There was once a time
         when New England
              groaned under the actual pressure
                   of heavier wrongs
                 than those threatened ones
              which brought on the Revolution.

    James II,
           the bigoted successor
               of Charles the Voluptuous,
         had annulled the charters of
               all the colonies,
           and sent a harsh
               and unprincipled soldier
              to take away our liberties
                  and endanger our religion.

    The administration
           of Sir Edmund Andros
          lacked scarcely a single
             characteristic
                of tyranny:
        a Governor and Council,
           holding office from the King,
         and wholly independent
               of the country;
        laws made and taxes levied
             without concurrence
                   of the people immediate
                  or by their representatives;
        the rights
               of private citizens violated,
           and the titles of all
              landed property declared void;
        the voice of complaint
              stifled by restrictions
                   on the press;
        and,
           finally,
         disaffection overawed
               by the first band
                   of mercenary troops
             that ever
                  marched on our free soil.

    For two years our ancestors
        were kept
               in sullen submission by
         that filial love
              which had invariably
                  secured their allegiance
                       to the mother country,
           whether its head chanced
              to be a Parliament,
         Protector,
           or Popish Monarch.

    Till these evil times,
           however,
         such allegiance
            had been merely nominal,
           and the colonists
            had ruled themselves,
         enjoying far more freedom
               than is
             even yet the privilege
                   of the native subjects
                 of Great Britain.

    At length a rumor
           reached our shores
         that the Prince of Orange
            had ventured on an enterprise,
           the success
             of which
                would be the triumph
                       of civil
                     and religious rights
                       and the salvation
                           of New England.

    It was
         but a doubtful whisper:
        it might be false,
           or the attempt might fail;
        and,
           in either case,
         the man
             that stirred against King James
                would lose his head.

    Still the intelligence
          produced a marked effect.

    The people
          smiled mysteriously in the streets,
           and threw bold glances
               at their oppressors;
        while far and wide
            there was a subdued
                   and silent agitation,
           as if the slightest signal
            would rouse the whole land
                   from its sluggish despondency.

    Aware of their danger,
           the rulers resolved
              to avert it
                   by an imposing
                 display of strength,
         and perhaps
              to confirm their despotism
                   by yet harsher measures.

    One afternoon in April,
           1689,
         Sir Edmund Andros
               and his favorite councillors,
           being warm with wine,
         assembled the red-coats
               of the Governor's Guard,
           and made their appearance
               in the streets of Boston.

    The sun was near setting
         when the march commenced.

    The roll
           of the drum at
         that unquiet crisis
            seemed to go
                   through the streets,
           less as the martial music
               of the soldiers,
         than as a muster-call
               to the inhabitants themselves.

    A multitude,
           by various avenues,
         assembled in King Street,
           which was destined
              to be the scene,
         nearly a century afterwards,
           of another encounter
               between the troops of Britain,
         and a people
               struggling against her tyranny.

    Though more than sixty years
        had elapsed
         since the pilgrims came,
           this crowd
               of their descendants still
             showed the strong
                   and sombre features
                       of their character
                  perhaps more strikingly
                       in such a stern emergency
                     than on happier occasions.

    There were the sober garb,
           the general severity of mien,
         the gloomy but undismayed expression,
           the scriptural forms of speech,
         and the confidence in Heaven's
              blessing on a righteous cause,
           which would have marked
               a band
             of the original Puritans,
         when threatened
               by some peril
                   of the wilderness.

    Indeed,
           it was not yet time
               for the old spirit
              to be extinct;
        since there were men
               in the street
             that day
               who had
                  worshipped there beneath the trees,
           before a house
            was reared to the God
             for whom
                 they had become exiles.

    Old soldiers of the Parliament
        were here,
           too,
         smiling grimly at the thought
             that their aged arms
                might strike another blow