 | CHAP. XVI. The rebels, or, Boston before the Revolution |  |
16. CHAP. XVI.
There are feelings that no human agency can limit; and mental wounds
too deep for the art of man to heal.
The Spy.
Mr. Osborne's prediction with regard to the repeal
of the Stamp Act proved too true. The subject of
American taxation was again discussed in the British
parliament, and eventuated in the Revenue Act of '67;
which consisted of sundry duties on tea, glass, paper,
and painters' colours. This law was palmed upon the
Colonies under the name of an external tax for the
regulation of commerce; and the framers of it presumed
it would not interfere with their established prejudices
with regard to internal taxation.
However, Burke has well said that “to tax and to
please, no more than to love and to be wise, is not given
to men.” This fine-spun scheme of policy was received
with even more indignation than had yet been expressed.
Mr. Osborne, weakened by lingering illness, traced
the consequences of this second attack on the liberties
of his country, with such intense anxiety, that the faculties
of the venerable patriot were completely deranged;
and America was thus deprived of his counsels at a time
when she most needed the wisdom of all her sons.
His insanity seemed to take its colouring from the
mildness and humility of his character. It never assumed
a wild and boisterous appearance; but there
succession,—and pray with the earnest pleadings of indulged
infancy, that the eyes of the king might be opened,
before they awoke on the blood and ruin of his fairest
territories.
The heart of Henry would ache almost to bursting,
when he watched him in these wayward moods. “Oh,
England!” he would say, as he pressed his hand to his
forehead,—“Oh, England! what a wreck has thou
made.”
“Did you speak of England?” cried the unfortunate
father, starting from his trance,—“I tell you, young man,
that the sceptre shall depart from her; and the lawgiver
from between her feet. The time will come when she
will rend her purple robe, and mourn her folly in sack-cloth
and ashes. I saw it,” muttered he, looking upward
with a vacant and frightened aspect,—“I saw it in
the clouds. Blood and destruction were in its train.”
“My dear father,” said Henry, “think of the God in
whom you have always trusted.”
“I do, my son, I do. I have prayed to Him; and
verily He hath heard me in my affliction. But.” added
he, lowering his voice to a most impressive whisper,—
“Liberty is in her shroud! I saw her pass by in the robes
of the tomb.” Then the habitual associations of the
pulpit would come over him; and he would point to
heaven as he exclaimed, “But there is a resurrection,
my hearers—there is a resurrection.”
The imagination shrinks from decay of any kind;
but what is so dreadful as the wreck of our proudest
poor Grace, her father's situation seemed an almost
insupportable burthen of distress; yet it was really
salutary. One great absorbing affliction left no room
for petty griefs; and the disappointed girl found in
constant occupation and unwearied anxiety, the very
best medicine for a heart sickening with hope deferred.
A beloved object is always encircled with a radiant
halo, which brightens every thing around it; and notwithstanding
its absence had rendered the sky less blue,
and the grass less green, Miss Osborne, fortunately for
herself, had not leisure to be always dwelling upon the
change. Her father was now her daily care, and her
nightly dream; but though his children often succeeded
in their attempts to sooth and divert him, their kind
attentions produced no permanent effects.
Doctor Willard had hopes that new scenes and change
of air might restore him; and therefore recommended
a journey to Canada. Accordingly, in midsummer,
1767, the whole family set out upon their northern expedition.
Mr. Osborne had been beyond Albany in 1753, when
most of the country was in primeval wildness. But
fourteen years had elapsed, yet the scenery had in many
places great pretensions to rural beauty; and so rapid
had been the growth of towns and villages, that it seemed
as if the hand of magic had at once invested its
grandeur with the robe of gracefulness.
In his intervals of rationality, the invalid noticed these
changes, and would speak of them with rapture;—then
with its future misery, and the light of reason would
again glimmer, and sink in its socket.
His weak state of mind and body rendered it absolutely
necessary to travel by short stages, and keep him
free from all mental excitement; but the spirit of the
country was so universally roused, that they found the
latter exceedingly difficult. The rumour that a gentleman
from Massachusetts, crazed in the cause of liberty,
was travelling to the North, went before them; and not
only did they every where meet with the most compassionate
sympathy, but frequently, as their humble equipage
drove from the inn, a few, less judicious in their
kindness, would shout, “Hurra for New-England!”
“Long life to the patriot!” At Albany, Grace watched
by her father until she saw him in a quiet slumber,
before she descended to the supper room. At the door
she met the landlady, who, in a cautious whisper, asked
if they had ordered tea. The mild and timid beauty
answered in a tone of unusual decision, “No, madam,
I am an American.”
Henry, suspecting the nature of the question, added,
“And no American woman ought for a moment to forget
that she can do much for a cause in which husbands and
sons, fathers and brothers, are alike suffering.” The
countenance of the hostess brightened—she courtesied,
begged a thousand pardons,—said they were exactly of
her way of thinking, and left the apartment.
“Our good father sleeps quietly, does he not?” inquired
Henry. On being answered in the affirmative,
be careful about giving such spirited answers when he is
waking.”
“I am not very apt to speak on politics,” replied
Grace; “for it is a subject on which I do not love to
hear ladies talk; but in these times, it is fitting they
should act. If John Dudley, and all the honest farmers
in the country, can refrain from mutton, in order to
raise wool enough to manufacture our own cloth, and
vex the English merchants,—I surely can dispense with
the petty luxury of tea.”
“Well said, my patriotic sister,” rejoined Henry,
playfully kissing her forehead. “I really think you
could proselyte the most inveterate tory to the good
cause, if you were to set about it in earnest.”
A shade of melancholy passed over her face. There
was something in that word “tory” that called up a
thousand recollections of “auld lang syne.” Captain
Somerville had written one letter to her brother, in a
style strangely studied and formal. She herself had
not received a single line; and Lucretia, ignorant how
much she was wounding her friend, spoke of him as
her almost constant companion.
Perhaps this unaccountable neglect had given additional
fervour to political feelings, ever deeply imbedded
in Miss Oshorne's heart, though her bashful lips had
seldom given them utterance. Certain it is, that our
best and most disinterested motives will always, upon
strict inquiry, be found more complex than we had
imagined.
The place which their Canadian friends had chosen
for a residence, seemed like an Eden, pure and lovely
enough to drive away the disease and misery attendant
on mortality. It was one of those numerous islands,
which the St. Lawrence so well loves to encircle in his
arms. The house was situated at the foot of a thickly
wooded hill, then rich with the verdant foliage of summer.
The trees threw their broad, deep shadows along
the mighty river; and the tasteful simplicity of the cottage,
reflected on its majestic surface, seemed like the
dove of contentment folding its soft wing over the
waters.
The heart could not, in its most craving mood, require
a more cordial welcome than our travellers received
from Edward Percival and his young wife; and Henry
eagerly indulged the hope that their unpretending kindness,
together with the tranquillity of their sequestered
situation, would ultimately win back the scattered intellects
of his venerable father.
However, it seemed, for a while, as if the very peacefulness
of his retreat was converted into a source of
uneasiness. With the waywardness of lunacy, he connected
every thing around him with the painful subject
that had unnerved his system. Even the melody of
the woods was torture to him. “Here we are,” said
he, “listening to the singing of birds, when every soul
should be up and active in the cause of freedom.
Hark! Do you hear the oar of the smuggler, as he
sweeps round the cove? He goes to offer to New
England what she should never taste.”
Sometimes the bright, still surface of the river, with
luxuriance and beauty reposing on its bosom, awakened
sensations of utter wretchedness; and he would lay his
hand impressively on Henry's shoulder, and exclaim,
“Young man, you will live to see that water stained with
the blood of your brethren. I see it,” continued he,
covering his eyes,—“I see it gushing at every pore”
At a later period, when the St. Lawrence foamed and
dashed its angry answer to the autumnal storms, he
would say, “Yes,—fret and roar in thy wrath,—the
storm will come, and burst in fury over us all. The roar
of the cannon, and the burden of the fleet will come
upon you in an hour when you think not of it.”
Grace and her friend watched over him in these hours
of desolation, with that soothing and judicious tenderness
in which woman alone is skilled. Day after day,
the sick man might be seen taking his slow and circumscribed
walk, leaning on his daughter and Mrs. Percival.
Those who have seen Peele's fine moral picture of the
Court of Death, could readily imagine Grace, with her
perfect symmetry of feature, and transparent fairness of
complexion, personified in the figure of Virtue guiding
the feeble step of Age; and had the expression of
Pleasure been innocent rather than voluptuous, the
dark-brown hair, brilliant eyes, and glowing cheek of
Gertrude, might well have been mistaken for the living,
breathing original of the painting.
A rational and placid smile would sometimes play
around the old man's lips, as he looked on his youthful
nurses; and his spirit, softened and bowed down within
The mind is a noble instrument.—Even the discord
of its broken keys has something of music in its wildness;
and oftentimes, when it seems all disordered and
defaced, there is one uninjured string that thrills responsive
to the musician's touch.
The ideal forms of beauty still float, in all their correctness
of outline before the painter's eye; the ear of
the minstrel is still tremblingly alive to every combination
of sound; and the heart that has been bewildered by
sudden bereavement, needs but a glance or a tone like
those of the beloved object, to recall in a connected
series the whole detail of its pleasures and its pains.
Thus it was with Mr. Osborne. The latent divinity,
which had so long been shrouded in darkness, gleamed
only in the avenues of piety; and the frequency of
prayer, mixed with the consolations of Scripture, by
degrees scattered the clouds that obscured its brightness.
Business had recalled Henry at the end of a few
weeks; but Grace and her father, at the urgent entreaty
of their friends, remained in Canada until the
Spring of 1768.
Henry's letters during this time were once or twice
accompanied by packages from England. In these
epistles, Lucretia made no further complaints of “magnificent
formality;” on the contrary, her expressions
were those of “a heart reeling with its fulness;” and
poor deserted Grace felt them enter into her soul, like
borne, because no one sympathized with them; for what
timidity and a fear of disapprobation had at first concealed,
pride would not now suffer her to reveal. Gertrude
did indeed notice that too close attendance on a
sick bed had sunk her cheek, and dimmed her eye; and
she affectionately remonstrated with her on the danger
she was incurring. Mr. Percival, at the suggestion of
his wife, made a slight allusion to her ill health in one of
his letters to Henry, which immediately brought the affectionate
brother to her side. Grace denied that she
had been ill; and so much was she enlivened by Henry's
unexpected presence, that her assertion was not
difficult to be believed.
Another pleasant disappointment awaited his arrival.
His father had enjoyed two months of uninterrupted
rationality; and now talked of England and taxation
with calmness and consistency.
When his son congratulated him on his recovery, he
replied, “I was too anxious to work out our deliverance
by human wisdom—I did not place my trust in Him
who holdeth the nations in the hollow of his hand. Let
my chastisement teach us humility.” “And now, as
soon as the roads are sufficiently settled, I suppose you
will be ready to go home and tell of the good effects of
a Canadian winter?” said Grace.
“Never speak of home,” said Mrs. Percival; “you
have almost taught us to be unable to live without you.”
“Yes, our hearts as well as our habitation are large
enough for you all,” added her husband. “Your
and young men like your son are needed in the Canadas.”
“But more needed in New England,” answered
Mr. Osborne. “We must not suffer the prospect of
wealth or ease to seduce us from the standard of truth
and liberty. Besides, my friends, we are already
under obligations which money can never repay, had I
millions to offer you.”
“We too have had our obligations,” said Gertrude;
and she sighed when she thought of the deathbed of
her father;—“but to tell the truth, I crave still more
from you. If Grace would but remain a year with me,
it would add very much to my happiness”
“She may do as she pleases,” said the father,—at
the same time looking very sorrowful.
“I would do any thing to evince my gratitude to you,
Mrs. Percival,” said Grace; “but I cannot leave my
only parent; and truly never did a home-sick child so
long for a mother's smile, as I do to see Boston.”
“Lucretia will be there soon, I suppose,” observed
Mrs. Percival;” and her claims are of course prior to
mine.”
“I forgot to tell you that I had a letter from Doctor
Willard this morning,” said Henry. “He mentions that
two regiments of royal troops are about to sail for America;
and that Captain Somerville is one of the commanders.
He likewise wrote that it was rumoured he
would be married before be sailed.”
Grace looked deadly pale,—but dared not trust herself
to ask a question. “To whom” inquired Mrs.
Percival.
“To Miss Fitzherbert,” replied the younger Osborne.
“Very probably, however, it is a mere report, founded
on the circumstance of their going out to England together.
But really, dear Grace, you cannot conceal
from me that you are ill, very ill.”
His father gave him a look of much meaning. It
said, as plainly as looks could say it, “That fatal delusion
is strong as ever;” and Grace perceiving herself
the object of distressed attention, kindly replied to their
inquiries, and retired to her own chamber.
“Is it not very strange,” said Mr. Osborne, “that
Captain Somerville has not fulfilled his promise of
writing to you?”
“Not at all strange,” replied Henry. “Ambition is
the only steady principle that guides his course. In all
things else he is as volatile and changeable as the wind.
My acquaintance was a pleasant recreation to him while
in Boston, no doubt; but of what consequence is the
friendship of a young lawyer, who has neither wealth
nor patronage to offer him?”
“You judge more harshly than usual,” said Percival.
“I speak my cool, unbiassed opinion,” rejoined Henry.
“I always admired his talents,—but I never respected
his character; and I was always aware that our
acquaintance was of that bright, meteor-like kind, that
often happens between people of no real congeniality.”
“And what do you think of this rumour about royal
troops?” inquired Percival.
“It is what I have long expected. And I think they
will soon be recalled,—else few will live to carry back
a description of New England.”
“I believe you most heartily,” rejoined Percival;
and the God who has kindled such a flame in the breast
of two millions of freemen, has surely ordained that
the rebels shall be free.”
“And we ought to be on the spot, my son,” said Mr.
Osborne. “Boston will soon need all the strength and
wisdom of her children.”
“Next week, if you please, sir,” replied Henry.
Mr. and Mrs. Percival warmly contended that it was
too soon; that the roads were bad; that Grace was not
strong enough to endure the fatigue; and that they could
not yet part with them. Grace, however, exerted herself
to appear in good health and spirits,—the Spring
was unusually favourable for travelling—and on the
first week of May they departed for Boston,—where
they soon after arrived in health and safety.
| CHAP. XVI. The rebels, or, Boston before the Revolution | |