“ALAS for the poor tories!” said Grandfather. “Until the very last
morning after Washington’s troops had shown themselves on Nook’s Hill,
these unfortunate persons could not believe that the audacious rebels,
as they called the Americans, would ever prevail against King George’s
army. But when they saw the British soldiers preparing to embark on
board of the ships of war, then they knew that they had lost their
country. Could the patriots have known how bitter were their regrets,
they would have forgiven them all their evil deeds, and sent a blessing
after them as they sailed away from their native shore.”
In order to make the children sensible of the pitiable condition of
these men, Grandfather singled out Peter Oliver, chief justice of
Massachusetts under the crown, and imagined him walking through the
streets of Boston on the morning before he left it forever.
This effort of Grandfather’s fancy may be called the Tory’s Farewell.
Old Chief Justice Oliver threw on his red cloak, and placed his
three-cornered hat on the top of his white wig. In this garb he intended
to go forth and take a parting look at objects that had been familiar to
him from his youth. Accordingly, he began his walk in the north part
of the town, and soon came to Faneuil Hall. This edifice, the cradle of
liberty, had been used by the British officers as a playhouse.
“Would that I could see its walls crumble to dust!” thought the chief
justice; and, in the bitterness of his heart, he shook his fist at
the famous hall. “There began the mischief which now threatens to rend
asunder the British empire. The seditious harangues of demagogues in
Faneuil Hall have made rebels of a loyal people and deprived me of my
country.”
He then passed through a narrow avenue and found himself in King Street,
almost on the very spot which, six years before, had been reddened by
the blood of the Boston massacre. The chief justice stepped cautiously,
and shuddered, as if he were afraid that, even now, the gore of his
slaughtered countrymen might stain his feet.
Before him rose the Town House, on the front of which were still
displayed the royal arms. Within that edifice he had dispensed justice
to the people in the days when his name was never mentioned without
honor. There, too, was the balcony whence the trumpet had been sounded
and the proclamation read to an assembled multitude, whenever a new king
of England ascended the throne.
“I remember--I remember,” said Chief Justice Oliver to himself, “when
his present most sacred Majesty was proclaimed. Then how the people
shouted! Each man would have poured out his life-blood to keep a hair of
King George’s head from harm. But now there is scarcely a tongue in all
New England that does not imprecate curses on his name. It is ruin and
disgrace to love him. Can it be possible that a few fleeting years have
wrought such a change?”
It did not occur to the chief justice that nothing but the most grievous
tyranny could so soon have changed the people’s hearts. Hurrying from
the spot, he entered Cornhill, as the lower part of Washington Street
was then called. Opposite to the Town House was the waste foundation of
the Old North Church. The sacrilegious hands of the British soldiers had
torn it down, and kindled their barrack fires with the fragments.
Farther on he passed beneath the tower of the Old South. The threshold
of this sacred edifice was worn by the iron tramp of horses’ feet;
for the interior had been used as a riding-school and rendezvous for a
regiment of dragoons. As the chief justice lingered an instant at the
door a trumpet sounded within, and the regiment came clattering forth
and galloped down the street. They were proceeding to the place of
embarkation.
“Let them go!” thought the chief justice, with somewhat of an old
Puritan feeling in his breast. “No good can come of men who desecrate
the house of God.”
He went on a few steps farther, and paused before the Province House.
No range of brick stores had then sprung up to hide the mansion of the
royal governors from public view. It had a spacious courtyard, bordered
with trees, and enclosed with a wrought-iron fence. On the cupola that
surmounted the edifice was the gilded figure of an Indian chief,
ready to let fly an arrow from his bow. Over the wide front door was a
balcony, in which the chief justice had often stood when the governor
and high officers of the province showed themselves to the people.
While Chief Justice Oliver gazed sadly at the Province House, before
which a sentinel was pacing, the double leaves of the door were thrown
open, and Sir William Howe made his appearance. Behind him came a throng
of officers, whose steel scabbards clattered against the stones as they
hastened down the court-yard. Sir William Howe was a dark-complexioned
man, stern and haughty in his deportment. He stepped as proudly in that
hour of defeat as if he were going to receive the submission of the
rebel general.
The chief justice bowed and accosted him.
“This is a grievous hour for both of us, Sir William,” said he.
“Forward! gentlemen,” said Sir William Howe to the officers who attended
him; “we have no time to hear lamentations now.”
And, coldly bowing, he departed. Thus the chief justice had a foretaste
of the mortifications which the exiled New-Englanders afterwards
suffered from the haughty Britons. They were despised even by that
country which they had served more faithfully than their own.
A still heavier trial awaited Chief Justice Oliver, as he passed onward
from the Province House. He was recognized by the people in the street.
They had long known him as the descendant of an ancient and honorable
family. They had seen him sitting in his scarlet robes upon the
judgment-seat. All his life long, either for the sake of his ancestors
or on account of his own dignified station and unspotted character,
he had been held in high respect. The old gentry of the province were
looked upon almost as noblemen while Massachusetts was under royal
government.
But now all hereditary reverence for birth and rank was gone. The
inhabitants shouted in derision when they saw the venerable form of the
old chief justice. They laid the wrongs of the country and their own
sufferings during the siege--their hunger, cold, and sickness--partly to
his charge and to that of his brother Andrew and his kinsman Hutchinson.
It was by their advice that the king had acted in all the colonial
troubles. But the day of recompense was come.
“See the old tory!” cried the people, with bitter laughter. “He is
taking his last look at us. Let him show his white wig among us an hour
hence, and we’ll give him a coat of tar and feathers!”
The chief justice, however, knew that he need fear no violence so long
as the British troops were in possession of the town. But, alas! it was
a bitter thought that he should leave no loving memory behind him. His
forefathers, long after their spirits left the earth, had been honored
in the affectionate remembrance of the people. But he, who would
henceforth be dead to his native land, would have no epitaph save
scornful and vindictive words. The old man wept.
“They curse me, they invoke all kinds of evil on my head!” thought he,
in the midst of his tears. “But, if they could read my heart, they would
know that I love New England well. Heaven bless her, and bring her again
under the rule of our gracious king! A blessing, too, on these poor,
misguided people!”
The chief justice flung out his hands with a gesture, as if he were
bestowing a parting benediction on his countrymen. He had now reached
the southern portion of the town, and was far within the range of
cannon-shot from the American batteries. Close beside him was the bread
stump of a tree, which appeared to have been recently cut down. Being
weary and heavy at heart, he was about to sit down upon the stump.
Suddenly it flashed upon his recollection that this was the stump of
Liberty Tree! The British soldiers had cut it down, vainly boasting
that they could as easily overthrow the liberties of America. Under its
shadowy branches, ten years before, the brother of Chief Justice Oliver
had been compelled to acknowledge the supremacy of the people by taking
the oath which they prescribed. This tree was connected with all the
events that had severed America from England.
“Accursed tree!” cried the chief justice, gnashing his teeth; for anger
overcame his sorrow. “Would that thou hadst been left standing till
Hancock, Adams, and every other traitor, were hanged upon thy branches!
Then fitly mightest thou have been hewn down and cast into the flames.”
He turned back, hurried to Long Wharf without looking behind him,
embarked with the British troops for Halifax, and never saw his country
more. Throughout the remainder of his days Chief Justice Oliver was
agitated with those same conflicting emotions that had tortured him
while taking his farewell walk through the streets of Boston. Deep love
and fierce resentment burned in one flame within his breast, Anathemas
struggled with benedictions. He felt as if one breath of his native air
would renew his life, yet would have died rather than breathe the
same air with rebels. And such likewise were the feelings of the other
exiles, a thousand in number, who departed with the British army. Were
they not the most unfortunate of men?
“The misfortunes of those exiled tories,” observed Laurence, “must have
made them think of the poor exiles of Acadia.”
“They had a sad time of it, I suppose,” said Charley. “But I choose to
rejoice with the patriots, rather than be sorrowful with the tories.
Grandfather, what did General Washington do now?”
“As the rear of the British army embarked from the wharf,” replied
Grandfather, “General Washington’s troops marched over the Neck, through
the fortification gates, and entered Boston in triumph. And now, for the
first time since the Pilgrims landed, Massachusetts was free from
the dominion of England. May she never again be subjected to foreign
rule,--never again feel the rod of oppression!”
“Dear Grandfather,” asked little Alice, “did General Washington bring
our chair back to Boston?”
“I know not how long the chair remained at Cambridge,” said Grandfather.
“Had it stayed there till this time, it could not have found a better or
more appropriate shelter, The mansion which General Washington occupied
is still standing, and his apartments have since been tenanted by
several eminent men. Governor Everett, while a professor in the
University, resided there. So at an after period did Mr. Sparks, whose
invaluable labors have connected his name with the immortality of
Washington. And at this very time a venerable friend and contemporary of
your Grandfather, after long pilgrimages beyond the sea, has set up his
staff of rest at Washington’s headquarters.”
“You mean Professor Longfellow, Grandfather,” said Laurence. “Oh, how I
should love to see the author of those beautiful Voices of the Night!”
“We will visit him next summer,” answered Grandfather, “and take Clara
and little Alice with us,--and Charley, too, if he will be quiet.”