ABIGAIL SMITH ADAMSABIGAIL SMITH ADAMS
Robert was pleased, also, to meet Mr. Knox, the bookseller, who was polite and affable to all, particularly to Miss Flucker.
When Berinthia and Robert were by themselves she informed him that Mr. Knox was attentive to Miss Flucker; that her parents opposed the match, Mr. Knox being a Whig and her father a Tory. Berinthia was sure that the more her father opposed the bookseller, the better Miss Lucy liked him.
Mr. Hancock’s House.Mr. Hancock’s House.
Mr. John Hancock, though living but a short distance from Mr. Newville, came in his coach with driver and footmen in blue livery. He bowed politely to Mr. and Mrs. Newville, took a pinch of snuff fromMr. Newville’s gold box, and graciously greeted Miss Dorothy Quincy. Berinthia whispered to Robert that they were engaged to be married.[29]
“If Miss Newville and Miss Brandon will excuse us, Mr. Walden and myself will take a turn through the grounds,” said Doctor Warren, locking arms with Robert.
“I am glad to meet you once more, Mr. Walden. I want to thank you for the good work you did yesterday afternoon. I have heard of it several times; the people are chuckling over it. But the soldiers of the Twenty-Ninth Regiment are as mad as hornets and threaten retaliation. They are anxious to get hold of that fellow from the country who did it. I thought I would put you on your guard. I wish I knew who the young lady was, but no one can find out. Neither she nor her friends have made complaint to the selectmen, and of course you could not know.”
Robert thanked him. He said he did not anticipate any trouble; if attacked he would try and give a good account of himself.
DOROTHY QUINCYDOROTHY QUINCY
They had strolled to the farthest part of the grounds. Returning, they saw Miss Newville surrounded by ladies and gentlemen; young and old alike were finding pleasure in her society. Major Evelyn, to whom Robert had been introduced, was telling how jolly it was in old England to follow the hounds in a fox hunt, leaping ditches, walls, and hedges, runningReynard to cover. Although courteously listening, her eyes glanced towards Robert and Doctor Warren.
“Pardon me, Major, but I must have a word with my good doctor who gives me pills and powders when I am sick,” she said graciously, tripping across the lawn.
“I have not served you with tea, doctor; what kind would you prefer?” she said.
“Well, let it be Old Hyson, if you please.”
“And yours, Mr. Walden: it was the Old you had before. Will you not try a cup of Young Hyson for variety?”
“If you please, Miss Newville.”
A few moments and she was with them again.
“Old Hyson for old friendship, Young, for new acquaintance,” said the doctor, as he took the cup from her hand. “You see, Mr. Walden, Miss Newville and I are old friends, and our relations at times are quite intimate. I am privileged to hold her hand, feel her pulse, and look at her tongue.”
“Do you not think, Mr. Walden, that the doctor is very rude to take a young lady’s hand when she cannot help herself?”
“Of course it is rude, but I apprehend you do not object, under the circumstances,” Robert replied.
“Oh no, she likes it so well that she often asks when I will come again,” said the doctor.
Merry was the laughter.
“This is delicious tea,” he said, sipping the beverage.
“I am glad you like it.”
“It is all the more delicious, Miss Ruth, because Ihave it from your own gracious hand, and because it is probably the last I shall drink for many months.”
She gazed at him wonderingly.
“You know I am firm in my convictions as to what is right and just, and I have decided to quit drinking tea as a protest against what the king and Lord North are preparing to do. So this will be a memorial day for me. Pardon me, I did not mean to allude to it.”
“One need not beg pardon for having a conviction of what is right and just. If it is to be your last cup I’m glad I have the privilege of serving it,” she said.
One by one guests joined them, charmed by her presence, Major Evelyn hovering around her. More than once the eyes of Robert and Miss Newville met. Would she not think him rude? But how could he help looking at her?
While Miss Newville was serving other guests, with Berinthia and Miss Shrimpton Robert walked the garden once more, the great shaggy watch-dog trotting in advance, as if they were guests to be honored by an escort.
The afternoon was waning. Guests were leaving, and it was time for Berinthia and Robert to take their departure.
“Oh, you are not going now. I have not had an opportunity to speak a dozen words with you, Berinthia, and I have shamefully neglected Mr. Walden. I have not had a chance to drink a cup of tea with him. I am sure you will excuse me, Major Evelyn, while I redeem myself. You will find Miss Brandon delightful company,” said Miss Newville.
Major Evelyn, being thus politely waved one side, could but acquiesce.
“Shall we sit, Mr. Walden?” she asked, leading the way to seats and bringing tea and cake.
“I enjoyed your description of life in the country, and the young ladies were delighted,” she said.
“We have pretty good times with the quiltings, huskings, and sleighing parties, when we pile into a double pung, ride in the moonlight, have supper, and a dance.”
“How delightful! Have you brothers and sisters?”
“Only a sister, Rachel, two years younger than I.”
“Does she love flowers?”
“Yes, she is very fond of them. I make up beds in the garden for her and she sows bachelor’s-buttons, flytraps, pansies, marigolds, hollyhocks, and has morning-glories running over strings around the sitting-room window.”
“They must make your home very pleasant in summer.”
“Yes, and she has asters and sweet peas. I try to keep the weeds down for her as she has so many things to look after,—the chickens, goslins, young turkeys, besides washing dishes, spinning, and wetting the cloth bleaching on the grass. I help a little by drawing the water.”
“It must be very beautiful in the country these September days.”
“It is not quite late enough for the woods to put on their brightest colors; that will be in October.”
“Which season do you like best?”
“I hardly know. Sometimes, when the country is covered with snow and the air is fresh and keen and healthful, I think there is no part of the year more enjoyable than winter; then when spring comes, and the buds start and the leaves are growing, I feel like a young colt ready to caper and kick up my heels. When the flowers are in bloom and the birds are singing I think there is no season like summer. At this time of the year, when we are gathering the harvests and the woods are more beautiful than our Queen Charlotte in her coronation robes, I think there is no period of the year so delightful as autumn.”
“Living in the town.” Miss Newville said, “I lose much that I should enjoy in the country. Sometimes I ride with my father to Roxbury, Dorchester, and Cambridge. He sits in his chaise while I pick the flowers by the roadside. A few weeks ago we went sailing down the harbor, and saw the waves rolling on the beach at Nantasket and breaking on the rocks around the lighthouse. Oh, it was beautiful!”
“I do not doubt it. As you love the country so much, I am sure you would be charmed with the view from our home, Miss Newville, especially at this season of the year.”
“Please tell me about it. I am sure from your description I shall be able to picture the scene.”
“You would see a broad valley, fields, pastures, meadows, uplands, the river flowing between banks fringed with elms and willows, hills farther away, and in the distance blue mountains; the forest all scarlet, russet, yellow, and crimson. That would be the view. You would hear the crickets chirping, crows cawing, and squirrels barking in the woods.”
“How delightful! I know I should revel in such beauty.”
“You asked me, Miss Newville, which season I liked best. I think, all things considered, I enjoy autumn more than any other portion of the year.”
“May I ask why you like it best?”
“Because it is the harvest-time, when we gather the gifts of Providence; and it sets me to thinking I ought to be doing something for somebody in return for what Providence is doing for me.”
Her eyes were watching his lips.
“Oh, go on, please, Mr. Walden, and tell me what the seasons say to you.”
“I hardly know what they say, but the change from the brightness of summer to the russet of autumn, the falling leaves, ripening fruits, fading flowers, shortening days, the going of the birds are like a sermon to me.”
“And why are they like a sermon?” she asked.
“Because the birds will come, the flowers bloom again, but the summer that has gone never will return; the opportunities of to-day will not be here to-morrow. I must make the most of the present, not only for myself but for others. Providence bestows rich gifts; I must give to others.”
“Thank you, Mr. Walden.”
She was silent. None of the officers, not Major Evelyn or any of the captains of his majesty’s troops, ever had uttered such words in her presence. Oh, could she but know if he were the one who rescued her from the hands of the miscreants! She must know.
“Mr. Walden, may I ask if we have not met before?”
“I think we have, Miss Newville.”
“I thought so, but was not sure. May I say I cannot tell you how grateful I am for the service you rendered me yesterday. I never shall forget it. I have not mentioned it, not even to my parents, for I would not have them concerned in the future for my welfare.”
“I can understand how anxious they might be, and I appreciate your prudence. The incident, I understand, is making some stir in town, especially among the soldiers. Doctor Warren has just informed me of it, and was kind enough to say it would be well for me to be on my guard, as the soldiers threaten retaliation. I learn, also, that no one as yet has been able to discover who the young lady was. People are wondering that no complaint has been made to the proper authorities by her or her friends.”
“Oh, I am so glad that no one knows it except ourselves. May I not ask that it shall be our secret, and ours only?”
“Most certainly, Miss Newville.”
“I cannot express my obligation to you, Mr. Walden. It is very honorable in you, and you will not let the soldiers injure you?” she said inquiringly.
“I do not think they will molest me. I shall not put myself in their way, neither shall I avoid them. I am a free citizen; this is my country. I know my rights, and I trust I shall ever be enough of a man to resent an insult to myself, and most certainly to a lady.”
“Do you remain long in town?” she asked.
“No; only a day or two—over Sunday. I shall start from the Green Dragon for home next Monday morning.”
“Do you have melocotoons in Rumford?” she asked, looking up to the luscious fruit, ripening above them.
“Not yet; we have some young trees, but they are not in bearing.”
“I should like to send a basket of fruit to your sister, if agreeable to you. Pompey will take it to the tavern Monday morning.”
“You are very kind. I will take it with pleasure, and you may be sure Rachel will appreciate your goodness.”
He comprehended her proposition,—that it was her delicate way of giving emphasis to her thanks for what he had done.
“Mr. Walden, I shall always be pleased to see you. I would like to hear more about what you see in nature, and the sermons that are preached to you.”
Berinthia and Major Evelyn joined them. The band had ceased playing, and the last of the guests were departing.
“I hope you have had an enjoyable afternoon,” said Mr. Newville.
“I have enjoyed myself very much, and cannot express my thanks for your hospitality,” Robert replied.
“It was very kind in you to honor us with your company,” said Mrs. Newville with a charming grace and dignity.
Miss Newville went with them to the gate, Major Evelyn improving the opportunity to walk by her side. Robert thought there was a shade of vexation on her face.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, while I talk with Miss Brandon a moment,” she said, dropping behind.Robert walked on a few steps and waited for Berinthia. Major Evelyn lingered a moment as if to have a last word with Miss Newville, but politeness would not admit his further tarrying; he lifted his hat and walked away.
“Oh, Mr. Walden, what do you think your good cousin has been saying?” said Miss Newville, calling him once more to the gate.
“Possibly that she has had an agreeable chat with one of his majesty’s brilliant officers,” Robert replied.
“Instead of being brilliant, he was positively stupid. I don’t like epaulets,” said Berinthia.
“Not those sent to protect us?” Miss Newville asked.
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
The words were spoken firmly, with an emphasis which Robert alone could understand.
Miss Newville locked her arm in Berinthia’s as if loath to have her go. They lingered by the gate, how long Robert could not say. Just what was said he could not recall. He only knew it was delightful to stand there, to hear her voice, to see the smiles rippling upon her face, and the loving eyes that turned towards him at times. When at last the good-night was spoken, when himself and Berinthia were quite a distance, looking backward he saw her white handkerchief waving them farewell.
Calm and peaceful was the Sabbath morning in Rumford, where the stillness was broken only by lowing cattle and singing birds, but in Boston Robert heard the rattling of drums,—a prolonged roll, as if the drummers found special pleasure in disturbing the slumbers of the people. It was the reveille arousing the troops. Mr. Brandon said the officers of the king’s regiments seemed to take delight in having extra drills on Sunday for the purpose of annoying the people. A few of the officers, he said, were gentlemen, but others were vile, and not to be admitted into decent society.
The drums ceased and there was a period of quiet; then suddenly the air was melodious with the music of bells. Berinthia saw the wonder on Robert’s face.
“It is Christ Church chimes,” she said.
He heard “Old Hundred,” sweet and enchanting.
“If you would like, we will go to Christ Church this morning.”
Robert replied he would gladly go with her.
“The sexton is a Son of Liberty, Robert Newman; you saw him the other night at the Green Dragon; his brother plays the organ,” said Tom.
The sexton welcomed them and gave them seats. Robert gazed in wonder at the fluted columns, thehigh arched ceiling, the pillars supporting the galleries, the great windows, the recess behind the pulpit, the painting of the Last Supper. He read the words, “This is none other than the House of God; this is the Gate of Heaven.”
The bells ceased their pealing, but suddenly delightful music filled the church.
Christ Church.Christ Church.
“That is John Newman at the organ,” Berinthia whispered.
It began soft and faint, as if far away—a flute, then a clarinet, a trumpet, growing louder, nearer,deeper, heavier, the loud notes rolling like far-off thunder, then dying into melody as sweet as the song of a bird. Never had Robert heard any music so delightful. Looking towards the loft, he saw the gilded pipes of the instrument. Upon the railing around it were figures of angels with trumpets.
“They were captured from a French ship in 1746 by Captain Grushea of the Queen of Hungary privateer,” Tom whispered. “They were designed for a Romish church in Canada, but the captain brought them to Boston and presented them to the wardens of this church.”
Berinthia said the Bible and prayer-book were given by King George II. at the request of Governor Belcher. She found the places in the prayer-book for him. He thought the prayers very beautiful, but could not quite see the need of getting up and sitting down so often. He never had taken part in meeting before, but when all the others read felt he too must let his voice be heard, otherwise the people would think he did not know how to read. He was startled at the sound of his own voice, but soon got over it, and rather liked the idea of the people taking some part in the service instead of having it all done by the minister. It was very delightful when the choir came in with the organ, in contrast to the singing in Rumford meetinghouse where the deacon lined the Psalms, two lines at a time, and set the tune with his pitch-pipe.
When the service was over and the people were going out, the organ began to play. The sexton took themupstairs to see his brother John handle it. Robert was surprised to see him using his feet as well as his hands, fingering two sets of keys, pushing in and pulling out what Tom said were “stops.” When through with the piece, the organist explained the mechanism of the instrument, playing softly and then making the windows rattle.
An hour at noon, and then the meetinghouse bells were tolling for the afternoon service.
“We will go to our own meeting; I want you to hear Reverend Doctor Cooper,”[30]said Berinthia. The meetinghouse was in Brattle Street, close by the barracks. The soldiers were lounging around the building staring at the people, laughing, smoking their pipes, and making rude remarks. When meeting was over the soldiers gathered around the door and leered at the girls. Robert clenched his fist and felt his blood grow hot. A lieutenant started to walk beside Berinthia.
“My cousin will not need your escort, sir,” said Robert touching his elbow.
The officer grew red in the face and disappeared in the barracks.
On Monday morning Robert bade his friends good-by. Peter Augustus had something for him at the Green Dragon: a basket filled with fruit—melocotoons, pears, and plums—and a neatly written note.
“Will Mr. Walden kindly take a basket of fruit to his sister, Miss Rachel, from Ruth Newville.”
That was all. What a surprise it would be to Rachel! Why was Miss Newville sending it? She never had met Rachel; knew nothing of her, except what little he had said, yet the gift!
The sun was going down the following evening when he reached the turn of the road bringing him in sight of home. He was yet half a mile away, but Rachel was standing in the doorway waving her apron. She could not wait for Jenny to trot home, but came down the road bareheaded, climbed into the wagon, put her arms around his neck, and gave him a hug and a kiss. There was a look of wonder on her face when he uncovered the basket of fruit and told her who had sent it,—a beautiful girl, one of Berinthia’s friends, whom he had rescued from the king’s soldiers. There were tears in Rachel’s eyes when he put the beads around her neck.
“Oh, Rob! how good you are!”
It was all she could say.
November came, and Berinthia Brandon was sitting in her chamber. From its eastern window she looked across the burial ground with its rows of headstones. The leafless trees were swaying in the breeze. She was thinking of what Samuel Adams had said to her, that life is worth living just in proportion to the service we can render to others. What had she ever done for anybody? Not much. A feeling of sadness came over her. The afternoon sun was lengthening the shadows of the headstones across the grass-grownmounds. The first snow of approaching winter was lying white and pure above the sleeping forms of those who had finished their earthly work. Beyond the burial ground she beheld the harbor. The tide had been at its flood, and was sweeping towards the sea. A ship was sailing down the roadstead to begin its adventurous voyage to a distant land.
“Why can I not do something for somebody instead of idling my time away?” she said to herself, recalling what Mr. Adams had said—that it was the duty of every woman to forego personal comfort and pleasure for the promotion of the public good; that everybody should leave off using tea to let the king, the ministry, and the people of England know that the men and women of the Colonies could stand resolutely and unflinchingly for a great principle. With her father, mother, and Tom she had quit drinking tea; why should she not persuade others to banish it from their tables? A thought came to her, and she opened her writing-desk, a gift from her father, beautifully inlaid with ivory, which he had obtained in a foreign country. She dipped her pen into the ink, reflected a moment, and then wrote her thought: “We, the daughters of patriots, who have stood and do now stand for the public interest, with pleasure engage with them in denying ourselves the drinking of foreign tea, in hope to frustrate a plan that tends to deprive the community of its rights.”[31]
In her enthusiasm she walked the floor, thinking ofthose whom she would ask to sign it. She would not subject herself to ridicule by calling upon those who sided with the king, but upon those who she knew were ready to make sacrifices for justice and right.
“I am glad you have written it, daughter,” Mr. Brandon said when she informed him of what she had done and was intending to do; “I see no reason, wife, why you should not do what you can in the same way among the women, to let people on the other side of the sea understand the Colonies are in earnest. Already there has been a great falling off in trade between the Colonies and England, and if we can stop this tea trade it will not be long before the merchants will be swarming around Parliament demanding something to be done. We must arouse public sentiment on this question, and you, daughter, are just the girl to begin it.”
Mr. Brandon reached out his hand and took Berinthia’s and gave it a squeeze to let her know he had faith in her.
“I will do what I can to persuade others,” she said, returning the pressure.
Through the night Berinthia was thinking over what she had started to accomplish, and what arguments she should use to influence those whom she would ask to sign the agreement. The great idea, with a moral principle behind it, took possession of her mind and drove sleep from her eyes and aroused the energies of the soul. Why undertake the arduous task alone? Why not ask Doctor Cooper to preach about it? If she could but get the ministers enlisted, they could awaken public sentiment.
“Ah! I have it. Week after next is Thanksgiving,and I will get them to preach sermons that will stir up the people,” she said to herself.
Thanksgiving Day came. Very eloquent were the words spoken for Justice, Right, and Liberty by Reverend Doctor Cooper, Reverend Doctor Eliot, Reverend Doctor Checkley, and nearly all the other ministers, excepting Reverend Mr. Coner, rector of King’s Chapel, and Reverend Mather Byles of Christ Church, whose sympathies were with the king.[32]
In every household fathers and mothers, sons and daughters and grandchildren, gathered in the old home, and had a great deal to say, while partaking of the roast turkey and plum-pudding, of the sermons they had heard in the different meetinghouses. All the ministers preached about the proposal of Parliament to levy a tax upon tea, and that if it could not be defeated in any other way it was the patriotic duty of the people to quit using the herb. They must deny themselves the luxury, that they might maintain their freedom. Little did they know that a blue-eyed girl had called upon Doctor Cooper and read to him what she had written, an agreement to drink no more tea; how his soul had been set on fire and he had gone with her to the houses of other ministers, that they might look into her eyes and see the flashing of a resolute spirit in behalf of justice, righteousness, and liberty.
Although the snow was deep in the streets, the drifts did not deter Berinthia from calling upon her friends. Many of the good ladies were ready to sign an agreement to drink no more tea; others hesitated. She was warmly welcomed by Mrs. Abigail Adams, who at once saw how great would be the influence of the women upon their husbands.
“But what shall we drink instead of tea?” asked Dorothy Quincy.
“When summer comes, we will go out into the fields and gather strawberry leaves, and call them Hyperion, or some other elegant name. I think it quite as pretty a name as Old Hyson, and I am not sure that they will not be more healthful,” Berinthia replied.
Miss Dorothy laughed heartily. “Yes, and we can, upon a pinch, drink cold water from the town pump and flavor it with peppermint,” she said, as she wrote her name.
After leaving Miss Quincy, Berinthia lifted the knocker of the Newville mansion, not to ask Ruth to sign the agreement; she could not do that, for Mr. Newville was a Tory, and the signers were daughters of patriots.
“How good it is to see you once more. It is a very long time since I have looked upon your face,” Ruth exclaimed, embracing her.
“The snow has been so deep and I have had so much to do, I have not found time to call till now, and I don’t know as I should be here to-day only I am spinning street-yarn for a particular purpose.”
Ruth was at a loss to understand her.
“I am calling on my acquaintances, and I was not quite sure whether I ought to skip you or not.”
“Skip me! What have I done that you should think of dropping me from your acquaintance?”
Berinthia saw a wondering and injured look in the loving eyes.
“Oh, you haven’t done anything; it is what the king, Lord North, and Parliament are doing. They intend to make us pay taxes against our will, and we girls are signing an agreement not to drink any more tea, and I am calling on my friends for that purpose.”
The look of wonder and grief disappeared, and Ruth’s face brightened once more. She read the agreement and the list of names.
“I didn’t call, dear Ruth, to ask you to sign it. I have no right to do so. It is an agreement to be signed by the daughters of those who are opposed to being taxed in this way. Your father, doubtless, may be willing to pay the tax; my father is not. You may not think as we do, but that shall not disturb our friendship. I shall love you just as I have ever since we were children.”
“How good you are! I appreciate your kindness. My father and mother stand for the king, but I have my own opinion. Under the terms of the agreement, I cannot sign it, but I am with you in spirit. I can see the course taken by the king is not right or just, and it will fail. Nothing can succeed in the end that is not right.”
“Oh, Ruth, how you shame me. Here I have been fidgeting over the cutting things some of the girlsand their mothers have been saying. One asked if I expected to bankrupt the East India Company. Another wanted to know if I was going to wear trousers and vote in town meeting.”
“So mother’s afternoon tea-party stands a chance of being the last, for the present, at least. By the way, do you ever hear from your cousin, Mr. Walden?”
“No, I have not heard a word since he left us. I should not be surprised, however, if he were to drop in upon us any day, for I have written him that the ship is to be launched soon. Father intends to make it a grand occasion when the Berinthia Brandon glides into the water. I shall have all my friends present, Ruth Newville chief among them.”
“Count upon me to do whatever I can to make it a happy day,” said Ruth.
The pigs had been fattening through the winter, and it was quite time to send them to market.
“You did so well with the cheese, you may see what you can do with the shoats,” said Mr. Walden to Robert. “It is good sleighing. You can harness the colt and Jenny, and go with the pung. I want you to take Rachel along. You can stay a couple of weeks and have a good visit.”
There was a glow upon Rachel’s face. It would be her first journey. She would see new things, and make new acquaintances. During the evenings she had been knitting a hood and mittens of the finest wool, and would present them to Miss Newville.
It was a resplendent morning, with the eastern sky like molten gold in the light of the rising sun, and the hoar-frost upon the twigs of the leafless trees changing to glittering diamonds. The colt, sleek and plump, was champing his bit and shaking his head in his impatience to be off. Jenny was staid and sober, but when Robert said, “Now, lad and lady,” the colt pranced a few steps, then settled to a steady trot, learning a lesson from Jenny.
An hour before lunch-time they whirled up to Captain Stark’s tavern in Derryfield, and before sunsetcame to a halt in the dooryard of a relative in Andover. Before noon the next day Rachel was looking with wondering eyes upon the gleaming spires of the meetinghouses and the crooked streets of Boston.
“You have come just at the right time,” said Berinthia, welcoming her with a kiss, “for I am to be launched day after to-morrow.”
Seeing by the look of wonder on Rachel’s face that she was not understood, Berinthia explained that the ship her father was building was to bear her name, and that everything was ready for the launching.
“Oh, it will be so delightful to have you here!” she added. “We will be on the deck, ever so many of us,—my friends, papa’s and mamma’s and Tom’s. Ruth Newville will be here; and Tom’s classmate in Harvard College, Roger Stanley, who lives out beyond Lexington, is coming. He’s a real nice young man, and I am sure you will like him. Tom’s girl will be here, Mary Shrimpton; she is out in the kitchen now. She has been helping us make crumpets, crullers, gingerbread, and cake. Father and mother intend to make it a grand affair, and have invited half of the town,—doctors, lawyers, ministers, and their wives; everybody that is anybody. Tom has invited his friends, and I mine, because the ship is to bear my name.”
Rachel said she was glad she had come to see and enjoy it all.
“We will have a jolly time while you are here; it is vacation at college, and I shan’t have to study,” said Tom.
A young lady with a pleasant face, light blue eyes,and soft brown hair, entered the room and was introduced as Miss Shrimpton.
“She has been helping us get ready, and has rolled out a bushel of crullers,” said Tom.
“Not quite so many,” said Miss Shrimpton, smiling.
Robert thought her very attractive and pleasing.
“I think I will go home now; father and mother will be expecting me, but I will be round to-morrow,” said Miss Shrimpton.
Tom put on his hat and escorted her. When he returned, and he and Robert were by themselves, he said that she was the best girl in Boston.
“Her father,” he went on, “is a red-hot Tory. He lives in a fine house, owns thousands of acres of land out in the country, thinks King George a saint, ordained of God to rule us; that Sam Adams and Doctor Warren are tricksters fooling the people for their own benefit. But Mary is just the nicest girl you ever saw. She has no mother, runs the house for her father, keeps everything as neat as a pin, and by and by, after I get through at Harvard and am in possession of my sheepskin with A. B. on it, she will be Mrs. Tom Brandon.”
Robert congratulated Tom upon his engagement.
The next morning saw Robert in the market disposing of what he had to sell, while Berinthia with Rachel called upon Miss Newville.
“It was very kind of you to send such a basket of fruit to me, a stranger; will you please accept a little gift in return? It is not much, but it will let you know that I appreciate your goodness,” said Rachel, placing a bundle in Miss Newville’s hands. Whenit was opened Ruth beheld a close-fitting hood of the softest lamb’s wool, made beautiful with pink ribbons; there was also a pair of mittens.
“Oh, Miss Walden! How good you are! How soft and nice! And they are of your own carding, spinning, and knitting? And you have done it for me, whom you never had seen, and of whom you never heard except through your brother. And is he well?” Miss Newville asked.
“Quite well. You will see him to-morrow at the launching.”
“Isn’t it delightful that they have come in the nick of time?” said Berinthia.
“How fortunate! And you are to have such a nice party. I will wear the hood and be the envy of everybody,” said Miss Newville, putting it on, praising its beauty, and calling in her mother to make Rachel’s acquaintance and admire the gift.
The launching of the ship was to be at flood-tide, eleven o’clock in the forenoon. Though in midwinter, the air was mild, as if a warm breath had been wafted landward from the Gulf Stream. There was a fever of excitement and preparation in the Brandon home. Dinah in the kitchen was taking pots of baked beans and loaves of brown bread smoking hot from the oven, filling baskets with crumpets and crullers. Mark Antony was taking them to the shipyard. Mrs. Brandon, Berinthia, Rachel, and Mary Shrimpton were preparing the cakes and pies. Tom and Robert on board the ship were arranging for the collation.
Never before had Rachel beheld anything so enchanting as the scene in the shipyard,—the ship withits tall and tapering masts, its spars and yard-arms; the multitudes of ropes like the threads of a spider’s web; flags, streamers, red, white, green, blue, yellow, with devices of lions, unicorns, dragons, eagles, fluttering from bowsprit to fore-royal mast, from taffrail to mizzen. Beneath the bowsprit was the bust of Berinthia, the heart and soul of the man who carved it in every feature, for to Abraham Duncan there was no face on earth so beautiful as that of the shipmaster’s daughter.
The guests were assembling on the deck: the commissioner of imposts, Theodore Newville, Mrs. Newville, and their daughter, Ruth; his majesty’s receiver-general, Nathaniel Coffin, and his two sons, Isaac and John; Reverend Doctor Samuel Cooper, minister of the church in Brattle Street; Doctor Warren, physician to the family of the shipmaster; Lieutenant-Colonel Dalrymple, commanding the king’s troops,—for Mr. Brandon, though deprecating the presence of the troops in Boston, determined to be courteous to the representatives of his majesty; Admiral Montague, who came in his gig rowed by six sailors from his flagship, Romney; William Molineux[33]and John Rowe, merchants; Richard Dana and Edmund Quincy, magistrates; John Adams, a young lawyer; honored citizens and their wives; Master Lovell; and Tom’s classmate, Roger Stanley, who had walked from Lexingtonin the early morning. Among the many ladies, most attractive was Ruth Newville, wearing a close-fitting hood of soft lamb’s wool, trimmed with bright ribbon, all her friends admiring it.
Berinthia introduced Rachel and Robert to Mrs. Adams. They found her a very charming lady; she had brought her little boy, John Quincy, to see the launching of the ship.
Picturesque the scene: gentlemen wearing white wigs, blue, crimson, and scarlet cloaks, carrying gold-headed canes, taking pinches of snuff from silver-mounted boxes; young gentlemen with handsome figures and manly faces; ladies with tippets and muffs; girls in hoods,—all congratulating Berinthia, admiring the beauty and tidiness of the ship, and the lovely figure of herself. All praised Abraham Duncan, who blushed like a schoolboy.
They could hear the clattering of mallets and axes beneath them, and knew the carpenters were knocking away the props. The ways had been slushed with grease. The tide was at the flood. Ruth Newville was to break the bottle of wine. She had shaken hands with Robert Walden, and given expression of her pleasure at meeting him once more. Her eyes had followed him; even when not looking towards him she had seen him. Once more she thanked Rachel for her gift. Her mates were asking her where she had found a hood so beautiful and becoming. They stood upon the quarter-deck, Berinthia the queen of the hour, Ruth, radiant and lovely, by her side. They heard the bell striking the hour of eleven. A great crowd had assembled to see the launching. Men, women, boys,and girls were in the yard, flocking the street, gazing from doors and windows of neighboring houses.
“Are you ready there?”
Launching the Ship.Launching the Ship.
It was the builder of the ship, Mr. Brandon, shouting over the taffrail to those beneath.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Then knock it away.”
They heard a blow from an axe. The stately ship quivered a moment, then glided with increasing speed down the ways.
Mr. Brandon raised his hand, and a ball of bunting at the topmast fluttered out into the Cross of St. George. Ruth lifted the bottle of wine, broke it upon the rail, and poured the contents into the river. A huzza rose from the quarter-deck. Handkerchiefs fluttered in the air. The people tossed up their hats. From street, doorway, and window came an answering shout.
Out from the shore drifted the Berinthia till the anchor dropped from her bow, and she lay a thing of beauty, swinging with the ebbing tide.
In the cabin the guests were partaking of the bountiful and appetizing repast.
“I remember, Miss Newville, that you once graciously served me at an afternoon tea; shall I have the pleasure of waiting upon you?” Robert asked.
“I shall be pleased to be served by you. The fresh air has sharpened my appetite, and I will begin with a plate of beans, if you please.”
He brought what she desired, served himself, and took a chair by her side. They talked of the successful launching, of the beauty of the ship, sitting as gracefully as a swan upon the water, of the almost perfect likeness of the figurehead to Berinthia.
“Possibly it is so beautiful because the engraver’s heart has gone into it,” she said with a smile.
Their eyes met. He thought hers very beautiful at the moment.
Roger Stanley found equal pleasure in servingRachel, and in listening to what she had to say about the launching, her visit to Boston, and of things in Rumford.
Robert talked with Isaac Coffin, who said he expected to have a commission in his majesty’s navy. Admiral Montague was very kind, and was using his influence to secure an appointment. His younger brother, John, liked the army better. Robert came to the conclusion that they were not Sons of Liberty, but were inclined to take sides with the ministry, which was very natural, as their father was holding a very important office under the crown.
There was a merry chattering of voices, a rattling of knives and forks, and changing of plates. Mark Antony was master of ceremonies at the table, giving directions to Cæsar and Pompey.
Although society was divided politically, neighbors still were friends, accepting and giving hospitality, and when meeting socially avoiding all allusion to the proposed bill for taxing the Colonies. All hoped that nothing would be done by Parliament to interrupt friendly relations between the Colonies and the mother country. Doctor Warren made himself agreeable to bluff Admiral Montague. William Molineux cracked jokes with Colonel Dalrymple. Richard Dana and Nathaniel Coffin were friendly neighbors. Mr. Dana could look out from his front windows near Frog Lane,[34]and see the spacious grounds of his neighbor Coffin’s “Fields,” as the boys who playedball called it. There was no reason why they should be at odds socially, just because Lord North and the king proposed to levy a tax of three pence a pound on tea.
With story and jest the company enjoyed the banquet and then were rowed to the shore, all shaking hands with Berinthia and congratulating her upon the successful launching of the vessel bearing her name.
“What can we do to round out the day for you, dear?”
It was Miss Newville addressing Berinthia.
“I don’t know; what can we?” was the reply.
“How would you like a sleigh-ride?” Robert asked.
“Delightful!” exclaimed Miss Newville.
“Jenny and the colt are rested, and if you don’t mind riding in a pung, I shall be pleased to take a little spin out of town.”
“Oh, it will be so charming! I would rather go in a pung than in a sleigh; it is more romantic,” Miss Newville said.
It was quickly arranged. Robert went to the Green Dragon, put new straw in the pung, and was soon back with the team. They were eight in number and quickly seated themselves. It was natural that Berinthia and Abraham Duncan, who had put his heart into his work while carving her features, should sit side by side, and that Tom Brandon and Mary Shrimpton should desire to be tucked under the same bearskin. It was a pleasure to Roger Stanley to ask Miss Walden to keep him company.
“They have decided, Mr. Walden, that we shall sit together,” Miss Newville said as she stepped into the pung.
“I shall regard it an honor to have your company,” was the reply.
When all were ready, the horses set the sleigh-bells jingling. Farmers plodding home from the market gave them the road, and smiled as they listened to the merry laughter. They went at a brisk trot over the Neck leading to Roxbury, and turned to the left, taking the Dorchester road. At times the horses came to a walk, but at a chirrup from Robert quickened their pace, the colt throwing snowballs into Miss Newville’s face.
“You must excuse him, Miss Newville; he is young, and has not learned to be polite,” Robert said, apologizing for the animal.
They gained the highlands of Dorchester, from whence they could overlook the harbor and its islands, and see the lighthouse rising from its rocky foundation, with the white surf breaking around it. A ship which had left Charles River with the ebbing tide had reached Nantasket Roads, and was spreading its sails for a voyage across the sea.
“So the Berinthia will soon be sailing,” said Miss Newville, “and we shall all want to keep track of her; and whenever we read of her coming and going we shall all recall this delightful day, made so enjoyable for us this morning by Berinthia and so charming this afternoon by your kindness.”
She turned her face towards Robert. The afternoon sun was illumining her countenance. He had seen in Mr. Henchman’s bookstall a beautiful picture of a Madonna. Mr. Knox told him it was a steel engraving from a picture painted by the great artistRaphael, and Robert wondered if the countenance was any more lovely than that which looked up to him at the moment.
They were riding towards the Milton Hills. The woodman’s axe had left untouched the oaks, elms, maples, and birches; they were leafless in midwinter, but the pines and hemlocks were green and beautiful upon its rocky sides. The purple sky, changing into gold along the western horizon, the white robe of winter upon hill and dale, the windows of farmhouses reflecting the setting sun, made the view and landscape of marvelous beauty. Descending the hill, they came to the winding Neponset River, and rode along its banks beneath overhanging elms. The bending limbs, though leafless, were beautiful in their outlines against the sky. Turning westward, they reached the great road leading from Boston to Providence.
“We might go to Dedham, but I think we had better turn back towards Roxbury, let the horses rest a bit at the Greyhound Tavern, and have supper,”[35]said Tom, who was well acquainted with the road.
The sun had gone down when they whirled up to the tavern, whose swinging sign was ornamented with a rude picture of a greyhound. A bright fire was blazing in the parlor. They laid aside their outer garments and warmed themselves by its ruddy glow. The keen, fresh air had sharpened their appetites for supper. Chloe and Samson, cook and table-waiter, served them with beefsteak hot from the gridiron,swimming in butter; potatoes roasted in the ashes; shortcake steaming hot from the Dutch oven.
“Shall I brew Bohea, Hyson, or Hyperion[36]tea,” the landlady asked, beginning with Miss Newville and glancing at each in turn.
“I will take Hyperion,” Miss Newville replied, with a tact and grace that made her dearer than ever to Berinthia, and to them all, knowing as they did that Bohea and Hyson were still served in her own home.
Supper over, they returned to the parlor, where the bright flame on the hearth was setting their shadows to dancing on the walls. The feet of Mary Shrimpton were keeping time to the ticking of the clock.
“Why can’t we have a dance?” she asked.
“Why not?” all responded.
“I’ll see if we can find Uncle Brutus,” said Tom.
Uncle Brutus was the white-haired old negro who did chores about the tavern.
“Yes, massa, I can play a jig, quickstep, minuet, and reel. De ladies and genmen say I can play de fiddle right smart,” Brutus responded, rolling his eyes and showing his well-preserved white teeth.
“If de ladies and genmen will wait a little till old Brutus can make himself ’spectable, he’ll make de fiddle sing.”
While the old negro was getting ready to entertain them with his violin, they proposed conundrums and riddles and narrated stories.
There came at length a gentle rap on the door, and Brutus, with high standing collar, wearing a cast-offcoat given him by his master, his round-bowed spectacles on the tip of his nose, entered the room, bowing very low. He took his stand in one corner and tuned his violin. The chairs and light-stand were removed to the hall.
“De ladies and genmen will please choose pardners for de minuet,” said Brutus.
The choosing had been already done; the partners were as they had been. After the minuet came the reel and quickstep, danced with grace and due decorum.
The hour quickly flew. The horses had finished their provender and were rested. Once more they were on the road, not riding directly homeward, but turning into cross-roads to Jamaica Pond, where the boys were gliding over the gleaming ice on their skates. They had kindled fires which lighted up the surrounding objects, the dark foliage of pines and hemlocks, and the branches of the leafless elms and maples growing on the banks of the pond.
The full moon was shining in their faces as they rode homeward. The evening air was crisp, but the hot supper and the merry dance had warmed their blood. The jingling of the sleigh-bells and their joyous laughter made the air resonant with music.
At times the horses lagged to a walk, and Robert could let the reins lie loose and turn his face toward Miss Newville. Her eyes at times looked up to his. He could feel her arm against his own. The violet hood leaned towards him as if to find a resting-place. To Robert Walden and to Ruth Newville alike neverhad there been such a night, so full of beauty, so delightful.
The horses came to a standstill at last by the entrance to the Newville mansion.
“This has been the most enjoyable day of my life,” Miss Newville said, as Robert gave her his hand to assist her from the pung.
“Good-night, all. Thank you, Mr. Walden, for all your kindness,” her parting words.
The night-watchman of the North End of Boston, with overcoat buttoned to the chin and a muffler around his neck, a fur cap drawn down over his ears to exclude the biting frost of midwinter, was going his rounds. He saw no revelers in the streets, nor belated visitors returning to their homes.
If suitors were calling upon their ladies, the visits were ended long before the clock on the Old Brick struck the midnight hour. No voice broke the stillness of the night. The watchman scarcely heard his own footsteps in the newly fallen snow as he slowly made his way along Middle Street,[37]with his lantern and staff. He was not expecting to encounter a burglar, breaking and entering a shop, store, or residence. He heard the clock strike once more, and was just pursing his lips to cry, “Two o’clock, and all’s well,” when he caught a glimpse of a figure in front of Theophilus Lillie’s store.[38]Was it a burglar? The man was standing stock-still, as if scanning the premises. Thewatchman dodged back behind the building on the corner of the street, hid his lantern, and peered slyly at the thief, who was still looking at the store. What was the meaning of such mysterious inaction? The watchman, instead of waiting to catch the culprit in the act of breaking and entering, stepped softly forward. Grasping his staff with a firm grip, to give a sudden whack, should the villain turn upon him,—“What ye ’bout, sir!” he shouted.
The burglar did not reply, neither turn his head.
“Is the fellow dead, I wonder—frozen stiff, this bitter night, and standing still?” the question that flashed through the watchman’s brain.
“Bless my soul! It’s Mr. Lillie’s head,—his nose, mouth, chin. Looks just like him. And the post is set in the ground. I’ll bet that carving is Abe Duncan’s work. Nobody can carve like him. But what is it here for? Ah! I see. Lillie has gone back on his agreement not to import tea. The Sons of Liberty have rigged it up to guy him. Ha, ha!”
The watchman laughed to himself as he examined the figure.
“Well, that’s a cute job,” he said reflectively. “The ground is frozen stiff a foot deep. They had to break it with a crowbar, but not a sound did I hear. Shall I say anything about it? Will not the selectmen make a fuss if I don’t notify ’em at once? But what’s the use of knocking ’em up at two o’clock in the morning? The thing’s done. ’Taint my business to pull it up. The post won’t run away. I’ll report what time I found it.”
Remembering that he had not cried the hour, he shouted:—
“Two o’clock, all’s well!”
He secreted himself in a doorway awhile, to see if any one would appear, but no one came.
The early risers—the milkmen and bakers’ apprentices going their rounds, shop boys on their way to kindle fires in stores—all stopped to look at the figure. The news quickly spread. People left their breakfast-tables to see the joke played on Mr. Lillie. Ebenezer Richardson, however, could not see the fun of the thing. The schoolboys called him “Poke Nose” because he was ever ready to poke into other people’s affairs.[39]The officers of the Custom House employed him to ferret out goods smuggled ashore by merchants, who, regarding the laws as unjust and oppressive, had no scruples in circumventing the customs officers. Richardson hated the Sons of Liberty, and haunted the Green Dragon to spy out their actions.
“This is their work,” he said to those around the figure. “It’s outrageous. Mr. Lillie has just as good a right to sell tea as anything else, without having everybody pointing their fingers at him. It’s an insult. It’s disgraceful. Whoever did it ought to be trounced.”
“Charcoal! Charcoal! Hard and soft charcoal!”
It was the cry of the charcoal-man, turning from Union into Middle Street.
“I’ll get him to run his sled against it and knock it over,” said Mr. Richardson to himself.
Slowly the charcoal vender advanced.
Seeing the post and the group of people around it, he reined in his old horse and looked at the figure.
“See here,” said Mr. Richardson. “Just gee a little and run the nose of your sled agin it and knock it over, will ye? It’s a tarnal fiendish outrage to set up such a thing in front of a gentleman’s store.”
“Do you own the figger?”
“No.”
“Do you own the store?”
“No.”
“Anybody ax ye to get it knocked down?”
“No; but it’s an outrage which honest citizens ought to resent.”
“Think so, do ye?”
“Yes, I do; and everybody else ought to, instead of laughing and chuckling over it.”
“That may be, mister, but ye see you don’t own it, and may be I’d get myself into trouble if I were to run my sled agin it purposely. Should like to oblige ye, neighbor, but guess I’d better not. Charcoal! Charcoal! Hard and soft charcoal!” he shouted, jerking the reins for the old horse to move on.
“Gee, Buck! Haw, Barry!”
It was a farmer driving his oxen drawing a load of wood, swinging his goad-stick, who shouted it. The team came to a standstill by the figure.
“What’s up?” the farmer inquired.
“The Sons of Liberty have perpetrated a rascally trick, by setting this effigy in front of this gentleman’s store,” said Mr. Richardson.
“What’d they do that for?”
“’Cause he agreed not to sell tea, and then, finding he’d made a bad bargain, backed out of it; and now I’d like to have ye hitch yer oxen to the thing and snake it to Jericho.”
“’Fraid I can’t ’commodate ye; got to go down to widow Jenkins’s with my wood. Gee, Buck! Haw, Barry!” said the farmer, as he started on.
“Rich, why don’t ye pull it up yourself,” said an apprentice.
“Better get an axe and chop it down, if it’s such an eyesore to ye,” said another.
“Get a crowbar and dig it up. A little exercise will be good for ye,” said a third.
“Has Lillie engaged ye to get rid of the thing?” another asked.
“Did the Sons of Liberty smuggle it ashore during the night?”
Tom Brandon asked the question, which nettled Mr. Richardson exceedingly. Possibly the informer could not have said why he was so zealous for the removal of the effigy. He would not have been willing to admit that he was seeking to advance himself in the estimation of Hon. Theodore Newville, commissioner of imposts, and Hon. Nathaniel Coffin, his majesty’s receiver-general. Quite likely he could not have given any very satisfactory reason for his activity in attempting to remove the figure. Heknew that the selectmen would be obliged to clear the street of the obstruction, but a display of loyalty to the king might possibly inure to his benefit. Boys on their way to school began to chaff the informer.
“Say, Poke Nose; how much are ye going to get for the job?” shouted one of the boys.
“You mind your own business.”
“That’s what you don’t do.”
“Don’t ye call me names, you little imp,” shouted the informer, shaking his fist at the boy.
“Poke Nose! Poke Nose! Poke Nose!” the chorus of voices.
“Take that, Poke Nose!” said a boy as he threw a snowball.
Losing his temper, the informer threw a brickbat in return. He was but one against fifty lads pelting him with snowballs, which knocked off his hat, struck him in the face, compelling him to flee, the jeering boys following him to his own home.
Tom Brandon accompanied the boys. He saw the informer raise a window. There was a flash, a puff of smoke, the report of a gun, a shriek, and two of the boys were lying upon the ground and their blood spurting upon the snow. He helped carry them into a house, and then ran for Doctor Warren. It was but a few steps. The doctor came in haste.
“Samuel Gore is not much injured, but Christopher Snider is mortally wounded,” he said.
Christ Church bells were ringing. Merchants were closing their stores; blacksmiths leaving their forges; carpenters throwing down their tools,—everybody hastening with buckets and ladders to put out the fire,finding instead the blood-stained snow and wounded schoolboys.
“Hang him! Hang him!” shouted the apprentices and journeymen. But the sheriff had the culprit in his keeping, and the law in its majesty was guarding him from the violence of the angered people.
“Christopher Snider is dead,” said Doctor Warren, as he came from the house into which the boy had been carried by Tom Brandon and those who assisted him.
Thenceforth the widow’s home in Frog Lane would be desolate, for an only child was gone.
An exasperated multitude, among others Tom Brandon and Robert Walden, gathered in Faneuil Hall, Tom as witness, attending the examination of Ebenezer Richardson,[40]charged with the murder of Christopher Snider. Upon the platform sat the justices, John Ruddock, Edmund Quincy, Richard Dana, and Samuel Pemberton, wearing their scarlet cloaks and white wigs. There was a murmuring of voices.
“I hope the spy will swing for it,” Robert heard one citizen say.
“It’s downright murder, this shooting of a boy only nine years old, who hadn’t even been teasing Poke Nose,” said another.
“This is what comes from customs nabobs trying to enforce wicked laws,” said an old man.
“Yes, and keeps two regiments of lobsters here to insult us.”
“That’s so,” responded Peter Bushwick, whom Robert recognized. “If the laws were just the people wouldn’t smuggle. If there was no smuggling there wouldn’t be any spies, and Ebe Richardson, instead of being a sneaking informer, would have been earning an honest living. He wouldn’t have been called Poke Nose; there wouldn’t have been any snowballs nor brickbats nor shooting. Ever since I was a little boy Parliament has been passing laws to cripple us; that’s what’s brought on smuggling; that’s what keeps the troops here. Ebe Richardson is part of the system.”
There was a louder buzzing as the sheriff entered the hall and made his way through the crowd with his prisoner, who stood pale and trembling before the justices while the indictment was read. Witnesses were sworn and examined, and the sheriff ordered to commit the accused to the jail for trial.
“No other incident,” said Mr. John Adams, “has so stirred the people as the shooting of this boy. Nothing has so brought to the consciousness of the community the meaning of the ministerial system. Instinctively they connect the death of Christopher with the attempt to enforce the unrighteous laws. Richardson is in the employ of the government. There is no evidence that Theodore Newville or Nathaniel Coffin or any of the officers of the customs engaged him to remove the effigy; he did it on his own account, and must suffer for it, but the obloquy falls, nevertheless, upon the officers of the crown, andespecially upon the soldiers, who are a constant menace. I fear this is but the beginning of trouble.”
Tom had been called upon to testify as a witness in regard to the shooting. He had heard the informer ask the peddler of charcoal and the farmer to run against the effigy with their teams; had seen the snowballs and brickbat fly, the shooting, and had assisted in caring for the wounded and summoning Doctor Warren.
“Have you any idea, Tom, who placed the effigy there?” Mrs. Brandon asked.
“I might have an idea, which might be correct or which might not be. A supposition isn’t testimony. I don’t think I’ll say anything about it,” said Tom.
“Can you guess who carved it?” Berinthia asked earnestly.
“Anybody can guess, Brinth, but the guess might not be worth anything; I’ll not try.”
“You Sons of Liberty don’t let out your secrets,” Berinthia said.
“If we did they wouldn’t be secrets.”
Never had there been such a funeral in the town as that of Christopher Snider. The schools were closed that the scholars might march in procession. Merchants put up the shutters of their stores; joiners, carpenters, ropemakers, blacksmiths, all trades and occupations laid down their tools and made their way to the Liberty-Tree, where the procession was to form. Mothers flocked to the little cottage in Frog Lane to weep with a mother bereft of her only child. Tom Brandon and five other young men were to carry the bier. The newspaper published by Benjamin Edesexpressed the hope that none but friends of freedom would join in the procession.