Old Mr. Bowdoin, one morning, some time after this, stood at his
window before breakfast, drumming on the pane. The gesture has
commonly been understood to indicate discontent with one's
surroundings. Mrs. Bowdoin had not yet come down to breakfast.
Outside, her worthy spouse could see the very tree upon which cousin
Wendell Phillips had not been hanged; and his mouth relaxed as he saw
his grandson Harley coming across the Common, and heard the portentous
creaking that attended Mrs. Bowdoin's progress down the stairs,--the
butler supporting her arm, and her maid behind attending her with
shawl and smelling-salts. The old lady was in a rude state of health,
but had not walked a step alone for several years. As she entered,
Harley behind her, old Mr. Bowdoin gravely and ostentatiously pulled
out a silver dollar and put it into the hand of the surprised young
man.
"Pass it to the account," said he.
Harley took the coin, and, detecting a wink, checked his expression of
surprise.
"It all goes into the fund, my dear, to be given to your favorite
charity the first time you are down in time for breakfast. It amounts
to several thousand dollars already."
Mrs. Bowdoin snorted, but, with a too visible effort, only asked
Harley whether he would take coffee or tea.
"With accumulations, my dear,--with accumulations. But you should not
address me from your carriage in that yellow shawl, when I am talking
to a stranger on the Common. At least, I thought it was Tom Pinckney,
of the Providence Bank, but it turned out to be a stranger. He took me
for a bunco-steerer."
"James!"
"He did indeed, and you for my confederate," chuckled the old
gentleman. "'Mr. Pinckney, of Providence, I believe?' said I. 'No, you
don't,' said he; and he put his finger on his nose, like that."
"James!" said Mrs. Bowdoin.
"_I_ didn't mind--don't know when I've been so flattered--must look
like a pretty sharp old boy, after all, though I have been married to
you for fifty years."
"James, it's hardly forty."
"Well, I thought it was fifty. The last time I did meet Tom Pinckney,
he asked if I'd married again. I said you'd give me no chance. 'Better
take it when you can,' said he. 'That will I, Tom,' says I. 'I've got
one in my mind.'"
"Really, grandpa," remonstrated young Harley.
"Don't you talk, young man. Didn't I hear of you at another Abolition
meeting yesterday? And women spoke, too,--short-haired women and
long-haired men. Why can't you leave them both where a wise Providence
placed them? Destroy the only free republic the world has ever known
for a parcel of well-fed niggers that'll relapse into Voodoo barbarism
the moment they're freed!"
"James, the country knows that the best sentiment of Boston is with
us."
"The country doesn't know Boston, then. And as for that crack-brained
demagogue cousin of yours, he calls the Constitution a compact with
hell! I hope I'll live to see him hanged some day."
"Wendell Phillips is a martyr indeed."
"Martyr! Humbug! He couldn't get any clients, so he took up a cause.
Why, they say at the club that he"--
"They said at the meeting last night, sir," interrupted Harley, "that
they'd march up to the club and make you fellows fly the American
flag."
"It's Phillips wants to pull it down," said the old gentleman.
Mrs. Bowdoin rattled the tea things.
"Don't mind your grandma, Harley, if she is out of temper. She's got a
headache this morning. She went to bed with the hot-water bottle under
her pillow and the brandy at her feet, and feels a little mixed."
"James! I never took a brandy bottle upstairs with me in my life. And
Harleston knows"--
"Do you suppose he knows as well as I do, who have lived with you for
fifty years?"
"And I'll not stay with you to hear my cousin insulted!" Majestic, she
rose.
"It's too much of one girl," chuckled Mr. Bowdoin. "No wonder men keep
a separate establishment."
"_James!_" Mrs. Bowdoin swept from the room.
"Don't run upstairs alone; consider the butler's feelings!" called her
unfeeling spouse after her.
"You're too bad, sir," said Harley.
"I'm trying to develop her sense of humor; it's the one thing I always
said I'd have in a wife. Remember it, when you get married. Why the
devil don't you?"
"I have too much sense of humor, sir," said Harley gravely. "What is
that?" For a noise of much shouting was heard from the Common. Both
men rushed to the windows, and saw, surrounded by a maddened crowd, a
small company of federal soldiers marching north.
"What are they saying?" cried Mr. Bowdoin.
Every minute the crowd increased: men and women, well dressed,
sober-looking, crying, "Shame! shame!" and topping by a head the
little squad of undersized soldiers (for the regular army was then
recruited almost entirely from foreigners) who marched hurriedly
forward, with eyes cast straight before and downward, and dressed in
that shabby blue that ten years later was to pour southward in serried
column, all American then, to free those slaves whom now they hunted
down.
"To the Court House! To the Court House!" cried the mob.
"It's that fellow Simms," said Mr. Bowdoin, but was interrupted by
sounds as of a portly person running downstairs; and they saw the
front door fly open and Mrs. Bowdoin run across the street, her
cap-strings streaming in the air.
"By Jove, if Abolitionism can make your grandma run, I'll forgive it a
lot!" cried Mr. Bowdoin.
"Do you know the facts, sir?" suggested Harley.
"No, nor don't want to," said Mr. Bowdoin. "I know that we are
jeopardizing the grandest experiment in free government the world has
ever seen for a few African darkies that we didn't bring here, and
have already made Christians of, and a d----d sight more comfortable
than they ever were at home. But come, let's go over, or I believe
your grandma will be attacking the United States army all by herself!"
But the rescue was made unnecessary by the return of that lady,
panting.
"Now, sir," gasped Mrs. Bowdoin, "I hope you're satisfied, that
foreign Hessians control the laws of Massachusetts!"
"I am always glad to see the flag of my country sustained," said Mr.
Bowdoin dryly; "though we don't fly it from our club."
"I think you misunderstand, sir," ventured Harley. "This Simms is
arrested by the Boston sheriff for stabbing a man; and the Southerners
have got the federal commissioner to refuse to give him up to
justice."
"If he stabbed a man, it's cheaper to let them sell him as a slave
than keep him five years in our state prison."
"The poor man seems to prefer it though," said Harley gently. "Have
you seen him?"
"No; what should I see the fellow for?" cried Mr. Bowdoin irritably.
"I understand the State Court House is held like a fort by federal
soldiers, and thugs who call themselves deputy marshals."