STORIES OF GENERAL WARREN.

As Mary Montague and her mother were one morning sitting at work, by a

cheerful fire, William, a boy about nine years old, ran in exclaiming,

Oh dear mother! I'm so tired I don't know what to do.

MRS. MONTAGUE. Why, my son, what has tired you so much?

WILLIAM. I have been playing hoop more than an hour, and my hands ache

so I can play no longer.

MRS. M. Then you had better come and sit down with Mary and me and rest

yourself.

WILLIAM. Yes, mamma, I will, if you can lend me some pretty book, or

tell me a story; there is no school to-day, you know.

MRS. M. I have no book which you have not read, nor can I put aside my

work to amuse you, but I can tell you a story and work too.

WILLIAM. So do, mamma, I shall like that best.

MARY. And I too, dear mother.

MRS. M. What shall I tell you about? Shall I tell you a true story, or

do you wish me to make up one?

WILLIAM. I should rather hear a true one, if you please, about some

great man. Some American, for I had rather hear about one of my own

countrymen, than about a foreigner, as I think you call those who live

in other countries, do you not?

MRS. M. Yes, my dear.

WILLIAM. You know I have had books about a great many of our celebrated

men, such as Gen. Washington, Gen. Lafayette, and Franklin. Now I want

you to tell me what you can of Gen. Warren. Was he not a great and good

man? I should think he must have been, for I have heard people speak of

him very often, when talking of the revolution; I know, too, that great

monument on Bunker Hill is partly for him, but I do not know what he did

to deserve so much praise.

MRS. M. I believe, my dear, there has never been any little books

written about him, but he was both a great and a good man, though he did

not live long enough to do so much for his country as those other

generals of whom you have read. If you wish, I will tell you all I can

of him.

WILLIAM. Oh, so do! I want to hear it very much.

MARY. So do I.

MRS. M. You spoke just now, William, of Lafayette as though you thought

him an American. Do you not know he was a Frenchman?

WILLIAM. Yes, mamma, I know that very well, but he did so much for us I

can hardly help thinking he belonged to us.

MRS. M. I do not much wonder at that, for he could not have done more,

nor even so much, if he had indeed been an American. Come, now for

General Warren. Shall I begin at the time when he was a child like you,

or at that in which he became a general?

WILLIAM AND MARY, both together. Oh pray begin when he was a child like

us.

MRS. M. I cannot tell you a great deal about him at that time. I only

know that he was born in Roxbury, in the year 1741. Roxbury is a small

town a few miles from Boston. I have no doubt you often ride by the old

house in which Joseph (for that was the name of the general) and his

three brothers were born. It has now almost fallen to pieces, but it was

once a beautiful place, and had a great many fine fruit trees round it.

The father of Joseph was quite a rich farmer; he raised the best fruit

of any one near Boston. Do you remember seeing last winter an apple with

a fine blush on one side, called the Warren russeting?

WILLIAM. Yes, mother, I think I do.

MRS. M. Joseph's father was the first person who cultivated this apple,

and it received its name from him: but alas! it cost him and his family

very dear.

WILLIAM. How, mamma?

MRS. M. I will tell you. One day, in the fall of the year, when almost

all the apples were gathered, Mr. Warren, the father of Joseph, while

walking round his orchard to see if every thing in it was in good order,

as he was looking over the trees he perceived one apple on the top of

his favorite tree, the Warren russeting; it looked so beautiful, with

the sun gilding its rosy side, that he determined to get it. He was a

very active man; so up he climbed until his hand was on the apple, when,

just as he had pulled it off, the branch on which he was standing, gave

way, he fell to the ground and was instantly killed!

WILLIAM. Oh dear, how long did he lay there, mamma?

MRS. M. Not long; some of his workmen, who were near, heard the noise of

the fall, and directly went to see what it was.

His youngest son, whose name was John, was then only four years old:

dinner was ready at home, and the mother of little John told him to run

into the orchard, and see why his father did not come in to dinner: away

he went, and, as he was looking eagerly to see if his father was

coming, he saw two men carrying something between them: he ran up to

them to see what it was, and, only think of it! it was the body of that

dear father whose affectionate embrace he was expecting every moment to

meet! Those eyes, which had so often beamed on him with love, were

closed in death, and the arms, so often held out to embrace him, hung

motionless at his side!

MARY. Oh, how I pity the poor boy, he must have felt dreadfully!

MRS. M. Dreadfully indeed! When he grew up to be a man I often heard him

say, that, young as he then was, the feelings of that moment could never

be effaced from his mind.

WILLIAM. I should think he never could have forgotten it.

MRS. M. I have now told you about the father of Joseph; shall I tell you

any thing about his mother, or go on about him?

WILLIAM. If you please, I should like to hear about his mother. I always

feel more interested in any one, when I am acquainted with his father

and mother.

MARY. And I too love dearly to hear about them, especially I want to

know all I can of the mother of any one I hear of, or read about.

MRS. M. I will tell you all I can of her. Like Washington, Joseph was

blessed with a most excellent mother; she, too, was like the mother of

Washington, left a widow when even the oldest of her sons most required

a parent's care. Her husband, you recollect, was killed when the

youngest boy was only four years old. The eldest was about twelve years

older. The task of a parent, though a delightful, is a very arduous one,

and when that of both parents must be discharged by one, it is much more

so. It often happens that a mother is left with a family of young

children, and is obliged to bring them up without the controlling power

of a father's care; it is therefore the duty of every female so to

educate her own mind, and that of her daughters, as to enable her, if

she should be placed in this responsible situation, to be able to guide

aright the minds of those under her care. Indeed, a mother should always

possess a cultivated mind, and a firm principle of action, to render

her capable of doing such a duty faithfully. The bent which she gives to

the dawning character is seldom effaced through the whole existence of

an immortal being. I hope, therefore, my children, more especially you,

my daughter, will constantly remember, that unless you attend most

carefully to the formation of your own hearts and minds, you will never

be competent to form those of others, and that you are in some measure

responsible for the good or evil of the characters it may be your lot to

form. I trust, too, you will feel that much of the good you may

yourselves possess is owing to your parents, who have, as far as they

could, guarded you from evil, and led you in the right path, and to

whom, therefore, you owe obedience and gratitude, and an earnest

endeavor to show, by your conduct, that their labor has not been in

vain. Most faithfully did the mother of Joseph discharge the double duty

which had now devolved on her. Her four boys, under her watchful eye,

grew up to be good, wise, and, most of them, celebrated men, and richly

repaid all her care of them. But not only as a mother was she

estimated, for she practised the virtue of benevolence, in the fullest

sense of the word. To her neighbors she was kind and hospitable; to the

poor her house was always open. Indeed, it might with truth be said of

her, in the words of that beautiful poet, Goldsmith, whose works I trust

you will soon learn to read and admire:

"Her house was known to all the vagrant train,

She chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain.

The long remember'd beggar was her guest,

And oft the traveller at her board found rest.

Gentle their merits or their faults to scan,

Her pity gave e'er charity began."

In her old age, when her own children had left her fire-side to take

their part in the active scenes of life, it was one of her dearest

pleasures to gather a group of their children, and the children of

others around her. She did all in her power to promote their enjoyment,

and her benevolent smile was always ready to enliven and encourage them.

On Thanksgiving day she depended on having all her children and

grand-children with her; and until she was eighty years of age, she

herself made the pies with which her table was loaded! Not satisfied

with feasting them to their hearts' content, while they were with her,

she always had some nice great pies for them to take home with them.

MARY. What a fine old lady she must have been! How I should have admired

to have gone to see her!

MRS. M. She was indeed a most excellent woman. As far as one imperfect

being can judge of another, she appeared to deserve to be classed among

those whom Christ, in his sermon on the Mount, pronounced blessed. She

was often called to mourn, and she was comforted by his word; she was

"meek" and "humble," for, much as she did for others, she thought she

did nothing worthy to be mentioned. Truly did she appear to hunger and

thirst after righteousness. That she was "merciful," I have already told

you. She was "pure in heart," as an infant. As a "peacemaker," she was

more especially known. If there was any dispute among her friends,

relations, neighbors, or acquaintances, to her they carried their

troubles and their complaints. Even their evil feelings towards others

were not concealed from her. She soothed their troubles, pacified their

complaints, and their evil feelings and jealousies she changed into

kindness and good will. If she was reviled she reviled not again, and

though her good was often evil spoken of, it did not make her weary in

well doing. Those who knew her trust she is now reaping the reward

promised to those that "faint not," and are not weary in well doing.

MARY. I think she must now be happy, dear mother, or no one can expect

to be.

MRS. M. We have every reason to believe that she is, my dear girl.

Now let us go back to Joseph. He was her eldest son. He was educated at

the public school in Roxbury. Like Washington, he displayed in childhood

the qualities which afterwards rendered him so celebrated as a man. He

was manly, generous, fearless and independent. If one boy oppressed

another, he would always take the part of the weakest, and generally

succeeded in making the little tyrant ashamed of himself.

WILLIAM. Did not all the boys like him, mamma? I am sure I should have

liked him.

MRS. M. Yes, my dear, all the good boys liked him, and, what was still

better, the masters all liked him. You may be pretty sure that a boy or

girl either is deserving of love, if their instructers are attached to

them. His mind was so well regulated, that, although he would not submit

to tyranny, he was respectful and obedient to those who had a right to

govern him. And this was his rule of conduct through his after life. At

the age of fourteen, Joseph entered college. Here the same good feelings

which had marked his character at school, continued to govern him. His

manners were gentle, and he had the reputation of possessing fine

talents, great perseverance, and an entire fearlessness of danger, when

accomplishing that which he thought to be right.

One day some of his classmates had determined to do something of which

they knew he would not approve. They met together to arrange their plans

for its execution. They did not wish Warren to be with them, for they

knew his powers of persuasion were so great that he would, if present,

prevail on the greatest part of them not to enter into these plans. They

therefore fastened the door of the room, in which they were, so that he

could not get it open. But he did not give up the matter so easily. They

were assembled in an upper room; and finding he could not get in at the

door, Warren went down into the college yard. As he looked up he saw

their window was open. Now how do you think he managed?

WILLIAM. I am sure I cannot tell, mamma. Did he climb up to it?

MRS. M. No, he could not do that, it was very high, and there was not

any thing to climb upon. He could see nothing near the window but an old

spout, which went from the ground to the eaves, or top, of the house;

this spout was so rotten it would hardly bear a touch, much less the

whole weight of any one.

MARY. He could not get in on that then. Do make haste, dear mother, and

tell us if he did get in, and how he contrived to.

MRS. M. I will, my child, as soon as I can. He again went up stairs to

the scuttle door, which was on the top of the house; out of this he got,

slid down the slanting roof to the edge of the house, just where the old

spout came up to it; he then seized hold of this spout, swung himself

upon it, and slid down as far as the window of the room, where his

classmates were, then in he sprang among them, to their great surprise,

as you may well suppose. The instant he let go the decayed thing on

which he had descended, it broke to pieces and fell to the ground. His

companions heard the crash, rushed to the window, and while they were

uttering exclamations of astonishment at the risk he had run, and

congratulating him on his narrow escape, he very coolly replied, "it has

stayed up just long enough to serve my purpose," he then directly

entered upon the business which had brought them together.

WILLIAM. What a brave fellow he was. How glad I am it did not break

while he was on it!

MARY. I hardly breathed for fear it would. I hope he succeeded in

preventing those young men from doing what they had intended.

MRS. M. I hope so too, and I think it probable he did. After such a

proof of his determination and perseverance, they must have felt it was

useless to oppose him.

A gentleman who saw him at the moment he was coming from the top of the

house, on the spout, related the fact, in the college yard, fifty years

afterwards, pointing, at the same time, to the very spot on which he saw

him. It had made so deep an impression on him, that, even at that

distance of time, he could not speak of it without emotion.

WILLIAM. Oh how I wish I could see the place. Do you think, mamma, any

body could show it to me now?

MRS. M. I do not know, my dear, if any one is now living who knows

exactly the place. I mean to inquire when I have an opportunity, for I

should like to see it myself.

MARY. So do mamma.

MRS. M. At the end of his collegiate education, Joseph quitted college

with the esteem and love of all who had known him there. He then

determined to study medicine. I suppose you know he was a physician

before he became a general.

WILLIAM. No, indeed, I did not: if I have heard it, I did not think

enough about it to remember it. Was he the celebrated Dr. Warren of whom

I have so often heard?

MRS. M. Do you mean the Dr. Warren now living?

WILLIAM. Oh no, mamma, I know it was not him, though I have heard a

great deal about him too; the one I mean died a great while before I was

born.

MRS. M. The one you are thinking of was the youngest brother of the

general,--his name was John,--he whom I told you was the first one of

the family who saw his father when he was killed by the fall from the

tree. Do you not remember it?

WILLIAM. Yes, dear mother, I am sure I shall not forget him.

MRS. M. Joseph was an eminent physician as well as his brother. He began

to practice in Boston. Soon after he commenced business the small pox

spread all over the city, or town; for it was not then a city. We

hardly know any thing of this dreadful disease now-a-days; inoculation

has made it a very different one from what it then was. At that time

people had not much faith in this mode of lessening its violence, and

when it once entered a place, a great many people generally had it and

died with it. This was the case at the period of which I speak. Dr.

Joseph Warren was then only twenty-three years old, but he managed the

disease with so much judgment and skill that he restored more people,

who were attacked with it, than any other physician in Boston.

WILLIAM. How did the other doctors like that, dear mother?

MRS. M. They were all very glad he was so successful; and liked him the

better for it. His manners were so gentle and courteous, they could not

feel jealous of him. He always looked so pleasant, and was so

benevolent, that every body loved him. The hearts he won at this time

always remained warmly attached to him. His great talents, and the

superiority of his information secured the respect as well as love of

those who knew him. This was the reason he had so much influence over

others. His talents alone would not have given it to him; but when to

respect was added admiration and love, it gave him power to guide his

countrymen almost as he pleased.

When the King of England yielded to the counsels of those who told him

that, as we were his subjects, he had a right to make us pay him

whatever money he chose to demand, whether we chose to pay it or not,

General, then Dr. Warren, was one of the first to tell the people that

the king had no right to make us pay one single copper without our

consent; that he had not a right even to say what we ought to pay, but

ought to allow us to choose our own rulers, and let them decide what our

taxes should be.

MARY. What are taxes, dear mother?

MRS. M. Taxes are monies paid for the support of those who govern us.

You know that every city and town makes choice of men whom they can

trust, to meet together to say what and how much these taxes shall be.

Now it was not possible that we should send men every year to England,

to meet with the rulers there, to agree on what we ought to pay, and,

unless we did, we should be taxed unjustly. Therefore the only way to be

taxed fairly, was to choose people ourselves to tax us. The king would

neither let us say what we ought to pay, nor would he let us say who

should govern us. He insisted on our suffering men whom he sent over, to

govern us; and he obliged us to pay them, even though they oppressed us.

WILLIAM. What a shame! I do not wonder our people determined not to

submit to it.

MRS. M. The people were so much attached to the king and their mother

country, as England was always called, that they would not have resisted

this; at least not so early after their settlement in this country, had

the king stopped here. But he chose, notwithstanding all our

remonstrances and petitions, to continue to impose taxes without our

consent. We could hardly buy an article which came from England, that we

did not have to pay for it more than its worth, so that the king might

have part of the money. As almost every thing we consumed was brought

from England, this tax of course bore very heavy on a young country. But

still this was not the reason it was resisted; it was because it was

unjust to impose any taxes on a free people, without their consent. Gen.

Warren endeavored, with all the powers of his vigorous mind, to make the

people understand their rights. His arguments, and those of others who

thought like him, had so far convinced them of the necessity of

resisting these taxes, that, when a cargo of tea arrived at the port of

Boston, on every pound of which there was a heavy duty, a number of

people, disguised in Indian dresses, entered the vessel in the night

which contained it, broke open the chests of tea, and threw all that was

in them, into the water. They thus showed that they preferred to have

their families go without an article which was much valued by them,

rather than to pay for it by yielding, in the slightest degree, to an

act that would endanger their liberties. Their wives, so far from

repining at this deprivation, determined, from that moment, not to touch

a drop of their favorite beverage until they could have it free from

taxes.

MARY. That was right. I am glad they did what they could to support

those brave men.

MRS. M. After this daring act, the king determined to make us submit _by

force_. He therefore sent over more soldiers to control us; he had

always kept some here; and he sent Gen. Gage to command _them_, and to

be our _Governor_. He also sent ships filled with armed men, to occupy

our harbour, and to prevent any other vessels from coming to our

assistance. Should you not think that the Boston people would now be

tempted to give up the point?

WILLIAM. Yes, mamma, I should; for I do not see how they could see any

prospect of gaining it with their town and their harbour filled with

British soldiers.

MRS. M. So far from giving it up, they only determined more strenuously

to endeavor to gain it. They would not suffer any of the British rulers

or judges to meet. They closed all the court houses where these men

wanted to meet, and decided all their disputes and difficulties

themselves: indeed, they were so determined not to need these courts,

that the utmost order and regularity reigned among them. Sometimes,

indeed, the British officers or the soldiers which thronged the streets

would exasperate the people so much, that they collected in mobs,

determined to avenge themselves on them. At such times Gen. Warren

repeatedly exposed his life in the midst of these mobs, to soothe them

and restrain them from acts of violence. His persuasive eloquence seldom

failed to bring them to their duty, and to make them ashamed of what

they were about to do. He would tell them that it was a very bad way to

show they could govern themselves, by committing acts which would let

every one see they had neither justice nor humanity; that while so many

good men were doing all in their power to free them from the oppression

of others, it was a great injury to the cause of freedom for them to

oppress in their turn; and thus to take upon themselves to both judge

and punish others without giving those whom they disliked an opportunity

to defend themselves. At first, the men who composed these mobs would

try to drive him away, and make a noise to prevent his being heard.

While they did this, he would stand calmly and look at them. His

intrepidity, his commanding and animated countenance, and, above all,

their knowledge that he was in reality on their side, as far as it was

right to be, would soon make them as eager to hear as he was to speak,

and, finally, they would disperse to their houses, with the most perfect

confidence that they could not do better than to leave their cause in

such hands.

Although Gen. Warren thus restrained the people from revenging the

insults of the British, he did not escape them himself. They took every

opportunity of calling him a _rebel_, and telling him, as they did all

those who were on his side, that he would meet the fate of a rebel, that

of being hung. You know there is a piece of land which connects Boston

to Roxbury, called the neck, do you not?

MARY. Yes, mamma, we often ride over it when we go to R--, do we not?

MRS. M. Yes, my dear. Formerly people were hung oftener and much more

publicly than at present. There was, therefore, a gallows erected on the

neck, on which to hang criminals, where every body could see them. One

day, Dr. Joseph Warren was going over to Roxbury, to visit his mother,

whom he loved very much; when he had gone over a little way on the neck

he came to a spot where three or four British officers were standing

together, talking, as he passed them, one of them called out "Go on,

Warren, you will soon come to the gallows." They meant he would soon

come to the gallows on the neck, but it was very evident they also meant

to insult him, as they burst into a loud laugh so soon as it was said.

Warren was not a man to submit to an insult from any one, least of all

from them. He immediately turned back, walked up to them, and calmly

requested to know which of them had thus addressed him. Not one of them

had the courage to avow his insolence. Finding he could obtain no

answer, he at last left them, ashamed of themselves and of each other,

but glad to have got off so easily.

WILLIAM. What a set of cowards! I wish Gen. Warren could have given them

a good flogging.

MRS. M. It would have been but what they deserved, to be sure. It

usually happens that those who are most ready to insult, where they

think no defence can be made, are the greatest cowards when called upon

to avow or defend what they have done.

Gen. Warren had so much power over the feelings of those whom he

addressed, that is, he was so _eloquent_, that he was several times

chosen, by those who were in favor of the cause of liberty, to address

the people from the pulpit, that a great many at a time might hear him.

Do you know anything about the 5th of March massacre, in which the first

American blood was shed by the British?

WILLIAM. Yes, mamma, we both know about it. We have read it in Parley's

First Book of History.

MRS. M. I am glad of it; that is a most excellent little history, and

contains a great deal you ought to remember. You know, then, that for

some years after that massacre, on every 5th of March there was an

oration delivered in the Old South meeting-house, to tell every body

that one injury after another had been inflicted on us by the British,

until the common people had become so angry that whenever they saw a

British soldier they wanted to insult him. By the way, I will stop here

a moment, to tell you of something which was done by one of the British

officers, which will show you that the people of Boston had some reason

to dislike them. The British were very much afraid that guns should be

procured by the Americans from their soldiers, and whenever they knew

that any American had bought a musket from one of their men, they

punished him severely. Some of the officers, however, were so eager to

have an excuse for punishing our men, that they would tempt them to buy

guns, on purpose to make a difficulty. One in particular, a Col. Nesbit,

ordered one of his men to offer an American, who had come in from the

country, an old musket, very cheap. The poor man, little suspecting any

trick, eagerly bought it. Col. Nesbit immediately took him up and

confined him all night in the guard house. The next morning he stripped

him entirely naked, covered him over with warm tar, then he put

feathers over that and placed him on a cart and conducted him through

Boston streets, quite up to the south end. He was guarded by thirty

grenadiers, with fixed bayonets; twenty drums and fifes accompanied

them, playing the "Rogues March," and the despicable Nesbit headed the

procession with his sword drawn.

WILLIAM. I think it was a "rogues march" indeed, dear mother, don't you?

But what became of the poor man, did not our people rescue him, and do

something to that wicked Colonel?

MRS. M. When they reached that part of Washington street where the

liberty tree then was, the people had become so excited, that the

cowardly Nesbit was glad to let his soldiers disperse, and he and they

skulked to their barracks as quick as they could. The unfortunate object

of their cruelty was of course liberated and taken care of.

WILLIAM. Oh how I wish they had caught Col. Nesbit, and tarred and

feathered him as he had the man!

MRS. M. It was much better to let him go. This conduct of his served

our cause better than any thing he could have done; and it would have

been a pity for us to have followed his example, and thus have lessened

the odium attached to him.

WILLIAM. I do not at all wonder, if such was the conduct of the British,

that our men felt angry whenever they met any of them.

MRS. M. Nor I. But to return to the 5th of March Orations. The great

subject of them was, the oppression of the British, and the quarrels

which were constantly taking place between their soldiers and ours, and

which it was impossible to avoid, while these oppressions were

permitted. The orators did not then urge the people to throw off the

government of Great Britain, they only explained their rights, and

called upon them not to give them up, but one and all to petition the

king to take away his soldiers and his governors from our country, and

permit us to choose rulers from among ourselves, and to form our own

soldiers. These petitions were accordingly repeatedly sent to the king,

but the more we petitioned the more soldiers he sent.

Gen. Warren delivered two of these orations. The first had so great an

effect on the people, that they determined to resort to arms if their

petitions were unsuccessful. Indeed, all these orations had such a

powerful influence on the hearers, that the British officers determined

there should be no more such. They declared it should be as much as a

person's life was worth to attempt again to deliver one. Many men who

would otherwise have been desirous to speak on the anniversary of the

massacre, now thought it most prudent to keep quiet. Though they would

have been quite willing to fight in defence of their country's

liberties, yet they thought that to get up and speak, surrounded with

soldiers and their bayonets, who were under the command of those who had

uttered such threats, would be much worse than to face their enemies

with arms in their hands.

WILLIAM. I should think so too. I am sure, if I saw men standing before

me ready to shoot me, or stick their bayonets into me, if I said any

thing they did not like, I should at least have forgotten all I had to

say.

MRS. M. Gen. Warren did not think so. As the next 5th of March

approached, after these threats had been made, he did not wait to be

invited to speak on the occasion, but himself solicited permission to

address the people.

All his noble feelings were roused at the idea that men from another

country should presume to say what Americans should speak, and what they

should not; and he determined that his voice should be once more heard,

even should it then be silenced forever.

The sun shone on the 6th of March, 1775,[1] with unusual splendour.

Warren saw it rise, and as he gazed upon its brilliant rays, he thought

that perhaps ere those rays were again withdrawn from the earth, he

might be a breathless corpse, never more to behold them, but no regret

at the duty he had undertaken for a moment darkened his mind; he hailed

its cheering beams as a proof that Heaven itself smiled on his exertions

for his country's welfare.

At an early hour the Old South meeting-house was crowded even to its

porch. Many of the friends of the much loved speaker were there,

determined, if he was attacked, he should not be without his defenders.

The aisles of the meeting-house, the steps to the pulpit, even the

pulpit itself, were occupied by the British. Warren was not to be

frightened from his purpose by all this. He thought that if he attempted

to go in at the door and up the pulpit stairs, the British officers

might endeavor to stop him, and that, even if they did not succeed, the

attempt would cause so much confusion that no one would be calm enough

to listen to him afterwards. So how do you suppose he contrived to reach

the pulpit?

MARY. I should think he would not have attempted it, but would have put

off speaking, at least, until the pulpit was clear.

WILLIAM. I dare say he managed in some such way as he did when his

classmates undertook to keep him out of their room.

MRS. M. It was not very unlike it. He requested some of his friends to

assist him, and they procured a ladder, put it up outside the pulpit

window, and while all within were anxiously watching for him at the

door, and his friends were trembling for fear he would not be able to

make his way through the crowd, they raised their eyes, and, to the

astonishment of them all, beheld him in the pulpit! The British officers

were so surprised at his coolness and intrepidity, that they

involuntarily fell back at his approach. He advanced to address the

assembled multitude, not knowing but that, at the first word he spoke, a

bayonet would be thrust into his defenceless side.

Every eye was fixed upon him in almost breathless emotion. So awful and

perfect was the silence that each one could hear the palpitations of his

own heart. Every face was pale but his own. His animated and expressive

countenance was lighted up, and glowing with all the enthusiasm that the

most ardent love for the rights of his country could inspire. The

officers who stood near to him, so far from making his noble spirit

tremble or hesitate, only inspired him with greater animation to tell

over the wrongs which they had done us, and the still greater wrongs

they were about to do. He called upon the soldiers not to assist their

masters in this; not to aid a parent to oppress his children and wrest

from them their hard earned rights. He told them that our fathers had

come to this country to avoid the very tyranny that was now bearing so

heavily on their children. That they came here to worship God in the way

they thought most acceptable to Him. That they had given up their homes,

their friends, and all the comforts of civilized life, for freedom. That

they had suffered the greatest hardships from savages, from cold,

poverty, and the want of every thing worth having, except liberty. He

told them that through all the cares and all the sufferings of our

pilgrim fathers, they still looked back on the country from which they

came with the affection of children. They had obeyed its laws, had sent

it money, and had done all that was in their power to do, to prove that

they were deeply interested in its welfare. But that now that we, the

descendants of those who had undergone so much, were beginning to enjoy

what they had purchased so dearly, these Britains were determined to

oppress us. That their king, who ought to take a pleasure in our

prosperity, judged us without hearing us, gave us rulers who took no

interest in our prosperity, and insisted that we should pay money for

the privilege of buying what it was for his interest to sell us. It is

long since I read this eloquent address, and I cannot give you any

correct idea of it; you must read it yourself to form one.[2]

The scene, while Warren was speaking, was sublime and interesting beyond

any thing of the kind that had ever before been witnessed in this

country, or, perhaps in any other. When the orators of ancient times

were urging their countrymen not to submit to tyrants, those tyrants

were far away--but while Warren was making this appeal to his

countrymen, it was in the presence of the very oppressors themselves,

who were gazing on him with arms in their hands, arms ready to be used

the moment their passions were roused! That their passions _were_

roused, I think there can be little doubt; but there was so much

determination in the looks of those around, that I suppose they were not

willing to run the risk of attacking a man thus guarded by the love,

almost the adoration of those whom he addressed. Besides this, there

were many among the British who were so much affected by Warren's

address, as to be unwilling to use any violence against the speaker.

If such was its effect on his enemies, what must it have been on his

friends? It was so powerful that, at that moment they might have been

led on to an entire renunciation of the government of Great Britain. The

time, however, had not yet quite arrived for so bold an act; the country

was young and without resources, or any prospect of aid from other

countries. Still, from this time, many who had not before expressed an

opinion, now openly declared that we ought to be independent.

Things had been gradually operating to produce an almost universal

belief that there was little to be expected from the king of England.

Josiah Quincy, the father of him who is now president of Cambridge

College, was a warm friend of Gen. Warren's, and had aided in all his

efforts to repel the encroachments of the king. About six months before

this oration was delivered, he had embarked privately for England. From

his letters it was evident that, although many influential men there

were in our favor, yet those by whom the king was governed were against

us, so that there was little prospect that any change for the better

should take place. The general tenor of his letters to his countrymen,

while he himself was in England, was, what he says, he had long before

told them, that "they must seal their cause with their blood, that in

the sight of God and all just men, that cause is a good one," and if

Americans do not act up to their professions "they would be trodden into

the vilest vassalage, the scorn, contempt, the spurn of their enemies, a

bye-word of infamy among men." That Americans would "be true to

themselves," and were ready, when called on, "to seal their cause with

their blood," his friend Warren was among the most earnest to convince

him. He writes to him, "It is the united voice of America, to preserve

their freedom, or lose their lives in its defence." "I am convinced," he

says, "that the true spirit of liberty was never so universally diffused

through all orders and ranks of people, in any country on the face of

the globe, as it now is through all North America." He says of the

provincial Congress, of which he had been elected president: "Congress

met at Concord at the time appointed. About two hundred and sixty

members were present." "You would have thought yourself in an assembly

of Spartans, or ancient Romans, had you been a witness to the ardour

which inspired those who spoke on the important business they were

transacting." The Congress of which he here speaks was composed of men

chosen by the people, to provide for the safety of their fellow

citizens, and to order all that was necessary to be done to enable them

to resist the tyrannical laws of the king of England. The terms in which

Gen. Warren speaks of this congress, were no doubt very cheering to Mr.

Quincy, who must himself have ardently desired to have been present

among them. He remained only six months in England, and died on his

passage home, just as the vessel which he was on board entered the

harbour of Cape Ann, on the 26th of April, 1775.

WILLIAM. Oh how sorry I am! He must have wished very much to have seen

his countrymen once more.

MRS. M. He did indeed. He repeatedly said to the seamen, who were

attending on him, that he had but one desire and one prayer, which was,

that he might live long enough to have one interview with his friend

Joseph Warren, or with Samuel Adams. His prayer was not granted, for

wise purposes no doubt. Nor did he know that his predictions that blood

would be shed before liberty could be attained, were accomplished, and

that his countrymen had already, in the battle of Lexington, sealed

their constancy in the cause of liberty "with their blood."

But I must go back a little to tell you what led to that battle. The

British had been for some time aware that the Americans were determined

to repel their aggressions by arms, since all other means had failed.

They therefore determined to take from us the means of defence. They

thought if they could get possession of our powder and balls, we of

course could not fire our guns or cannon. They resolved to attempt first

to gain those which were at Concord, a small town about 18 miles from

Boston.

On the 18th of March, 1775, Gen. Gage despatched, as secretly as

possible, eight or nine hundred soldiers, under the command of a Col.

Smith, to destroy all the stores in that place, thinking this a safer

plan than to try to keep them. This they hoped to effect before our

people had time to make any resistance. But the Americans were not so

easily taken by surprise. Gen. Warren had directed a number of men to

keep watch on the motions of the British, and to let him know when there

was any appearance of an attack upon us. These men discovered this plan

of theirs, and immediately gave Warren information of it. He would not

do any thing hastily, so he went himself to watch them. One evening he

observed there was an unusual stir in the English camp. Unperceived by

them he saw Col. Smith and his men embark on board some of their

vessels, and he had no doubt they were going to Charlestown, and from

thence to Concord. He, the same night, despatched messengers through the

neighboring country, to give notice of the designed attack. He rode

himself all night, and passed so near the enemy as to be several times

in danger of becoming their prisoner, but escaped by his undaunted

courage and self-possession. Col. Revere was one of his messengers; I

think he was sent to Lexington. He had of course to pass through

Charlestown. As he was turning a corner of one of the streets, he

discovered a party of soldiers approaching, he knew them to belong to

the enemy; for a moment he hesitated whether to turn back or proceed;

but it was only for a moment; he recollected that probably the safety of

hundreds depended on his executing the commission entrusted to him, he

put his horse into a gallop, and, before the astonished men had time to

ascertain if he was friend or foe, he had dashed through them and was

nearly out of sight! In vain with their halloos and their whizzing

balls they attempted to stop him; of the halloos he was regardless, and

from their balls he was preserved by that Being who seemed in a most

especial manner to smile upon our cause.

WILLIAM. I am glad they could not stop him. I think he was a brave man,

do not you mamma? I fear I should have turned back when I saw the

soldiers coming.

MRS. M. He certainly was a very brave man, and we had a great many such

during the Revolution. I trust you would have been brave too, had you

lived in such times, and would not have turned back from the performance

of a duty, because it was dangerous to execute it. Revere executed his

so faithfully, that when the British arrived at Lexington, which is six

miles this side of Concord, they were met by a body of our militia, who

endeavored to keep them from advancing. It was now about sunrise.

Warren, although he had had no rest that night, hastened to the field of

action, determined to be ready to aid and animate his countrymen, and

to share every danger to which they were exposed.

The small number of men which had time to assemble were not, however,

able to make much opposition to the veteran soldiers of Great Britain.

When the officers of these men cried out, "Disperse, you rebels,

disperse, throw down your arms and disperse," many left the field. As

they were doing so, some of the enemy fired on them; this brought on an

engagement, in which eight of our men were killed and seven wounded. The

British pursued their march to Concord, and destroyed sixty barrels of

flour, and other stores deposited there. Our men had now collected in

greater numbers, and opposed them so resolutely as to drive them back to

Lexington in _quick march_, and they continued to annoy them through the

whole of their retreat to Charlestown: so that, before they arrived

there, they had lost many men. Some were wounded, some taken prisoners,

and others slain. Gen. Warren, from his ardor in pressing on them was

near being killed. A musket-ball came so close to him as to take off a

lock of his hair which curled close to his head, as was the fashion of

the time. You may see how his hair was dressed if you look at his

picture in Faneuil Hall.

MARY. How could it help wounding him, dear mother, when it came so near?

MRS. M. It seems wonderful that it should not have wounded him; but he

was spared a little longer by that Being, who alone can judge what is

the proper time in which a valuable life should be taken.

When his mother first saw him after this escape, she entreated him, with

tears in her eyes, not again to risk a life so dear to her, and so

necessary to his country. "Wherever danger is, dear mother," was his

reply, "there must your son be, now is no time for _one_ of America's

children to shrink from the most hazardous duty. I will either see my

country _free_, or shed my last drop of blood to make her so." He was

not permitted to see this; but he did indeed shed his life's blood, that

others might be free. That blood was not shed in vain. It is probable

that his death did nearly as much to animate his countrymen in the

cause of liberty, as he himself could have done had he lived.

After the battle of Lexington, there was an exchange of prisoners made.

The British agreed to release those they had taken, in exchange for

those taken by the Americans. The place appointed for this exchange to

be made was Charlestown, the town so soon after destroyed by some of the

_very men_ now met for purposes of kindness and good will. Gen. Warren,

as President of Congress, and the brave Gen. Putnam, (under whom Warren

had previously served as a volunteer in a skirmish on one of the

islands, in which the English had been defeated, and one of their

vessels burnt,) were escorted by two of the finest companies of the

Massachusetts soldiers, to the place of meeting. The scene was

interesting and impressive. Although there had been difficulties among

the English soldiers and our people, and with some of the officers also,

yet most of the officers, on both sides, had been cordial to each other;

some had been intimate friends. They had, previous to the difficulties

between the two countries, served under the same commanders, fought the

same battles, glowed with united hopes of victory, or felt disheartened

together when they failed in their undertakings. These feelings could

not be altogether repressed, and when they now first met, after having

been arrayed against each other,--met too, to exchange offices of

kindness and hospitality, with the sacred flag of truce waving over

their heads, every sentiment but that of friendship was forgotten, and

they rushed into each others' arms, overcome with feelings too powerful

for expression. These feelings quickly spread around, and each hardy

soldier was ready to extend the hand of amity to the other.

After the business on which they met was over, Putnam and Warren

entertained the British as their guests, with all the hospitality the

times would permit.

A few days after this meeting, Warren was appointed Major-General of the

American forces in Massachusetts. The people had for some time looked up

to him as their leader; and he had made constant exertions to maintain

order and enforce discipline among the troops. He united so much

coolness with so much true courage, and so much gentleness with so much

decision, as to give him immense influence over them. He mingled in the

ranks, talked with each soldier as if he was a brother, and thus

succeeded most astonishingly in imparting to them his own ardour in the

cause, and his confidence in its success. Before he was chosen as their

General, he was requested to act as Surgeon-General to the army, but

this post did not suit his heroic character. His wish was to lead on the

soldiers to battle, rather than to take care of those who were unable to

go, or of those who received wounds while there.

The charge he had now received of the army, he would not suffer in any

degree to interfere with that he before sustained as President of

Congress. He had from the first discovered as much talent in directing

the counsels of the nation, as he had energy in animating the soldiers.

Part of each day he would pass in Congress, which was now assembled at

Watertown, deliberately weighing each subject that was discussed. He

gave no opinion until fully convinced what was best to be done. When his

opinion was formed, he bent every power of his mind and body, to have

that which was resolved upon put into execution. When he had

accomplished all he could in the Congress, he would jump on his horse,

ride as quickly as possible to the camp at Cambridge, and enter with

equal ardor into every thing to be done there.

It was on the 14th of June, that Joseph Warren was elected Major-General

of the Massachusetts forces.

The British had four thousand well disciplined soldiers in Boston at

this time, under the command of Gen. Gage. Now I dare say you know that

four thousand men used to fighting, and commanded by a general whom they

know they must obey, are more powerful than double that number who are

not used to warfare, and who are not obliged to fight unless they

choose.

WILLIAM. Yes, mamma, I should think they must be; but were not our men

at all used to fighting? and were they not willing to fight?

MRS. M. They had never been engaged in a regular battle, and, although

most of them were very willing to fight, yet they were much more easily

intimidated than regular soldiers. This gave the British a great

advantage over them; besides this, many of our people did not like to be

thought _rebels_, which the British took every opportunity to convince

them they were. They did not feel quite sure that they did right to

fight against their king, as they had always considered the king of

England to be, and they knew, too, that if we were unsuccessful, they

should be hung as rebels.

But for all this there were a great many willing to risk every thing in

the cause of liberty; and so eager were these for an engagement, that it

was extremely difficult to restrain them until they had acquired a

little more military knowledge.

The British were also anxious to do something. They had, to be sure, the

command of Boston, but all the hills around were guarded by us, and

they felt rather foolish in suffering themselves to be cooped up there,

and not have the power to leave it, without risking a battle. They

finally determined to make a bold push, and obtain possession of the

highest parts of Charlestown and Dorchester, and thus give themselves a

little more liberty to go in and out of the town.

The 18th of June, 1775, was the day on which they had determined to make

this attempt.

The Americans, however, gave them something to do a little sooner than

this. They had contemplated making some attack on the British, or at

least to endeavor to destroy their shipping. Gen. Warren, ardent and

enterprising as he was, was not in favor of this plan. He thought it

would be hazarding too much to begin warfare again in our situation;

that if it was once begun, it would lead to a general engagement, in

which our untrained men would not be able to maintain their ground; and

he thought if beaten now they might be entirely discouraged. Gen.

Putnam, who at that time commanded the troops in Cambridge, was of a

different opinion. He said they need only take two thousand men, nor

would he risk any more. Gen. Warren walked back and forth the room in

which they were debating several times, he then leaned on a chair, and,

after a few moments silence, exclaimed, "almost thou persuadest me, Gen.

Putnam, still I must think the project rash, but if you execute it, you

will not be surprised to find me at your side." "I hope you will not be

there," said Putnam, "you are young, and your country has much to hope

from you, both in their councils and in the field of battle; let us, who

are old and can be better spared begin the affray, there will be time

enough for you hereafter; it will not soon be over."

The more this step was deliberated upon, the more difficulties seemed to

arise, and Gen. Warren felt it his duty again to oppose it before the

committee of safety, of which he was chairman, and before the council of

war, assembled on purpose to decide upon it. When, after much

discussion, both these bodies resolved on its execution, he gave up his

own opinion and joined with his whole heart to promote its success. It

was finally voted by the committee, on the 15th of June, that Dorchester

heights and Bunker hill should be occupied and fortified by our troops.

The intelligence now received, that the British were themselves

preparing to leave their entrenchments to take possession of these

heights, no doubt decided this measure. The soldiers, you recollect,

were encamped in Cambridge. They were quartered, or stationed, in the

colleges and in all the houses for a mile or two about; wherever they

could find shelter, there they were placed.

On the 16th of June, Col. Prescott was ordered to take a part of the

men, stationed in Cambridge, about one thousand, march with them to

Charlestown, and fortify Bunker Hill. Accordingly, in the evening they

began their march as secretly as possible. It was very important they

should get there without the knowledge of the British, for they had to

go so near their lines, that it would have been perfectly in their power

to prevent the success of their undertaking, had they known it. They

took scarcely any refreshments, nothing which was not absolutely

necessary. Their first object was to take possession of Bunker Hill,

their own comforts were but a secondary consideration; when they had

succeeded in that, then would be time enough, they thought, to think of

themselves and to have provisions and other necessaries sent them. To

insure secrecy, the soldiers were not informed of the object of their

march, until they had crossed Charlestown neck. The plan was so well

arranged and so well executed, that the British had not the slightest

suspicion of it, until the rising sun, as it dispelled the mists of the

morning, shone on their fortifications and revealed to the astonished

gaze of the bewildered British, their daring enemy immediately above

them, overlooking their camp, and entrenched in strong forts which

seemed as if created by enchantment; so quietly and so suddenly had they

been erected! Those who first beheld the alarming spectacle rubbed their

eyes, thinking themselves in a dream, but, soon finding it was reality,

they awoke their countrymen and immediately began firing on our men,

almost expecting, even then, to find the fortifications vanish from

before them. They killed one of our noble fellows, and these men who had

done and dared so bravely the night preceding, were so appalled at the

unusual sight of death, in so sudden a manner, that some of them quitted

the works on which they had labored so hard, and returned no more to

defend them.

This can hardly be wondered at. They had been up all night, had had no

refreshment, from sleep or food, not even a drop of water to wet their

parched lips. It is, therefore, more surprising that any of them should

be able to make a stand against the experienced soldiers of Great

Britain, than that some should fall back.

WILLIAM. Yes, mamma, I think it was more surprising. I should have

thought they would have had no strength or resolution to do any thing.

Why did they not have some men from Cambridge to aid them? some who had

not worked so hard would surely have been better able to fight.

MRS. M. Perhaps they would; but those who had gained the post of danger

with so much toil and through so much peril, were determined to maintain

it as long as they were able to stand by it: besides there had yet been

no time for reinforcements to arrive.

WILLIAM. Was Gen. Warren with them when they first went to Bunker Hill?

MRS. M. No, my dear, Congress met at Watertown the day preceding that

eventful night. Gen. Warren was, you know, president of it; he was

therefore obliged to be present when it met. He had been all day engaged

with its members, discussing the most important business, and even the

night was far spent before they had finished the necessary arrangements

for the momentous crisis which had now arrived. The moment he could

leave his friends there, he prepared to go immediately to the field of

battle. These friends endeavored, with all the arguments they could use,

to dissuade him from going. They told him that it was impossible for the

troops there to maintain their ground; that they neither had a

sufficient supply of powder and balls, nor of arms, and the probability

was that all who persisted in fighting would be either killed or taken

prisoners. One of them, in particular, entreated him, most earnestly,

not to expose his invaluable life where his death was almost certain,

for that thus he would injure rather than serve his country's cause. "I

cannot help it," he replied, "I must share the fate of my countrymen."

"To hear the sound of the cannon and remain inactive, is what I cannot

do." "I should die to be at home, while my fellow citizens are shedding

their blood for me." "As sure as you go, you will be slain," replied his

friend. "It is sweet, it is honourable, to die for our country," was the

last reply of the patriotic hero. By daylight of the next morning he was

in Cambridge. The British had not made their appearance, and, sick with

a nervous headache from his excessive exertions of mind and body, Warren

threw himself on a bed, hoping for a few moments' repose. He was soon

informed that the enemy were in motion. Their destination was at first

uncertain. Many thought they intended to seize the scanty stock of

ammunition and other stores, deposited at Watertown and Cambridge. It

was all this part of the country contained; all on which the army here

depended, to enable them to make any resistance against the

well-furnished troops of Great Britain. If these were taken or

destroyed, the struggle for liberty would, for a time, perhaps

_forever_, be at an end.

On the other hand, the troops at Bunker Hill were very much exposed, and

required immediate reinforcements. These considerations prevented the

committee of safety from acting with so much decision, as they would

otherwise have done. This committee was now sitting in the same house in

which Gen. Warren had been seeking a little repose. The moment he

received information that the British were on the move, he started from

his bed, exclaiming, "my headache is gone." He then met with the

committee, of which he was chairman. With his usual quickness of

perception he saw that Bunker Hill was the spot destined to be attacked,

and so soon as it was resolved to send reinforcements there, he mounted

his horse, and, with his fusil and sword hastened to the post of danger.

When he had arrived at Bunker, or Breed's Hill (for they had not yet

been able to fortify Bunker Hill,) the enemy had landed at Charlestown,

and thus made it clear that their intentions were to attack our

forts.[3] Five thousand experienced British troops were already landed

and prepared, under the command of Gen. Howe, to encounter our men. They

had been through no fatigue, had plenty of arms, ammunition, and every

thing necessary to render success almost certain. The Americans, on the

contrary, were much exhausted, their arms were poor, their ammunition

scanty, and no reinforcements of any importance had arrived. But, as I

before mentioned, our men did not wish for aid, they wanted themselves

to defend the forts they had themselves so ably constructed, and they

were about to fight for their liberties, their homes, and every thing

most dear to them. They were determined, too, to show the hired troops

of Great Britain of what men were capable who had determined to die

free, rather than to live under the tyranny of a foreign power. With

such feelings, they did not hesitate a moment to face the enemy, and it

was necessary to repress their ardor, so eager were they to begin.

WILLIAM. But, mamma, was it not on Bunker Hill the battle was fought?

for you said just now it was Breed's Hill, and that they had not been

able to fortify Bunker Hill. I thought they fortified that at first.

MRS. M. No, my dear, they did not. They were directed to do it, but they

found it would not answer so well, as it was too far from the enemy for

them to reach her fleet and shipping from it with their balls. They

therefore fortified Breed's Hill in preference.

MARY. Why then, mamma, was the battle called the battle of Bunker Hill?

MRS. M. Because Bunker Hill was the only one which was distinguished by

a name at that time; it was the one, too, which they had intended to

occupy, and the battle was fought so near it that it was then designated

by that name, which it has ever since retained, and it would be hardly

worth while to alter it now.

WILLIAM. No, mamma, I should think not. I should not like to have the

name changed, for ever since I can remember, I have heard about the

battle of Bunker Hill, and the death of Gen. Warren on it, and I should

not know what it meant if I now heard of the battle of Breed's Hill, and

I do not think I should think at all of him when it was thus spoken of.

But I have interrupted you at the most interesting part. Gen. Warren, I

think you said, had joined the Americans just as the battle was

beginning.

MRS. M. Yes, he had; the firing had already commenced. Among our

commanders the only contention was, who should be foremost at the post

of danger. Each was desirous himself to be placed where there was the

greatest risk, and, therefore, the greatest honor. So soon as Gen.

Warren reached the field of battle, he sought out Gen. Putnam, to

request him to point out to him where he should find the most arduous

service. As Putnam saw him approach, he exclaimed, "Gen. Warren, I am

sorry to see you here: I wish you had left the day to us, as I advised

you. From appearances we shall have a sharp time of it, but since you

are here, I will receive your commands with pleasure." Warren replied,

"I come as a volunteer, I know nothing of your arrangements, and will

not interfere with them; only tell me where I can be most useful, and

there I will go." Putnam, still earnest, if possible, to preserve him

from danger, directed him to a particular spot, observing at the same

time, "there you will be covered." But this was not what Warren wanted.

"Do not think," he earnestly exclaimed, "I come here to seek a place of

safety, tell me where the onset will be most furious, it is there I wish

to be." Putnam then told him that the post he had pointed out was a most

important one. That it was the first wish of the enemy to drive our

soldiers from it; that Col. Prescott was there, determined to defend it

as long as possible, for upon retaining it depended the fate of the

battle. He added, that the probability was, the British would at last

gain possession of it, but when it could be defended no longer, it would

require great coolness and skill to bring off as many of our soldiers as

possible, and retreat with order and regularity. Warren assented to the

truth of this, said he would be governed by his opinions, and instantly

went to the redoubt or post that was to be defended.

So soon as the soldiers saw him, they welcomed him with loud huzzas.

Col. Prescott, as Putnam had before, asked him to take the command; he

again refused it, and offered his services as a volunteer, saying, "I am

happy to learn service from a soldier of experience."

The battle now commenced most seriously. Our soldiers had, as yet, no

time to fortify Bunker Hill, though, if they were beat back from their

fort, it was of the utmost importance this should be done; nor had they

been able to complete their other works as they wished. It was too late

now, for the enemy were already firing on them, unfinished as they were.

All that could be accomplished, before the firing began, was for part of

the soldiers to take post behind a rail fence, about two hundred and

fifty yards in length, which they slightly fortified by placing another

fence at a little distance from the first, and filling the space between

the two with new mown hay. So soon as the tremendous discharge of

cannon from the British began, her troops advanced to attack those

stationed at the redoubt and at this fence. Our men were eager instantly

to return the fire, but were not permitted to, until the enemy were

within eight rods of them. Powder, Putnam told them, must not be wasted.

"Do not fire until commanded. You must not fire until you see the whites

of the eyes of your enemy, then fire low, take aim at their waistbands.

You are all marksmen, and can kill a squirrel at the distance of a

hundred yards; reserve your fire and the enemy are all destroyed. Aim at

the handsome coats; pick off the commanders." Such were the orders of

many of the American officers besides Putnam, as they rode through the

lines of the different divisions which were stationed at the fence, and

at the redoubt. The redoubt was 150 yards in front of the rail fence. As

you may suppose, these instructions came home to the men, and encouraged

and animated them, and gave them more confidence in themselves than any

thing else that could have been said. Some few, in their eagerness to

fire, did not wait the word of command, Putnam drew his sword and

declared he would himself cut down the first who should disobey. Gen.

Warren was among the most active, cheering the men by his words and

actions; he mingled in their ranks, shared all their dangers, and with

his musket stood ready to aid them in firing, the moment the enemy were

near enough to render it prudent to fire. That moment had come. The

British had approached within eight rods of the redoubt. The command was

given, they fired, and nearly the whole front rank of the advancing army

was destroyed. Another line, and still another, presented itself, and

each was in turn levelled with the ground. For a short time there was a

pause. The British were retreating. Putnam seized the moment to bring up

some reinforcements from Bunker Hill. Howe, the British commander,

meanwhile brought his troops once more into order, and was joined by

some others from Boston, under the command of Major Small. Again the

firing commenced. Our men were obliged to wait until the British were

still nearer than the first. Not until they were within _six_ rods were

they now allowed to discharge their muskets. When they did, it was with

still more deadly effect than before. The flames of Charlestown, to

which the British had set fire, urged them on, and rank after rank of

officers and men fell before them. The enemy could no longer stand their

ground; they retreated once more, and left the field to our brave men.

At this moment, Gen. Putnam saw one British officer standing alone, all

around him had fallen. Many muskets were levelled at him; in a moment he

would have shared the fate of his companions. At this eventful moment,

Putnam perceived that it was an old friend and fellow soldier who was

about to be destroyed: he rushed to the spot, knocked away the deadly

weapons with his sword, and entreated the men to spare one whom he loved

like a brother. They could not resist the appeal; the noble and daring

generosity of the General excited their admiration and sympathy. His

friend was permitted to retire unhurt.

Every thing now seemed to promise success to the cause of liberty. The

field was our own. More than a thousand of the enemy had fallen, and a

great number of their best officers were slain by our marksmen. But

alas! at the very moment in which every thing seemed to smile upon our

noble defenders, these defenders found the greatest reason to despair.

So soon as they had leisure to look around them, they discovered that

their ammunition was expended, their arms almost useless, and scarcely

any thing to defend themselves from a renewed attack of the enemy, but

the stones which partly formed their fort. Their only hope was, that as

the loss of the British had been so great, they would not again make the

hazardous attempt to drive them from their entrenchments. In this,

_their last hope_, they were fatally disappointed. Some of the British

officers were unwilling to lead their men again to an attack, where

certain death seemed to await them, but the greater part of them were

determined not to yield the victory to _rebels_, as they still called

us. They collected all their strength, and once more advanced to the

charge, resolved to take the redoubt which Gen. Putnam had pointed out

to Gen. Warren as our most important point of defence, or perish in the

attempt.

Every effort was made by our brave officers and soldiers to preserve

this much contested spot; but the little ammunition they had been able

to collect was soon exhausted. Even this little had not the effect their

former discharges had. The British had learnt wisdom from experience,

they approached with more caution, and kept their forces much closer

together than before. When no more ammunition could be procured by our

officers, stones were resorted to, as the last means of defence. This

rather encouraged than repelled the enemy, as it showed they had nothing

else to use. At last, in spite of every exertion it was in the power of

men to make, who felt they were fighting for their country and their

homes, the British gained possession of the redoubt. They were opposed

at every step of their advance; the butt ends of the guns which the

Americans could no longer fire, were made use of to keep them back;

nothing was left undone. But it was all in vain. As fast as one party

was beaten off, another would approach. All that our officers had now to

do, was to endeavor to retreat with the men who yet remained, with as

little loss as possible. This was done with the same bravery and skill

they had displayed through the whole battle. Gen. Warren was the last to

quit his post. He animated the men to the most desperate actions. With

his own sword he cut down all who were around him. Every inch of ground

which they relinquished, he considered as an indelible disgrace. To give

up all they had toiled so hard to gain, to see the oppressors of his

country in possession of a spot strewed with the bodies, and wet with

the blood of those who had fought so nobly in her defence, was more than

Warren could support. He felt that the liberties of that country had

received their death blow, and life was now of no value to him. He

slowly followed his countrymen, when he found they must yield, and

disdained to quicken his steps, although the balls of the enemy were

whizzing around him. There were some among his gallant opponents who

would gladly have preserved his life, had it been in their power; among

these was Major Small, the same officer who had been rescued by Putnam

from a similar fate. He perceived Gen. Warren thus moving slowly on,

regardless of, or rather seeming to court death. He called upon him for

God's sake to stop, and take refuge with him from certain destruction.

Warren turned and looked at him, but, too sick at heart to answer him,

still kept on his perilous way, in full sight of his enemies. Small then

ordered his men not to fire on him, but it was too late, they had seen

him, and, before the command was heard, had fired. He was only about

eighty rods from the redoubt he had defended so nobly, when the fatal

ball reached him, passed through his head, and killed him instantly.

WILLIAM. Oh how sorry I am! Why could not Major Small have spoken a

little quicker, and kept his men from firing, as Putnam did when our men

were about to fire on him?

MRS. M. He no doubt did all he could to preserve him, but a higher

power than his directed the ball which thus deprived our country of one

of her most enthusiastic defenders, and in one of her darkest moments.

He was taken, too, before his eyes were allowed a glimpse of that

brilliant light of liberty which afterwards shone so brightly upon his

country, and for whose first rays he had so anxiously watched. He fell

in the prime of life, a glorious sacrifice for his beloved country.

MARY. How old was he, dear mother?

MRS. M. He was only thirty-four years of age.

WILLIAM. What became of his body, mamma? I hope the British did not have

it.

MRS. M. His body lay, with a great many others, all night on the field

of battle. In the morning a young man, by the name of Winslow, saw it,

and, disfigured as it was, knew it; he went immediately and told Gen.

Howe that Gen. Warren was among the slain on Bunker Hill. Howe would not

at first believe it. He said it was impossible that the President of

Congress should have been suffered to expose himself in such a perilous

encounter. Dr. Jeffries, who was afterwards for many years a physician

in Boston, and whose son now practises here, was then a surgeon in the

British service. He was at this time on the field, dressing the wounded

among the English, and those among the American prisoners. Howe inquired

if he knew Warren; he said he did, and, so soon as he saw the body,

declared it to be his. He told Gen. Howe that Gen. Warren had, only five

days previous, with his accustomed fearlessness of danger, ventured in a

small canoe to Boston, that he might himself gather information of the

designs of the enemy; and that he had at the same time urged him (Dr.

Jeffries) to return with him, and act as surgeon to the Americans. Howe

no longer doubted that his formidable adversary was extended powerless

at his feet. Though too noble himself not to lament the early fate of

such a mind, yet he declared that this one victim was worth five hundred

of their own men, in which he was joined by all who heard him. In the

pocket of Gen. Warren was found a prayer book with his name in it, which

would from the first have decided, beyond doubt, that it was indeed

Gen. Warren who lay there among friends and foes; but it was not seen at

that time. The probability is, that it was plundered from his pocket by

some of those wretches who generally remain on the field where a battle

has been fought, in order to get what they can from the dying and the

dead.

MARY. How was it known that it had been taken from him, dear mother?

MRS. M. Some time after, when the war was over, and the British officers

and soldiers had gone back to England, one of these soldiers showed this

book to an English minister, whose name was Samuel Wilton. This

gentleman knew that a book of this kind, found on the body of so eminent

a man as Warren, would be highly valued by every American, and that it

would be more especially gratifying to his immediate relatives to have

such a relic of him; one which showed that when he went forth to fight

for his country, his trust was not in his own arm alone, but that he

looked up to a higher power for support. Mr. Wilton, therefore, offered

the man a great price for it, who very gladly sold it to him. He then

sent it to America, and had it put into the hands of a minister of

Roxbury, the Rev. Dr. Gordon--with a request that it might be given to

his nearest relative. It was accordingly given to his youngest brother,

Dr. John Warren, March 15th, 1778. This was about three years after Gen.

Warren's death.

MARY. I think it was very kind in that English minister to take so much

trouble. Was not the book almost worn out by the man who had it all that

time?

MRS. M. No, it was in very good preservation. I suppose the man took

good care of it, thinking he might sometime get a great price for it. It

is even now a handsome book, the binding is as nice as ever. The type is

so clear, that is, it was so well printed, that it can be read with

great ease, although printed so long ago as the year 1559; which was but

a little more than an hundred years after the art of printing was

discovered: so that it is valuable for its antiquity, as well as from

having belonged to a departed hero.

WILLIAM. Where is it now, mamma?

MRS. M. Gen. Warren's nephew, the present Dr. John C. Warren, has it. He

also has the oration which Gen. Warren delivered on the 5th of March, in

the orator's own hand-writing.

WILLIAM. You have not yet told us, mamma, what became of the body of the

general?

MRS. M. It was buried near where he fell, with many other bodies, both

English and American. Some time after, his friends took it up and placed

it in a tomb in the Tremont burying-ground, and finally the bones were

removed to the family tomb under St. Paul's church.

WILLIAM. Would not the British let his friends have it to bury at first,

dear mother?

MRS. M. I presume they would, had any of them demanded it in time: but

these friends could not ascertain where he was, nor did they know for a

certainty of his death, until after he was buried. The youngest brother,

of whom I have spoken so often, Dr. John Warren, was at the time of the

battle, in full practice, as a physician, in Salem. So soon as he heard

there was likely to be an engagement in Charlestown, he armed himself,

and set out on foot for that place. He went on as rapidly as he could,

he saw the town of Charlestown in flames, and was lighted on his way by

its burning glare, but could not ascertain, for some time, if there had

yet been any fighting. At last he was informed that there had been a

severe engagement. His impatience to be on the spot, and his anxiety to

know where his brother Joseph was, became now almost insupportable. He

had studied his profession with that brother, and knew his ardent

character so well, that he felt confident he would be among the

combatants; he felt, too, that no danger, no thought for himself, would

keep him back from the hottest of the fray; he was eager to be with him,

to share his danger if he could not guard him from it. Notwithstanding

his impatience, he could learn nothing certain about him; he determined

to penetrate to the field of battle at all risks. As he attempted to

pass a sentinel, on his way, he was repulsed by him with the point of a

bayonet, which gave him so deep a wound, that he carried the scar from

it as long as he lived. Still he pushed on, and at last ascertained that

his brother was in the engagement, and that he was either killed or

taken prisoner. His character was quite as enthusiastic as that of his

brother, and he now earnestly entreated to be allowed to join the army

as a volunteer: to avenge his brother's death, or, if he was not killed,

to effect his release, was now his most fervent wish. This request was

refused. His services were needed elsewhere. The poor fellows who had

been wounded in the battle were even now suffering from the want of

surgical assistance. Dr. John Warren, although then only twenty-four

years of age, had already acted as surgeon at the battle of Lexington.

His skill, therefore, as a surgeon, was too well known to allow Congress

to accept his services in any other way. With a heart aching at the

uncertainty attending a beloved brother's fate, he had to fulfil the

duties of the office assigned him. This post, of hospital surgeon, he

retained during the rest of the war.

His mother was almost distracted with the suspense in which she was

kept respecting her first-born son. Although from the first she had said

she was sure he would fall a sacrifice to the cause he had espoused so

warmly, yet now she could not believe that such had been his fate. It

was three days after the battle, before certain intelligence was

obtained of his death. When his mother first realized that she should

see him no more, she was entirely overwhelmed with her affliction. He

was her eldest son; after the death of her husband, she had looked to

him as her principal solace and support. He was all her fondest hopes

could wish. Honor, respect and love, had attended him in every step of

his career; and now, just as he had attained to all the honors his

country could bestow, he was taken away, and she had not even the

melancholy satisfaction of embalming his body with her tears. For a time

she refused to be comforted; but ere long, that religion which had

comforted her in all her former afflictions, exerted its healing power

over her wounded spirit, and though she still sorrowed, it was not

without hope. The memory of this much loved son was fondly cherished by

her to the end of her life. Every anniversary of his death was kept by

her as a day of fasting and prayer, and her hospitable house was closed

to all but the poor.

His eldest and youngest brothers were present when his body was

disinterred. So soon as the youngest brother, Dr. John Warren, saw that

it was indeed the body of his respected preceptor and much loved friend

and brother, that was thus taken from the recesses of the grave to

receive the last tribute of affection, his emotion was so great as to

entirely overpower him, he dropped motionless by the side of him he so

deeply mourned, and it was some time before consciousness was restored

again.

WILLIAM. How did his brothers know it was his body, mamma? I should

think, if it had been buried some time, it would not have been possible

for them to have been sure it was his.

MRS. M. They knew his clothes, for he was buried just as he fell;

besides this, he had lost a finger nail and wore an artificial tooth,

so that he was identified beyond doubt.

His country also deeply mourned his untimely loss. In the official

account of the battle, drawn up by the Massachusetts Congress, it is

stated; "Among the dead was Maj. Gen. Joseph Warren, a man whose memory

will be endeared to his countrymen, and to the worthy in every part and

age of the world, as long as valor shall be esteemed among mankind."

Within a year after his death, it was resolved by Congress that there

should be a monument erected to his memory, "as an acknowledgment of his

virtues and distinguished services." Congress also resolved, that from

that time his eldest son should be educated at the expense of the United

States. Two or three years after, it was determined that the three

younger children should likewise be supported and educated at the public

expense, until the youngest child should be of age.

MARY. Indeed, mamma, did Gen. Warren have four children? I did not know

he was married.

MRS. M. Yes, my dear, he left four orphans. His wife, who was a very

excellent, amiable woman, died three years before his death, so that

when he was killed, the poor children were left without father or

mother.

WILLIAM. Who took care of them, dear mother?

MRS. M. Dr. John Warren took them home soon after he himself was

married, and they lived with him many years.

MARY. Did the United States support them, as was resolved?

MRS. M. Yes. Their uncle, Dr. Warren, was just getting into business in

Boston, for he left Salem soon after the war commenced; he was at that

time not able to do more than support his own family, and unless the

board of his brother's children had been paid, he could not have kept

them. The eldest son was fitted for, and carried through college, but he

died a few years after he came out. The second son, too, died soon after

he became of age. The other two children were daughters. The eldest

married Gen. Arnold Welles, of whom you have often heard me speak; he

was a man beloved and respected by all who knew him. This eldest

daughter of Gen. Warren's, was a very beautiful woman, but she has been

dead many years. The second daughter, who was also a very handsome

woman, was twice married. Her last husband was Judge Newcombe, of

Greenfield. She has been dead some years, and has left one son, Warren

Newcombe, who is practising law in this State. He is the only immediate

descendant of Gen. Warren. I believe, my children, I have now told you

all I can about our friend Joseph Warren. Are you not tired of hearing

about him?

MARY. Oh, no, dear mother, I am not, I wish you could tell us a great

deal more.

WILLIAM. So do I, mamma. We are much obliged to you for telling us so

much. How long did the war last after Gen. Warren was killed?

MRS. M. It lasted about six years, but peace was not finally concluded

until the year 1783; that was eight years after his death. Parley's

Geography tells you the time when the fighting ceased, and when a treaty

of peace was signed between Great Britain and our country. Do you not

recollect it?

WILLIAM. Yes, mamma, I do now, but I cannot remember dates very well.

MRS. M. You must soon read larger books about the Revolution, and then

you will remember better. There are a great many anecdotes of things

which took place during the war, which are quite as interesting as any

books of tales you can find. In the Appendix to Dr. Thacher's Journal of

the Revolution, there are some very interesting facts related; but you

ought to read the whole book so soon as you are old enough to take an

interest in it. There are, too, a great many other books you ought to

read, to make you acquainted with the many great and good men, who

fought and bled in their country's cause. It is not possible to know how

much we owe them, and especially how much we owe to Gen. Washington,

unless we read books which enter into all the particulars of what was

done and suffered by them, and by him through the whole of the war.