There was once a time when New England groanedunder the actual pressure of heavier wrongs than thosethreatened ones which brought on the Revolution. JamesII.， the bigoted successor of Charles the Voluptuous，had annulled the charters of all the colonies and sent aharsh and unprincipled soldier to take away our libertiesand endanger our religion. The administration of SirEdmund Andros lacked scarcely a single characteristicof tyranny—a governor and council holding office fromthe king and wholly independent of the country； lawsmade and taxes levied without concurrence of the people，immediate or by their representatives； the rights of privatecitizens violated and the titles of all landed propertydeclared void； the voice of complaint stifled by restrictionson the press； and finally， disaffection overawed by thefirst band of mercenary troops that ever marched on ourfree soil. For two years our ancestors were kept in sullensubmission by that filial love which had invariably securedtheir allegiance to the mother-country， whether its headchanced to be a Parliament， Protector or popish monarch.
Till these evil times， however， such allegiance had beenmerely nominal， and the colonists had ruled themselves，enjoying far more freedom than is even yet the privilege ofthe native subjects of Great Britain.
At length a rumor reached our shores that the princeof Orange had ventured on an enterprise the success ofwhich would be the triumph of civil and religious rightsand the salvation of New England. It was but a doubtfulwhisper； it might be false or the attempt might fail， and ineither case the man that stirred against King James wouldlose his head. Still， the intelligence produced a markedeffect. The people smiled mysteriously in the streets andthrew bold glances at their oppressors， while far and widethere was a subdued and silent agitation， as if the slightestsignal would rouse the whole land from its sluggishdespondency. Aware of their danger， the rulers resolved toavert it by an imposing display of strength， and perhaps toconfirm their despotism by yet harsher measures.
One afternoon in April， 1689， Sir Edmund Andros andhis favorite councillors， being warm with wine， assembledthe red-coats of the governor’s guard and made theirappearance in the streets of Boston. The sun was nearsetting when the march commenced. The roll of the drumat that unquiet crisis seemed to go through the streetsless as the martial music of the soldiers than as a mustercallto the inhabitants themselves. A multitude by variousavenues assembled in King street， which was destinedto be the scene， nearly a century afterward， of anotherencounter between the troops of Britain and a peoplestruggling against her tyranny.
Though more than sixty years had elapsed since thePilgrims came， this crowd of their descendants stillshowed the strong and sombre features of their characterperhaps more strikingly in such a stern emergency than onhappier occasions. There was the sober garb， the generalseverity of mien， the gloomy but undismayed expression，the scriptural forms of speech and the confidence inHeaven’s blessing on a righteous cause which would havemarked a band of the original Puritans when threatenedby some peril of the wilderness. Indeed， it was not yettime for the old spirit to be extinct， since there were menin the street that day who had worshipped there beneaththe trees before a house was reared to the God for whomthey had become exiles. Old soldiers of the Parliamentwere here， too， smiling grimly at the thought that theiraged arms might strike another blow against the house ofStuart. Here， also， were the veterans of King Philip’s war，who had burned villages and slaughtered young and oldwith pious fierceness while the godly souls throughoutthe land were helping them with prayer. Several ministerswere scattered among the crowd， which， unlike all othermobs， regarded them with such reverence as if there weresanctity in their very garments. These holy men exertedtheir influence to quiet the people， but not to dispersethem.
Meantime， the purpose of the governor in disturbingthe peace of the town at a period when the slightestcommotion might throw the country into a ferment wasalmost the Universal subject of inquiry， and variouslyexplained.
“Satan will strike his master-stroke presently，” criedsome， “because he knoweth that his time is short. All ourgodly pastors are to be dragged to prison. We shall seethem at a Smithfield fire in King street.”
Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer roundtheir minister， who looked calmly upward and assumed amore apostolic dignity， as well befitted a candidate for thehighest honor of his profession—a crown of martyrdom.
It was actually fancied at that period that New Englandmight have a John Rogers of her own to take the place ofthat worthy in the Primer.
“The pope of Rome has given orders for a new St.
Bartholomew，” cried others. “We are to be massacred， manand male-child.”
Neither was this rumor wholly discredited； althoughthe wiser class believed the governor’s object somewhatless atrocious. His predecessor under the old charter，Bradstreet， a venerable companion of the first settlers， wasknown to be in town. There were grounds for conjecturingthat Sir Edmund Andros intended at once to strike terrorby a parade of military force and to confound the oppositefaction by possessing himself of their chief.
“Stand firm for the old charter-governor！” shouted thecrowd， seizing upon the idea— “the good old GovernorBradstreet！”
While this cry was at the loudest the people weresurprised by the well-known figure of Governor Bradstreethimself， a patriarch of nearly ninety， who appeared on theelevated steps of a door and with characteristic mildnessbesought them to submit to the constituted authorities.