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Page 64
CHAPTER IX.
"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."
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