“LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR HUTCHINSON,” continued Grandfather, “now began to
be unquiet in our old chair. He had formerly been much respected and
beloved by the people, and had often proved himself a friend to their
interests. But the time was come when he could not be a friend to
the people without ceasing to be a friend to the king. It was pretty
generally understood that Hutchinson would act according to the king’s
wishes, right or wrong, like most of the other gentlemen who held
offices under the crown. Besides, as he was brother-in-law of Andrew
Oliver, the people now felt a particular dislike to him.”
“I should think,” said Laurence, “as Mr. Hutchinson had written the
history of our Puritan forefathers, he would have known what the temper
of the people was, and so have taken care not to wrong them.”
“He trusted in the might of the King of England,” replied Grandfather,
“and thought himself safe under the shelter of the throne. If no dispute
had arisen between the king and the people, Hutchinson would have had
the character of a wise, good, and patriotic magistrate. But, from the
time that he took part against the rights of his country, the people’s
love and respect were turned to scorn and hatred, and he never had
another hour of peace.”
In order to show what a fierce and dangerous spirit was now aroused
among the inhabitants, Grandfather related a passage from history which
we shall call The Hutchinson Mob.
On the evening of the 26th of August, 1765, a bonfire was kindled in
King Street. It flamed high upward, and threw a ruddy light over the
front of the Town House, on which was displayed a carved representation
of the royal arms. The gilded vane of the cupola glittered in the blaze.
The kindling of this bonfire was the well-known signal for the populace
of Boston to assemble in the street.
Before the tar-barrels, of which the bonfire was made, were half burned
out, a great crowd had come together. They were chiefly laborers and
seafaring men, together with many young apprentices, and all those idle
people about town who are ready for any kind of mischief. Doubtless some
school-boys were among them.
While these rough figures stood round the blazing bonfire, you might
hear them speaking bitter words against the high officers of the
province. Governor Bernard, Hutchinson, Oliver, Storey, Hallowell, and
other men whom King George delighted to honor, were reviled as traitors
to the country. Now and then, perhaps, an officer of the crown passed
along the street, wearing the gold-laced hat, white wig, and embroidered
waistcoat which were the fashion of the day. But when the people beheld
him they set up a wild and angry howl; and their faces had an evil
aspect, which was made more terrible by the flickering blaze of the
bonfire.
“I should like to throw the traitor right into that blaze!” perhaps one
fierce rioter would say.
“Yes; and all his brethren too!” another might reply; “and the governor
and old Tommy Hutchinson into the hottest of it!”
“And the Earl of Bute along with them!” muttered a third; “and burn
the whole pack of them under King George’s nose! No matter if it singed
him!”
Some such expressions as these, either shouted aloud or muttered under
the breath, were doubtless heard in King Street. The mob, meanwhile,
were growing fiercer and fiercer, and seemed ready even to set the town
on fire for the sake of burning the king’s friends out of house and
home. And yet, angry as they were, they sometimes broke into a loud roar
of laughter, as if mischief and destruction were their sport.
But we must now leave the rioters for a time, and take a peep into the
lieutenant-governor’s splendid mansion. It was a large brick house,
decorated with Ionic pilasters, and stood in Garden Court Street, near
the North Square.
While the angry mob in King Street were shouting his name,
Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson sat quietly in Grandfather’s chair,
unsuspicious of the evil that was about to fall upon his head. His
beloved family were in the room with him. He had thrown off his
embroidered coat and powdered wig, and had on a loose-flowing gown and
purple-velvet cap. He had likewise laid aside the cares of state and all
the thoughts that had wearied and perplexed him throughout the day.
Perhaps, in the enjoyment of his home, he had forgotten all about the
Stamp Act, and scarcely remembered that there was a king, across the
ocean, who had resolved to make tributaries of the New-Englanders.
Possibly, too, he had forgotten his own ambition, and would not have
exchanged his situation, at that moment, to be governor, or even a lord.
The wax candles were now lighted, and showed a handsome room, well
provided with rich furniture. On the walls hung the pictures of
Hutchinson’s ancestors, who had been eminent men in their day, and were
honorably remembered in the history of the country. Every object served
to mark the residence of a rich, aristocratic gentleman, who held
himself high above the common people, and could have nothing to fear
from them. In a corner of the room, thrown carelessly upon a chair, were
the scarlet robes of the chief justice. This high office, as well as
those of lieutenant-governor, councillor, and judge of probate, was
filled by Hutchinson.
Who or what could disturb the domestic quiet of such a great and
powerful personage as now sat in Grandfather’s chair?
The lieutenant-governor’s favorite daughter sat by his side. She leaned
on the arm of our great chair, and looked up affectionately into her
father’s face, rejoicing to perceive that a quiet smile was on his lips.
But suddenly a shade came across her countenance. She seemed to listen
attentively, as if to catch a distant sound.
“What is the matter, my child?” inquired Hutchinson.
“Father, do not you hear a tumult in the streets?” said she.
The lieutenant-governor listened. But his ears were duller than those
of his daughter; he could hear nothing more terrible than the sound of a
summer breeze, sighing among the tops of the elm-trees.
“No, foolish child!” he replied, playfully patting her cheek. “There is
no tumult. Our Boston mobs are satisfied with what mischief they have
already done. The king’s friends need not tremble.”
So Hutchinson resumed his pleasant and peaceful meditations, and again
forgot that there were any troubles in the world. But his family were
alarmed, and could not help straining their ears to catch the slightest
sound. More and more distinctly they heard shouts, and then the
trampling of many feet. While they were listening, one of the neighbors
rushed breathless into the room.
“A mob! a terrible mob’!” cried he. “They have broken into Mr. Storey’s
house, and into Mr. Hallo-well’s, and have made themselves drunk with
the liquors in his cellar; and now they are coming hither, as wild as so
many tigers. Flee, lieutenant-governor, for your life! for your life!”
“Father, dear father, make haste!” shrieked his children.
But Hutchinson would not hearken to them. He was an old lawyer; and he
could not realize that the people would do anything so utterly lawless
as to assault him in his peaceful home. He was one of King George’s
chief officers and it would be an insult and outrage upon the king
himself if the lieutenant-governor should suffer any wrong.
“Have no fears on my account,” said he, “I am perfectly safe. The king’s
name shall be my protection.”
Yet he bade his family retire into one of the neighboring houses. His
daughter would have remained; but he forced her away.
The huzzas and riotous uproar of the mob were now heard, close at hand.
The sound was terrible, and struck Hutchinson with the same sort of
dread as if an enraged wild beast had broken loose and were roaring
for its prey. He crept softly to the window. There he beheld an immense
concourse of people, filling all the street and rolling onward to his
house. It was like a tempestuous flood, that had swelled beyond its
bounds and would sweep everything before it. Hutchinson trembled; he
felt, at that moment, that the wrath of the people was a thousand-fold
more terrible than the wrath of a king.
That was a moment when a loyalist and an aristocrat like Hutchinson
might have learned how powerless are kings, nobles, and great men, when
the low and humble range themselves against them. King George could do
nothing for his servant now. Had King George been there he could have
done nothing for himself. If Hutchinson had understood this lesson, and
remembered it, he need not, in after years, have been an exile from his
native country, nor finally have laid his bones in a distant land.
There was now a rush against the doors of the house. The people sent up
a hoarse cry. At this instant the lieutenant-governor’s daughter, whom
he had supposed to be in a place of safety, ran into the room and threw
her arms around him. She had returned by a private entrance.
“Father, are you mad?” cried she. “Will the king’s name protect you now?
Come with me, or they will have your life.”
“True,” muttered Hutchinson to himself; “what care these roarers for the
name of king? I must flee, or they will trample me down on the floor of
my own dwelling.”
Hurrying away, he and his daughter made their escape by the private
passage at the moment when the rioters broke into the house. The
foremost of them rushed up the staircase, and entered the room which
Hutchinson had just quitted. There they beheld our good old chair facing
them with quiet dignity, while the lion’s head seemed to move its jaws
in the unsteady light of their torches. Perhaps the stately aspect of
our venerable friend, which had stood firm through a century and a half
of trouble, arrested them for an instant. But they were thrust forward
by those behind, and the chair lay overthrown.
Then began the work of destruction. The carved and polished mahogany
tables were shattered with heavy clubs and hewn to splinters with
axes. The marble hearths and mantel-pieces were broken. The volumes of
Hutchinson’s library, so precious to a studious man, were torn out
of their covers, and the leaves sent flying out of the windows.
Manuscripts, containing secrets of our country’s history, which are now
lost forever, were scattered to the winds.
The old ancestral portraits, whose fixed countenances looked down on
the wild scene, were rent from the walls. The mob triumphed in
their downfall and destruction, as if these pictures of Hutchinson’s
forefathers had committed the same offences as their descendant. A tall
looking-glass, which had hitherto presented a reflection of the enraged
and drunken multitude, was now smashed into a thousand fragments. We
gladly dismiss the scene from the mirror of our fancy.
Before morning dawned the walls of the house were all that remained. The
interior was a dismal scene of ruin. A shower pattered in at the
broken windows; and when Hutchinson and his family returned, they stood
shivering in the same room where the last evening had seen them so
peaceful and happy.
“Grandfather,” said Laurence, indignantly, “if the people acted in this
manner, they were not worthy of even so much liberty as the King of
England was willing to allow them.”
“It was a most unjustifiable act, like many other popular movements at
that time,” replied Grandfather. “But we must not decide against the
justice of the people’s cause merely because an excited mob was guilty
of outrageous violence. Besides, all these things were done in the first
fury of resentment. Afterwards the people grew more calm, and were more
influenced by the counsel of those wise and good men who conducted them
safely and gloriously through the Revolution.”
Little Alice, with tears in her blue eyes, said that she hoped the
neighbors had not let Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson and his family be
homeless in the street, but had taken them into their houses and been
kind to them. Cousin Clara, recollecting the perilous situation of our
beloved chair, inquired what had become of it.
“Nothing was heard of our chair for some time afterwards,” answered
Grandfather. “One day in September, the same Andrew Oliver, of whom I
before told you, was summoned to appear at high noon under Liberty Tree.
This was the strangest summons that had ever been heard of; for it was
issued in the name of the whole people, who thus took upon themselves
the authority of a sovereign power. Mr. Oliver dared not disobey.
Accordingly, at the appointed hour he went, much against his will, to
Liberty Tree.”
Here Charley interposed a remark that poor Mr. Oliver found but little
liberty under Liberty Tree. Grandfather assented.
“It was a stormy day,” continued he. “The equinoctial gale blew
violently, and scattered the yellow leaves of Liberty Tree all along the
street. Mr. Oliver’s wig was dripping with water-drops; and he probably
looked haggard, disconsolate, and humbled to the earth. Beneath the
tree, in Grandfather’s chair,--our own venerable chair,--sat Mr. Richard
Dana, a justice of the peace. He administered an oath to Mr. Oliver that
he would never have anything to do with distributing the stamps. A vast
concourse of people heard the oath, and shouted when it was taken.”
“There is something grand in this,” said Laurence. “I like it, because
the people seem to have acted with thoughtfulness and dignity; and this
proud gentleman, one of his Majesty’s high officers, was made to feel
that King George could not protect him in doing wrong.”
“But it was a sad day for poor Mr. Oliver,” observed Grandfather. “From
his youth upward it had probably been the great principle of his life to
be faithful and obedient to the king. And now, in his old age, it must
have puzzled and distracted him to find the sovereign people setting up
a claim to his faith and obedience.”
Grandfather closed the evening’s conversation by saying that the
discontent of America was so great, that, in 1766, the British
Parliament was compelled to repeal the Stamp Act. The people made great
rejoicings, but took care to keep Liberty Tree well pruned and free
from caterpillars and canker-worms. They foresaw that there might yet be
occasion for them to assemble under its far-projecting shadow.