Governor Hutchinson sat quietly in Grandfather's chair, unsuspicious of
the evil that was about to fall upon his head. His beloved family were
in the room with him. He had thrown off his embroidered coat and
powdered wig, and had on a loose flowing gown and purple velvet cap. He
had likewise laid aside the cares of state and all the thoughts that
had wearied and perplexed him throughout the day.
Perhaps in the enjoyment of his home he had forgotten all about the
Stamp Act, and scarcely remembered that there was a king across the
ocean who had resolved to make tributaries of the New Englanders.
Possibly, too, he had forgotten his own ambition, and would not have
exchanged his situation at that moment to be governor or even a lord.
[Illustration: "FATHER, DO YOU NOT HEAR?"]
The wax candles were now lighted, and showed a handsome room well
provided with rich furniture. On the walls hung the pictures of
Hutchinson's ancestors, who had been eminent men in their day and were
honorably remembered in the history of the country. Every object served
to mark the residence of a rich, aristocratic gentleman who held
himself high above the common people and could have nothing to fear
from them. In the corner of a room, thrown carelessly upon a chair,
were the scarlet robes of the chief justice. This high office, as well
as those of lieutenant-governor, councilor, and judge of the probate,
was filled by Hutchinson.
Who or what could disturb the domestic quiet of such a great and
powerful personage as now sat in Grandfather's chair?
The lieutenant-governor's favorite daughter sat by his side. She leaned
on the arm of our great chair and looked up affectionately into her
father's face, rejoicing to perceive that a quiet smile was on his
lips. But suddenly a shade came across her countenance. She seemed to
listen attentively, as if to catch a distant sound.
"What is the matter, my child?" inquired Hutchinson.
"Father, do you not hear a tumult in the streets?" said she.
The lieutenant-governor listened. But his ears were duller than those
of his daughter: he could hear nothing more terrible than the sound of
a summer breeze sighing among the tops of the elm trees.
"No, foolish child!" he replied, playfully patting her cheek. "There is
no tumult. Our Boston mobs are satisfied with what mischief they have
already done. The king's friends need not tremble."
So Hutchinson resumed his pleasant and peaceful meditations, and again
forgot that there were any troubles in the world. But his family were
alarmed, and could not help straining their ears to catch the slightest
sound. More and more distinctly they heard shouts, and then the
trampling of many feet. While they were listening one of the neighbors
rushed breathless into the room.
"A mob! a terrible mob!" cried he. "They have broken into Mr. Storey's
house and into Mr. Hallowell's, and have made themselves drunk with the
liquors in his cellar, and now they are coming hither, as wild as so
many tigers. Flee, lieutenant-governor, for your life! for your life!"
"Father, dear father, make haste!" shrieked his children.
But Hutchinson would not hearken to them. He was an old lawyer, and he
could not realize that the people would do anything so utterly lawless
as to assault him in his peaceful home. He was one of King George's
chief officers, and it would be an insult and outrage upon the king
himself if the lieutenant-governor should suffer any wrong.
"Have no fears on my account," said he. "I am perfectly safe. The
king's name shall be my protection."
Yet he bade his family retire into one of the neighboring houses. His
daughter would have remained, but he forced her away.
The huzzas and riotous uproar of the mob were now heard close at hand.
The sound was terrible, and struck Hutchinson with the same sort of
dread as if an enraged wild beast had broken loose and were roaring for
its prey. He crept softly to the window. There he beheld an immense
concourse of people filling all the street and rolling onward to his
house. It was like a tempestuous flood that had swelled beyond its
bounds and would sweep everything before it. Hutchinson trembled; he
felt at that moment that the wrath of the people was a thousandfold
more terrible than the wrath of a king. That was a moment when a
loyalist and an aristocrat like Hutchinson might have learned how
powerless are kings, nobles, and great men when the low and humble
range themselves against them. King George could do nothing for his
servant now. Had King George been there he could have done nothing for
himself. If Hutchinson had understood this lesson and remembered it, he
need not in after years have been an exile from his native country, nor
finally have laid his bones in a distant land.
[Footnote: THE RIOTERS BROKE INTO THE HOUSE]
There was now a rush against the doors of the house. The people sent up
a hoarse cry. At this instant the lieutenant-governor's daughter, whom
he had supposed to be in a place of safety, ran into the room and threw
her arms around him. She had returned by a private entrance.
"Father, are you mad?" cried she. "Will the king's name protect you
now? Come with me or they will have your life."
"True," muttered Hutchinson to himself; "what care these roarers for
the name of king? I must flee, or they will trample me down on the
floor of my own dwelling."
Hurrying away, he and his daughter made their escape by the private
passage at the moment when the rioters broke into the house. The
foremost of them rushed up the staircase and entered the room which
Hutchinson had just quitted. There they beheld our good old chair
facing them with quiet dignity, while the lion's head seemed to move
its jaws in the unsteady light of their torches. Perhaps the stately
aspect of our venerable friend, which had stood firm through a century
and a half of trouble, arrested them for an instant. But they were
thrust forward by those behind, and the chair lay overthrown.
Then began the work of destruction. The carved and polished mahogany
tables were shattered with heavy clubs and hewn to splinters with axes.
The marble hearths and mantelpieces were broken. The volumes of
Hutchinson's library, so precious to a studious man, were torn out of
their covers and the leaves sent flying out of the windows. Manuscripts
containing secrets of our country's history which are now lost forever
were scattered to the winds. The old ancestral portraits whose fixed
countenances looked down on the wild scene were rent from the walls.
The mob triumphed in their downfall and destruction, as if these
pictures of Hutchinson's forefathers had committed the same offenses as
their descendants. A tall looking-glass which had hitherto presented a
reflection of the enraged and drunken multitude was now smashed into a
thousand fragments. We gladly dismiss the scene from the mirror of our
fancy.
Before morning dawned the walls of the house were all that remained.
The interior was a dismal scene of ruin. A shower pattered in at the
broken windows, and when Hutchinson and his family returned they stood
shivering in the same room where the last evening had seen them so
peaceful and happy.
[Illustration: North Church Tower, Boston]
THE BOSTON MASSACRE
[Footnote: From _Grandfather's Chair_.]
_By_ NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
It was now the 3d of March, 1770. The sunset music of the British
regiments was heard as usual throughout the town. The shrill fife and
rattling drum awoke the echoes in King Street while the last ray of
sunshine was lingering on the cupola of the Town-house. And now all the
sentinels were posted. One of them marched up and down before the
custom-house, treading a short path through the snow and longing for
the time when they would be dismissed to the warm fireside of the
guard-room. Meanwhile, Captain Preston was perhaps sitting in our great
chair before the hearth of the British Coffee-house. In the course of
the evening there were two or three slight commotions which seemed to
indicate that trouble was at hand. Small parties of young men stood at
the corners of the streets or walked along the narrow pavements. Squads
of soldiers who were dismissed from duty passed by them, shoulder to
shoulder, with the regular step which they had learned at the drill.
Whenever these encounters took place it appeared to be the object of
the young men to treat the soldiers with as much incivility as
possible.
"Turn out, you lobster-backs!" one would say.
"Crowd them off the sidewalks!" another would cry. "A red-coat has no
right in Boston streets!"
"Oh, you rebel rascals!" perhaps the soldiers would reply, glaring
fiercely at the young men. "Some day or other we'll make our way
through Boston streets at the point of the bayonet!"
One or twice such disputes as these brought on a scuffle, which passed
off, however, without attracting much notice. About eight o'clock, for
some unknown cause, an alarm bell rang loudly and hurriedly.
At the sound many people ran out of their houses, supposing it to be an
alarm of fire. But there were no flames to be seen, nor was there any
smell of smoke in the clear, frosty air, so that most of the townsmen
went back to their own firesides and sat talking with their wives and
children about the calamities of the times. Others who were younger and
less prudent remained in the streets, for there seems to have been a
presentiment that some strange event was on the eve of taking place.
Later in the evening, not far from nine o'clock several young men
passed by the Town-house and walked down King Street. The sentinel was
still on his post in front of the custom-house, pacing to and fro,
while as he turned a gleam of light from some neighboring window
glittered on the barrel of his musket.
At no great distance were the barracks and the guard-house, where his
comrades were probably telling stories of battle and bloodshed.
Down toward the custom-house, as I told you, came a party of wild young
men. When they drew near the sentinel he halted on his post and took
his musket from his shoulder, ready to present the bayonet at their
breasts.
[Illustration: NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 1804-1864]
"Who goes there?" he cried, in the gruff, peremptory tones of a
soldier's challenge.
The young men, being Boston boys, felt as if they had a right to walk
their own streets without being accountable to a British red-coat, even
though he challenged them in King George's name. They made some rude
answer to the sentinel. There was a dispute, or perhaps a scuffle.
Other soldiers heard the noise, and ran hastily from the barracks to
assist their comrades. At the same time many of the townspeople rushed
into King Street by various avenues and gathered in a crowd round about
the custom-house. It seemed wonderful how such a multitude had smarted
up all of a sudden.
The wrongs and insults which the people had been suffering for many
months now kindled them into a rage. They threw snowballs and lumps of
ice at the soldiers. As the tumult grew louder it reached the ears of
Captain Preston, the officer of the day. He immediately ordered eight
soldiers of the main guard to take their muskets and follow him. They
marched across the street, forcing their way roughly through the crowd
and pricking the townspeople with their bayonets.
A gentleman (it was Henry Knox, afterward general of the American
artillery) caught Captain Preston's arm.
"For Heaven's sake, sir," exclaimed he, "take heed what you do or there
will be bloodshed!"
"Stand aside!" answered Captain Preston haughtily. "Do not interfere,
sir. Leave me to manage the affair."
Arriving at the sentinel's post, Captain Preston drew up his men in a
semicircle with their faces to the crowd and their rear to the custom-
house. When the people saw the officer and beheld the threatening
attitude with which the soldiers fronted them their rage became almost
uncontrollable.
"Fire, you lobster-backs!" bellowed some.
"You dare not fire, you cowardly red-coats!" cried others.
"Rush upon them!" shouted many voices. "Drive the rascals to their
barracks! Down with them! Down with them! Let them fire if they dare!"
Amid the uproar the soldiers stood glaring at the people with the
fierceness of men whose trade was to shed blood.
Oh, what a crisis had now arrived! Up to this very moment the angry
feelings between England and America might have been pacified. England
had but to stretch out the hand of reconciliation and acknowledge that
she had hitherto mistaken her rights, but would do so no more. Then the
ancient bond of brotherhood would again have been knit together as
firmly as in old times. The habit of loyalty which had grown as strong
as instinct was not utterly overcome. The perils shared, the victories
won in the Old French War, when the soldiers of the colonies fought
side by side with their comrades from beyond the sea, were unforgotten
yet. England was still that beloved country which the colonists called
their home. King George, though he had frowned upon America, was still
reverenced as a father.
But should the king's soldiers shed one drop of American blood, then it
was a quarrel to the death. Never, never would America rest satisfied
until she had torn down the royal authority and trampled it in the
dust.
"Fire if you dare, villains!" hoarsely shouted the people while the
muzzles of the muskets were turned upon them. "You dare not fire!"
[Illustration: THE SOLDIERS FIRED]
They appeared ready to rush upon the leveled bayonets. Captain Preston
waved his sword and uttered a command which could not be distinctly
heard amid the uproar of shouts that issued from a hundred throats. But
his soldiers deemed that he had spoken the fatal mandate, "Fire!" The
flash of their muskets lighted up the street, and the report rang
loudly between the edifices. It was said, too, that the figure of a man
with a cloth hanging down over his face was seen to step into the
balcony of the custom-house and discharge a musket at the crowd.
A gush of smoke had overspread the scene. It rose heavily, as if it
were loath to reveal the dreadful spectacle beneath it. Eleven of the
sons of New England lay stretched upon the street. Some, sorely
wounded, were struggling to rise again. Others stirred not nor groaned,
for they were past all pain. Blood was streaming upon the snow, and
that purple stain in the midst of King Street, though it melted away in
the next day's sun, was never forgotten nor forgiven by the people.
The town drums beat to arms, the alarm bells rang, and an immense
multitude rushed into King Street. Many of them had weapons in their
hands. The British prepared to defend themselves. A whole regiment was
drawn up in the street expecting an attack, for the townsmen appeared
ready to throw themselves upon the bayonets.
Governor Hutchinson hurried to the spot and besought the people to have
patience, promising that strict justice should be done. A day or two
afterward the British troops were withdrawn from town and stationed at
Castle William. Captain Preston and the eight soldiers were tried for
murder, but none of them were found guilty. The judges told the jury
that the insults and violence which had been offered to the soldiers
justified them in firing at the mob.
[Illustration: THE STEED SWEPT ON]
SHERIDAN'S RIDE
_By_ THOMAS BUCHANAN READ
Up from the South at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble and rumble and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar,
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
With Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good, broad highway leading down;
And there through the flash of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night,
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight.
As if he knew the terrible need,
He stretched away with the utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell,--but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
* * * * *
Under his spurning feet the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on with his wuld eyes full of fire;
But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire,
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the General saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;
What was done,--what to do,--a glance told him both,
And, striking his spurs with a terrible oath,
He dashed down the line mid a storm of huzzas,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there because
The sight of the master compelled it to pause.
With foam and with dust the black charger was gray,
By the flash of his eye, and his nostril's play
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester, down to save the day!"
Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan!
Hurrah, hurrah, for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky,--
To the American soldier's Temple of Fame,--
There with the glorious General's name
Be it said in letters both bold and bright:
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester,--twenty miles away!"
JOAN OF ARC
[Footnote: The body of this selection has been much condensed, though
the introduction is as De Quincey wrote it.]
_By_ THOMAS DE QUINCEY
What is to be thought of _her_? What is to be thought of the poor
shepherd girl from the hills and forests of Lorraine, [Footnote:
Lorraine lay between France and Germany.] that--like the Hebrew
shepherd boy [Footnote: David.] from the hills and forests of Judea--
rose suddenly out of the quiet, out of the safety, out of the religious
inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van
of armies, and to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings?
The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an _act_, by a
victorious _act_, [Footnote: The killing of Goliath.] such as no
man could deny. But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story
as it was read by those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies bore
witness to the boy as no pretender; but so they did to the gentle girl.
Judged by the voices of all who saw them _from a station of good-will_,
both were found true and loyal to any promises involved in their first
acts. Enemies it was that made the difference between their subsequent
fortunes. The boy rose to a splendour and a noonday prosperity, both
personal and public, that rang through the records of his people, and
became a by-word amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the
sceptre was departing from Judah. [Footnote: See _Genesis_ XLIX: 10.]
The poor, forsaken girl, on the contrary, drank not herself from that
cup of rest which she had secured for France. She never sang together
with the songs that rose in her native Domrémy as echoes to the
departing steps of invaders. She mingled not in the festal dances at
Vaucouleurs which celebrated in rapture the redemption of France. No!
for her voice was then silent; no! for her feet were dust. Pure,
innocent, noble-hearted girl! whom, from earliest youth, ever I believed
in as full of truth and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the pledges for
_thy_ truth, that never once--no, not for a moment of weakness--didst
thou revel in the vision of coronets and honour from man. Coronets for
thee! Oh no! Honours, if they come when all is over, are for those that
share thy blood. Daughter of Domrémy, when the gratitude of thy king
shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her,
King of France, but she will not hear thee. Cite her by the apparitors
to come and receive a robe of honour, but she will be found _en
contumace._ [Footnote: _In contempt_ is the phrase we now apply to a
person who fails to appear when summoned to appear in court.] When the
thunders of universal France, as even yet may happen, shall proclaim the
grandeur of the poor shepherd girl that gave up all for her country, thy
ear, young shepherd girl, will have been deaf for five centuries. To
suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life; that was thy
destiny; and not for a moment was it hidden from thyself. Life, thou
saidst, is short; and the sleep which is in the grave is long; let me
use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams
destined to comfort the sleep which is so long! This pure creature--pure
from every suspicion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was
pure in senses more obvious--never once did this holy child, as regarded
herself, relax from her belief in the darkness that was traveling to
meet her. She might not prefigure the very manner of her death; she saw
not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, the
spectators without end on every road pouring into Rouen as to a
coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, the hostile faces
all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there, until
nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints;--
these might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future.
But the voice that called her to death, _that_ she heard for ever.
[Illustration: JOAN OF ARC _Statue by Chapu, Luxembourg, Paris _]
Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he
that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that
sat upon it, was for _her_; but, on the contrary, that she was for
_them_; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust.
Gorgeous were the lilies of France, [Footnote: The royal emblem
of France was the _fleur-de-lys_ or iris, but in translation the
phrase appears _lily-flower_.] and for centuries had the privilege
to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another century,
the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but well Joanna knew,
early at Domrémy she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of
France would decorate no garland for _her_. Flower nor bud, bell
nor blossom, would ever bloom for _her_!
* * * * *