period, the governments of commercial nations were solicitous to find a
way of determining the longitude that would be sufficiently correct.
Thus, the King of Spain, in 1598, offered a reward of a thousand crowns
to any one who should discover an approximately correct method. Soon
after, the government of Holland offered ten thousand florins. In 1714
the English government took hold of the matter, and offered a series of
dazzling prizes: Five thousand pounds for a chronometer that would
enable a ship six months from home to get her longitude within sixty
miles; seven thousand five hundred pounds, if within forty miles; ten
thousand pounds if within thirty miles. Another clause of the bill
offered a premium of twenty thousand pounds for the invention of any
method whatever, by means of which the longitude could be determined
within thirty miles. The bill appears to have been drawn somewhat
carelessly; but the substance of it was sufficiently plain, namely, that
the British Government was ready to make the fortune of any man who
should enable navigators to make their way across the ocean in a
straight line to their desired port.
Two years after, the Regent of France offered a prize of a hundred
thousand francs for the same object.
All the world went to watch-making. John Harrison, stimulated by these
offers to increased exertion, in the year 1736 presented himself at
Greenwich with one of his wonderful clocks, provided with the gridiron
pendulum, which he exhibited and explained to the commissioners.
Perceiving the merit and beauty of his invention, they placed the clock
on board a ship bound for Lisbon. This was subjecting a pendulum clock
to a very unfair trial; but it corrected the ship's reckoning several
miles. The commissioners now urged him to compete for the chronometer
prize, and in order to enable him to do so they supplied him with
money, from time to time, for twenty-four years. At length he produced
his chronometer, about four inches in diameter, and so mounted as not to
share the motion of the vessel.
In 1761, when he was sixty-eight years of age, he wrote to the
commissioners that he had completed a chronometer for trial, and
requested them to test it on a voyage to the West Indies, under the care
of his son William. His requests were granted. The success of the
chronometer was wonderful. On arriving at Jamaica, the chronometer
varied but four seconds from Greenwich time, and on returning to England
the entire variation was a little short of two minutes; which was
equivalent to a longitudinal variation of eighteen miles. The ship had
been absent from Portsmouth one hundred and forty-seven days.
This signal triumph was won after forty years of labor and experiment.
The commissioners demanding another trial, the watch was taken to
Barbadoes, and, after an absence of a hundred and fifty-six days, showed
a variation of only fifteen seconds. After other and very exacting
tests, it was decided that John Harrison had fulfilled all the
prescribed conditions, and he received accordingly the whole sum of
twenty thousand pounds sterling.
It is now asserted by experts that he owed the success of his watch, not
so much to originality of invention, as to the exquisite skill and
precision of his workmanship. He had one of the most perfect mechanical
hands that ever existed. It was the touch of a Raphael applied to
mechanism.
John Harrison lived to the good old age of eighty-three years. He died
in London in 1776, about the time when General Washington was getting
ready to drive the English troops and their Tory friends out of Boston.
It is not uncommon nowadays for a ship to be out four or five months,
and to hit her port so exactly as to sail straight into it without
altering her course more than a point or two.
PETER FANEUIL,
AND THE GREAT HALL HE BUILT.
A story is told of the late Ralph Waldo Emerson's first lecture, in
Cincinnati, forty years ago. A worthy pork-packer, who was observed to
listen with close attention to the enigmatic utterances of the sage, was
asked by one of his friends what he thought of the performance.
"I liked it very well," said he, "and I'm glad I went, because I learned
from it how the Boston people pronounce Faneuil Hall."
He was perhaps mistaken, for it is hardly probable that Mr. Emerson gave
the name in the old-fashioned Boston style, which was a good deal like
the word _funnel_. The story, however, may serve to show what a
widespread and intense reputation the building has. Of all the objects
in Boston it is probably the one best known to the people of the United
States, and the one surest to be visited by the stranger. The Hall is a
curious, quaint little interior, with its high galleries, and its
collection of busts and pictures of Revolutionary heroes. Peter Faneuil
little thought what he was doing when he built it, though he appears to
have been a man of liberal and enlightened mind.
The Faneuils were prosperous merchants in the French city of Rochelle in
1685, when Louis XIV. revoked the Edict of Nantes. The great-grandfather
of John Jay was also in large business there at that time, and so were
the ancestors of our Delanceys, Badeaus, Pells, Secors, Allaires, and
other families familiar to the ears of New Yorkers, many of them having
distinguished living representatives among us. They were of the religion
"called Reformed," as the king of France contemptuously styled it.
Reformed or not, they were among the most intelligent, enterprising, and
wealthy of the merchants of Rochelle.
How little we can conceive the effect upon their minds of the order
which came from Paris in October, 1685, which was intended to put an end
forever to the Protestant religion in France. The king meant to make
thorough work of it. He ordered all the Huguenot churches in the kingdom
to be instantly demolished. He forbade the dissenters to assemble either
in a building or out of doors, on pain of death and confiscation of all
their goods. Their clergymen were required to leave the kingdom within
fifteen days. Their schools were interdicted, and all children hereafter
born of Protestant parents were to be baptized by the Catholic
clergymen, and reared as Catholics.
These orders were enforced with reckless ferocity, particularly in the
remoter provinces and cities of the kingdom. The Faneuils, the Jays, and
the Delanceys of that renowned city saw their house of worship leveled
with the ground. Dragoons were quartered in their houses, whom they were
obliged to maintain, and to whose insolence they were obliged to submit,
for the troops were given to understand that they were the king's
enemies and had no rights which royal soldiers were bound to respect. At
the same time, the edict forbade them to depart from the kingdom, and
particular precautions were taken to prevent men of capital from doing
so.
John Jay records that the ancestor of his family made his escape by
artifice, and succeeded in taking with him a portion of his property.
Such was also the good fortune of the brothers Faneuil, who were part of
the numerous company from old Rochelle who emigrated to New York about
1690, and formed a settlement upon Long Island Sound, twelve miles from
New York, which they named, and which is still called, New Rochelle. The
old names can still be read in that region, both in the churchyards and
upon the door plates, and the village of Pelham recalls the name of the
Pell family who fled from Rochelle about the same time, and obtained a
grant of six thousand acres of land near by. The newcomers were warmly
welcomed, as their friends and relations were in England.
The Faneuil brothers did not remain long in New Rochelle, but removed to
Boston in 1691. Benjamin and Andrew were their names. There are many
traces of them in the early records, indicating that they were merchants
of large capital and extensive business for that day. There are
evidences also that they were men of intelligence and public spirit.
They appear to have been members of the Church of England in Boston,
which of itself placed them somewhat apart from the majority of their
fellow-citizens.
Peter Faneuil, the builder of the famous Hall, who was born in Boston
about 1701, the oldest of eleven children, succeeded to the business
founded by his uncle Andrew, and while still a young man had greatly
increased it, and was reckoned one of the leading citizens.
A curious controversy had agitated the people of Boston for many years.
The town had existed for nearly a century without having a public market
of any kind, the country people bringing in their produce and selling it
from door to door. In February, 1717, occurred the Great Snow, which
destroyed great numbers of domestic and wild animals, and caused
provisions for some weeks to be scarce and dear. The inhabitants laid
the blame of the dearness to the rapacity of the hucksters, and the
subject being brought up in town meeting, a committee reported that the
true remedy was to build a market, to appoint market days, and establish
rules. The farmers opposed the scheme, as did also many of the citizens.
The project being defeated, it was revived year after year, but the
country people always contrived to defeat it. An old chronicler has a
quaint passage on the subject.
"The country people," he says, "always opposed the market, so that the
question could not be settled. The reason they give for it is, that if
market days were appointed, all the country people coming in at the same
time would glut it, and the towns-people would buy their provisions for
what they pleased; so rather choose to send them as they think fit. And
sometimes a tall fellow brings in a turkey or goose to sell, and will
travel through the whole town to see who will give most for it, and it
is at last sold for three and six pence or four shillings; and if he had
stayed at home, he could have earned a crown by his labor, which is the
customary price for a day's work. So any one may judge of the stupidity
of the country people."
In Boston libraries, pamphlets are still preserved on this burning
question of a market, which required seventeen years of discussion
before a town meeting was brought to vote for the erection of market
houses. In 1734, seven hundred pounds were appropriated for the purpose.
The market hours were fixed from sunrise to 1 P. M., and a bell was
ordered to be rung to announce the time of opening. The country people,
however, had their way, notwithstanding. They so resolutely refrained
from attending the markets that in less than four years the houses fell
into complete disuse. One of the buildings was taken down, and the
timber used in constructing a workhouse; one was turned into stores, and
the third was torn to pieces by a mob, who carried off the material for
their own use.
Nevertheless, the market question could not be allayed, for the
respectable inhabitants of the town were still convinced of the need of
a market as a defense against exorbitant charges. For some years the
subject was brought up in town meetings; but as often as it came to the
point of appropriating money the motion was lost. At length Mr. Peter
Faneuil came forward to end the dissension in a truly magnificent
manner. He offered to build a market house at his own expense, and make
a present of it to the town.
Even this liberal offer did not silence opposition. A petition was
presented to the town meeting, signed by three hundred and forty
inhabitants, asking the acceptance of Peter Faneuil's proposal. The
opposition to it, however, was strong. At length it was agreed that, if
a market house were built, the country people should be at liberty to
sell their produce from door to door if they pleased. Even with this
concession, only 367 citizens voted for the market and 360 voted against
it. Thus, by a majority of seven, the people of Boston voted to accept
the most munificent gift the town had received since it was founded.
Peter Faneuil went beyond his promise. Besides building an ample market
place, he added a second story for a town hall, and other offices for
public use. The building originally measured one hundred feet by forty,
and was finished in so elegant a style as to be reckoned the chief
ornament of the town. It was completed in 1742, after two years had been
spent in building it. It had scarcely been opened for public use when
Peter Faneuil died, aged a little less than forty-three years. The
grateful citizens gave him a public funeral, and the Selectmen appointed
Mr. John Lovell, schoolmaster, to deliver his funeral oration in the
Hall bearing his name. The oration was entered at length upon the
records of the town, and has been frequently published.
In 1761 the Hall was destroyed by fire. It was immediately rebuilt, and
this second structure was the Faneuil Hall in which were held the
meetings preceding and during the war for Independence, which have given
it such universal celebrity. Here Samuel Adams spoke. Here the feeling
was created which made Massachusetts the centre and source of the
revolutionary movement.
Let me not omit to state that those obstinate country people, who knew
what they wanted, were proof against the attractions of Faneuil Hall
market. They availed themselves of their privilege of selling their
produce from door to door, as they had done from the beginning of the
colony. Fewer and fewer hucksters kept stalls in the market, and in a
few years the lower room was closed altogether. The building served,
however, as Town Hall until it was superseded by structures more in
harmony with modern needs and tastes.
What thrilling scenes the Hall has witnessed! That is a pleasing touch
in one of the letters of John Adams to Thomas Jefferson, where he
alludes to what was probably his last visit to the scene of his youthful
glory, Faneuil Hall. Mr. Adams was eighty-three years old at the time,
and it was the artist Trumbull, also an old man, who prevailed upon him
to go to the Hall.
"Trumbull," he wrote, "with a band of associates, drew me by the cords
of old friendship to see his picture, on Saturday, where I got a great
cold. The air of Faneuil is changed. _I have not been used to catch cold
there._"
No, indeed. If the process of storing electricity had been applied to
the interior of this electric edifice, enough of the fluid could have
been saved to illuminate Boston every Fourth of July. It is hard to
conceive of a tranquil or commonplace meeting there, so associated is it
in our minds with outbursts of passionate feeling.
Speaking of John Adams calls to mind an anecdote related recently by a
venerable clergyman of New York, Rev. William Hague. Mr. Hague
officiated as chaplain at the celebration of the Fourth of July in
Boston, in 1843, when Charles Francis Adams delivered the oration in
Faneuil Hall, which was his first appearance on a public platform.
While the procession was forming to march to the Hall, ex-President John
Quincy Adams entered into conversation with the chaplain, during which
he spoke as follows:--
"This is one of the happiest days of my whole life. Fifty years expire
to-day since I performed in Boston my first public service, which was
the delivery of an oration to celebrate our national independence. After
half a century of active life, I am spared by a benign Providence to
witness my son's performance of his first public service, to deliver an
oration in honor of the same great event."
The chaplain replied to Mr. Adams:--
"President, I am well aware of the notable connection of events to which
you refer; and having committed and declaimed a part of your own great
oration when a schoolboy in New York, I could without effort repeat it
to you now."
The aged statesman was surprised and gratified at this statement. The
procession was formed and the oration successfully delivered. Since that
time, I believe, an Adams of the fourth generation has spoken in the
same place, and probably some readers will live to hear one of the fifth
and sixth.
The venerable John Adams might well say that he had not been used to
catch cold in the air of Faneuil Hall, for as far as I know there has
never been held there a meeting which has not something of extraordinary
warmth in its character. I have mentioned above that the first public
meeting ever held in it after its completion in 1742 was to commemorate
the premature death of the donor of the edifice; on which occasion Mr.
John Lovell delivered a glowing eulogium.
"Let this stately edifice which bears his name," cried the orator,
"witness for him what sums he expended in public munificence. This
building, erected by him, at his own immense charge, for the convenience
and ornament of the town, is incomparably the greatest benefaction ever
yet known to our western shore."
Towards the close of his speech, the eloquent schoolmaster gave
utterance to a sentiment which has often since been repeated within
those walls.
"May this hall be ever sacred to the interests of truth, of justice, of
loyalty, of honor, of liberty. May no private views nor party broils
ever enter these walls."
Whether this wish has been fulfilled or not is a matter of opinion.
General Gage doubtless thought that it had not been.
Scenes of peculiar interest took place in the Hall about the beginning
of the year 1761, when the news was received in Boston that King George
II. had fallen dead in his palace at Kensington, and that George III.,
his grandson, had been proclaimed king. It required just two months for
this intelligence to cross the ocean. The first thing in order, it
seems, was to celebrate the accession of the young king. He was
proclaimed from the balcony of the town house; guns were fired from all
the forts in the harbor; and in the afternoon a grand dinner was given
in Faneuil Hall. These events occurred on the last day but one of the
year 1760.
The first day of the new year, 1761, was ushered in by the solemn
tolling of the church bells in the town, and the firing of minute guns
on Castle Island. These mournful sounds were heard all day, even to the
setting of the sun. However doleful the day may have seemed, there was
more appropriateness in these signs of mourning than any man of that
generation could have known; for with George II. died the indolent but
salutary let-them-alone policy under which the colonies enjoyed
prosperity and peace. With the accession of the new king the troubles
began which ended in the disruption of the empire. George III. was the
last king whose accession received official recognition in the thirteen
colonies.
I have hunted in vain through my books to find some record of the dinner
given in Faneuil Hall to celebrate the beginning of the new reign. It
would be interesting to know how the sedate people of Boston comported
themselves on a festive occasion of that character. John Adams was a
young barrister then. If the after-dinner speeches were as outspoken as
the political comments he entered in his Diary, the proceedings could
not have been very acceptable to the royal governor. Mr. Adams was far
from thinking that England had issued victorious from the late
campaigns, and he thought that France was then by far the most brilliant
and powerful nation in Europe.
A few days after these loyal ceremonies, Boston experienced what is now
known there as a "cold snap," and it was so severe as almost to close
the harbor with ice. One evening, in the midst of it, a fire broke out
opposite Faneuil Hall. Such was the extremity of cold that the water
forced from the engines fell upon the ground in particles of ice. The
fire swept across the street and caught Faneuil Hall, the interior of
which was entirely consumed, nothing remaining but the solid brick
walls. It was rebuilt in just two years, and reopened in the midst of
another remarkably cold time, which was signalized by another bad fire.
There was so much distress among the poor that winter that a meeting was
held in Faneuil Hall for their relief, Rev. Samuel Mather preaching a
sermon on the occasion, and this was the first discourse delivered in it
after it was rebuilt.
Seven years later the Hall was put to a very different use. A powerful
fleet of twelve men-of-war, filled with troops, was coming across the
ocean to apply military pressure to the friends of liberty. A convention
was held in Faneuil Hall, attended by delegates from the surrounding
towns, as well as by the citizens of Boston. The people were in
consternation, for they feared that any attempt to land the troops
would lead to violent resistance. The convention indeed requested the
inhabitants to "provide themselves with firearms, that they may be
prepared in case of sudden danger."
The atmosphere was extremely electric in Boston just then. The governor
sent word to the convention assembled in Faneuil Hall that their meeting
was "a very high offense" which only their ignorance of the law could
excuse; but the plea of ignorance could no longer avail them, and he
commanded them to disperse. The convention sent a reply to the governor,
which he refused to receive, and they continued in session until the
fleet entered the harbor.
October 2, 1768, the twelve British men-of-war were anchored in a
semicircle opposite the town, with cannon loaded, and cleared for
action, as though Boston were a hostile stronghold, instead of a
defenseless country town of loyal and innocent fellow-citizens. Two
regiments landed; one of which encamped on the Common, and the other
marched to Faneuil Hall, where they were quartered for four or five
weeks. With one accord the merchants and property-owners refused to let
any building for the use of the troops.
Boston people to this day chuckle over the mishap of the sheriff who
tried to get possession of a large warehouse through a secret aperture
in the cellar wall. He did succeed in effecting an entrance, with
several of his deputies. But as soon as they were inside the building,
the patriots outside closed the hole; and thus, instead of getting
possession of the building, the loyal officers found themselves
prisoners in a dark cellar.
They were there for several hours before they could get word to the
commanding officer, who released them.
The joke was consolatory to the inhabitants. It was on this occasion
that Rev. Mather Byles heightened the general merriment by his
celebrated jest on the British soldiers:
"The people," said he, "sent over to England to obtain a redress of
grievances. The grievances have returned _red-dressed_."
The Hall is still used for public meetings, and the region roundabout is
still an important public market.
[Illustration: Chauncey Jerome]
CHAUNCEY JEROME,
YANKEE CLOCK-MAKER.
Poor boys had a hard time of it in New England eighty years ago.
Observe, now, how it fared with Chauncey Jerome,--he who founded a
celebrated clock business in Connecticut, that turned out six hundred
clocks a day, and sent them to foreign countries by the ship-load.
But do not run away with the idea that it was the hardship and
loneliness of his boyhood that "made a man of him." On the contrary,
they injured, narrowed, and saddened him. He would have been twice the
man he was, and happier all his days, if he had passed an easier and a
more cheerful childhood. It is not good for boys to live as he lived,
and work as he worked, during the period of growth, and I am glad that
fewer boys are now compelled to bear such a lot as his.
His father was a blacksmith and nailmaker, of Plymouth, Connecticut,
with a houseful of hungry boys and girls; and, consequently, as soon as
Chauncey could handle a hoe or tie up a bundle of grain he was kept at
work on the farm; for, in those days, almost all mechanics in New
England cultivated land in the summer time. The boy went to school
during the three winter months, until he was ten years old; then his
school-days and play-days were over forever, and his father took him
into the shop to help make nails.