"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 play-house.
"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 in the very spot which, six years before, had been reddened by the
blood of the Boston Massacre. The chief justice stept 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.
Further on, he passed beneath the tower of the Old South. The threshold of
this sacred edifice was worn by the iron tramp of horse’s 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 further, 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 court-yard, 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 broad 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 these 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 staid 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 head-quarters."
"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."