few steps
farther, and came in view of a large effigy, mounted on
a car, round which the multitude were brandishing their
torches, exclaiming, while hundreds of hats waved in
dizzy circles through the air, “Liberty, or death! No
stamps! Hurra! Hurra! Hurra!”

“Down with the tyrant! down with the hypocrite!”
shouted the mob, as they formed a phalanx round the
Governor.

The tumult increased. At that moment, a tall, athletic
man pressed eagerly toward the group.

“In the name of Heaven, let not a hair of their heads
be injured,” said he. “Is it come to this in New-England,
that the presence of ladies is no safeguard
against rudeness.”

“You are one of his nephews, or parasite officers,”
muttered a bye-stander.

The arm of Somerville was raised, in the forgetfulness
of his anger, but was stayed by Doctor Byles.
“Forgive and despise them,” said he; “they are not
worthy of an Englishman's chastisement.

“Look me in the face, John,” said the gentleman
who came to their rescue. He raised his slouched hat
as he spoke, and displayed the resolute features of
Samuel Adams, as he added, “Am I not a friend to the
people? But this is licentiousness, not liberty. This is
no way to redress our wrongs.”

“But it is the way to revenge them,” shouted an
unknown voice.

“Let Governor Hutchinson and his household pass!”
said Adams, in a voice of thunder. “I will be his guard;
and he that stops me, does it at his peril.”

The multitude, awed by the boldness of his language,
fell back; the confusion subsided for a moment; and
the generous American soon conducted the family to
more quiet scenes.

But the spirit of riot again stormed; and the heads
of men seemed like the waves of the ocean, rising,
swelling, rushing onward.

The noise of shattered glass and falling timber was
mingled with horrid imprecations, in the midst of which,
down fell the magnificent cupola, crushed to a thousand
atoms.

“Fire the house, boys! fire the house!” shouted
one.

The crowd, whom contagious excitement and brutal
intoxication had maddened into fury, prepared to obey.

For an instant, fire-brands and torches were seen
gleaming in the air; but several voices were heard
earnestly expostulating with them,—and, whoever they
were, they had power to arrest the storm in the midst
of its uproar.

The noise gradually subsided. The mob scattered
off in detached companies; and before midnight, the
moon looked calmly down on the the quiet and deserted
mansion of Governor Hutchinson. Fragments of manuscripts,
tattered books, dilapidated furniture, and broken
windows, proclaimed that the torrent of liberty, which
had been so long fearfully swelling, had overflowed its
banks, and left terror and desolation in its course.

In the mean time, a rapid walk had brought the
wanderers to the house of the Rev. Mr. Osborne.
There were brief salutations, eager inquiries, and cordial
welcomes. Lucretia, who had not spoken one word
during the perilous scene, now clasped her arms around
Grace, and wept; Miss Sandford threw herself into a
chair, and rocked and sobbed violently; while Mr.
Osborne, forgetting how much he disliked the avarice
and political deception of Hutchinson, grasped his hand
most joyfully.

There is a certain point beyond which injuries cease
to exasperate, and their influence softens and subdues
the heart.

From the chamber window, the Governor watched
the movements of the rabble;—saw crow-bars and axes
busy on the roof of his magnificent dwelling, and witnessed
the cupola, as it fell, splintering into atoms.

“Would to heaven, it would crush the unfeeling
wretches,” exclaimed Somerville.

“Say not so, my nephew,” rejoined the Governor.
“Ra her pray that they may live to repent of their
conduct.”

Doctor Byles evinced the same spirit. He spoke of
the rash proceedings with mildness, very unusual to
him; and when they returned to the parlour, he said,
“With your leave brother Osborne, we will pray that
the sins of this night may be forgiven.”

At this moment, a shrill whistle was heard; and it
was immediately answered from a distance.

Grace cast a look of utter agony at Lucretia, who,
pale as death, exclaimed,

“Oh, that dreadful sound! It is the mob-whistle.”[3]

“It is a sound terribly familiar to our ears, indeed,”
said Hutchinson. “My good friend, our presence endangers
you. We must depart.”

“Not while there is any thing to fear,” rejoined
Osborne, in a decided tone. “If I cannot avert the
storm, its violence shall fall on me.”

“Leave this house; I beseech you, leave this house!”
exclaimed Doctor Willard, abruptly entering from a side
door. “There is no safety for you here; indeed there
is not.”

“Where can I go?” asked the Governor, in an
agitated voice.

“Remain with me,” said Mr. Osborne, taking firm
hold of his arm. “My young friend, you could not
suppose I would desert him at this moment.”

Faces were now seen at the window, and the awful
sounds of an infuriated multitude were again heard.
Doctor Willard cast a look of intense anxiety towards
Grace, which spoke more than volumes.

“Do you, young gentlemen, remain with the ladies.
If worst comes to worst, convey them to Doctor Mayhew's.
I myself will speak to these people,” said Mr.
Osborne.

The venerable man stepped forth alone, and as he
stood and gazed on the crowd, the clamour of voices
ceased.

His appearance was indeed wonderfully impressive.
His blue silk night-gown and slippers,—the white hair,
parted in the middle of his forehead, and falling negligently
over his shoulders, gave him the air of an evangelist
of olden time. The moon shone full upon him, and
displayed a countenance, in which intellect and affection
were singularly blended. The celestial light beaming
from his eye, announced that he lived above the world;
but the sweet smile that hovered round his lips, proclaimed
how much he loved those who still enjoyed it.

“What would you have, my friends?” said he.

The mildness of his tones formed a strange contrast
to their own tumultuous cries; and, awed into shame,
they continued silent.

At length, some one said, “Governor Hutchinson is
in your house, and he must leave it.”

“Not while I have a roof to shelter him,” rejoined
the intrepid clergyman.

“Be cautious, my dear sir,” whispered a man in disguise,
who stood near the door. “I fear your political
principles will not prove a sufficient shield.”

“My countrymen,” said the old man, in a voice extremely
agitated, “how well I love America, and how
much I have exerted myself for her rights, you all know.
I now tell you, once for all, that the ruins of this house
shall fall upon my head before I give up one who has
sought it for shelter. I have watched for your liberties,
wept for your sins, and prayed for your advancement in
holiness. My children, will you, can you, sacrifice me
to your vengeance?” Then, raising his clasped hands,
and streaming eyes to heaven, he added, “Father of
mercies, keep them from further sin!”

The humbled and conscience-stricken multitude looked
upon him with veneration. Blessings, and even sobs,
were audible.

One after another came up, bowed before him, and
passed quietly down the street. So much influence has
genuine piety over the unprincipled, in their wildest
moods.