SCENE I.
At ST. JAMES'S.

MANY long years have rolled delightfully on, whilst I have been basking in the sun-shine of grandeur and power, whilst I have imperceptibly (tho' not unsuspected) guided the chariot of state, and greased with the nation's gold the imperial wheels.

'Tis I that move the mighty engine of royalty, and with the tincture of my somniferous opiate (or, in the language of a courtier) by the virtue of my secret in­ [...]ence, I have lulled the axletree to sleep, and brought on a pleasing insensibility.

Let their champion, Lord Wisdom, groan, he is now become feeble and impotent, a mere cripple in politics; their Lord Patriot's squint has lost its basilisk effect: and the bold Irishman may bellow the Keenew till he's hoarse, he's no more when compar'd to me than an Irish salmon to a Scotch herring: I care not a bawbee for them all. I'll reign in Britain, I'll be king of their counsels, and chief among the princes.

Oh! ambition, thou darling of my soul! stop not 'till I rise superior to all superlative, 'till I mount triumphantly the pinnacle of glory, or at least open the way for one of my own family and name to enter without opposition.

[Page 2]The work is now cut out, and must be finish'd, I have [...] too far to recede, my honour's at stake, my im­p [...]rt [...]nce, [...]a [...] my life dep [...]nds upon it!

L [...]t night's three hours clos [...]ting has effectually done th [...] [...]; then I spoke my mind in such terms as to make a [...] impression, never to be eradicated—all—all was given up to me, and now since I hold the reins of go­ve [...]nment, since I am possessed of supreme power, every thing shall b [...] sub [...]rvi [...]nt to my royal will and pleasure.

SCENE II.

I am your Lordship's most obedient humble servant.

Be seated.—I sent for you to have a small co [...]erence with you—and to let you know, yo [...]r advice re [...]pecting certain points of law, I have found, [...]uc­ceeded to admiration, even beyond my most [...]anguine ex­pect [...]tions.

I am heartily glad of it, altho' the advice I gave your Lordship, I cannot say, was law; yet, your Lordship can easily pass it as such by a royal proclamation: and should it ev [...]r be disputed, I have quirks and quibbles enough at your service, with Mr. Brazen and Mr. At­to [...]ey General's assi [...]tance, to render it so doubtful, ob­scure and ambiguous, as to puzzle Lord Justice, perpl [...]x D [...]nning, and con [...]ound Gly [...]n.

Can you show me an instance of a [...]oyal proc [...]amation passing for a law? or advise me how to make it such, if you can, I shall make it well worth your study.

My Lord as you have now got a parliament exact [...]y to your mind, ev'ry thing you propose will be granted: but in order that you may see precedents are not want [...]ng—there is a statute in the r [...]ign of Henry the 8th that expressly shows the then parliament passed a law that the kin [...] proclamation should be the law of the land—

Are you sure of that?

My Lord, here it is—this is real law: [...]. When we find any thing of this kind▪ [Page 3] ready made to our hands, it's a treasure we should never part with.

I see it plain! this, this alone is worth a ton of gold—Now, by St. Andrew! I'll strike a stroke that shall surprise all Europe, and make the boldest of the adverse party turn pale and tremble—Scotch politics, Scotch intrigues, Scotch Influence, and Scotch impudence (as they have termed it) they shall see ere long shine with unheard of spl [...]ndour, and the name of Lord Paramount the mighty, shall blaze in the annals of the world with far greater lu [...]tre (as a consummate politician) than the name of Alexander the Great, as an hero!

That day I much wish for,—but, with your Lordship's permission, I would just mention, that secrecy and dissimulation are the soul of enterprise; your Lordship hath many enemies, who watch ev'ry movement of state with a jealous and wary eye.

I know it, but the futile attempts of my timid adversaries have hitherto proved abortive—so far I have borne down all opposition, and those (even some of the greatest of them) who not long since were my most open, as well as secret enemies, I now behold with the most princely pleasure, the earliest to attend, to con­gratulate me on my birth day, tho' uninvited, bow down, and make the most obsequious congees. Have you not seen this, Mocklaw? and how I keep them in expectation of something, by now and then bestowing part of a gracious smile amongst a do [...]en of 'em?

I have, my Lord, and no doubt they inter­pret that as a favourable [...]men;—however, policy, my Lord, would dictate that to you, if there were no other consideration.

True, and yet they are cursedly mistaken—and now, Mocklaw, as I have ever found you to be well dispos'd towards me, and the cause I espouse, and as I trust you continue satisfy'd with my former bounty, and my promise now of granting you a pension for life, with liberty to retire, I shall make you my confident, and disclose to you a secret no man except myself yet knows, which I expect you have so much honour to let it remain [Page 4] a secret to all the world (I mean as to the main point I have in view).

Depend upon it, my Lord, I am sincerely devoted to your Lordship, command me, I care not what it is, I'll screw, twist and strain the law as tight as a drum-head to serve you.

I shall at this time but just give you a hint of the plan I've drawn up in my own mind. You must have perceived in me a secret hankering for majesty for some time past, notwithstanding my age;—but as I have considered the great dislike the nation in general have, as to my person. I'll wave my own pretensions, and bend my power and affiduity to it in favour of one, the nearest a kin to me, you know who I mean, and a particular friend of yours, provided I continue to be dictator, as at present; and further, I intend America shall submit.—What think you of it so far?

A day I've long wish'd to see! but you stagger me, my Lord, not as to my honour, secrecy, or resolution to serve you, but as to the accomplishment of such grand designs.

'Tis true, I have undertaken a mighty task, a task that would have perplexed the Council of Nice, and stagger'd even Julius Ce [...]ar—but—

You have need, my Lord, of all your wis­dom, fortitude and power, when you consider with whom you have to contend.—Let me see—Lord Wisdom—Lord Religion—L [...]rd Justice—Lord Patri [...]t—the bold Irish­man, &c. &c. &c. and the wisdom of the United Colonies of America, in Congress to cope with; as individuals they are trifling, but in league combined may become potent enemies.

Granted—But are you so little of a law­yer as not to know the virtue of a certain specific I'm possess'd of, that will accomplish any thing, even to performing miracles? Don't you know there's such sweet music in the shaking of the treasury keys, that they will instantly lock the most babbling patriot's tongue! trans­form a Tory into a Whig, and a Whig into a Tory? make a superannuated old miser dance, and an old Cy [...] philo­sopher smile? How many thousand times has your tongue [Page 5] danc'd at Westminster Hall to the sound of such music?

Enchanting sounds, powerful magic, there's notwithstanding the charms of such music, their potency and influence are irresistible—that is a point of law I can by no means give up, of more force than all the acts of parliament since the days of king Alfred.

I'm glad you acknowledge that—Now then for a line of politics—I propose to begin first by tax­ing America, as a blind—that will create an eternal ani­mo [...]ity between us, and by sending over continually ships and troops, this will of course produce a civil war—weaken Britain by leaving her coasts defenceless, and im­pover [...]h America; so that we need not fear any thing from that quarter. Then the united fleets of France and Spain with troops to appear in the channel, and make a descent, while my kinsman with thirty thousand men lands in Scotland, marches to London, and joins the others: What then can prevent the scheme from having the wish'd for effect? This is the main point, which keep to yourself.

If it has failed heretofore, 'tis impossible it should fail now; nothing within the reach of human wis­dom was ever planned so judiciously; had Solomon been alive, and a politician, I would have sworn your Lordship had consulted him.—But I would beg leave to hint to your Lordship the opposition to be apprehended from the militia of England; and the German forces that may be sent for according to treaty.

As to the militia, they are half of them my friends, witness Lancaster, Manchester, Liver­pool, &c, &c. &c. the other half scarce ever fired a gun in their lives, especially those of London, and I shall take care by shaking the keys a little to have such officers ap­pointed over them, who are well known to be in my in­terest. As to the German forces, I have nothing to ap­prehend from them; the parliament can soon pass an act against the introduction of foreign troops, exept the French or Spaniards, who can't be called foreign, they are our friends and nearest neighbours. Have you any thing further to object against the probability of this plan?

Nothing my Lord, but the people of Ire­land, who must be cajoled or humbugg'd.

As to that, let me alone, I shall grant the Roman Catholics, who are by far the most numerous, the free exercise of their religion, with the liberty of bearing arms, so long unjustly deprived of, and disarm in due time all the Protestants in their turn.

That will be a noble stroke; the more I con­sider it, the more I'm surpris'd at your Lordship's profound wisdom and foresight: I think success is certain.

Then this is the favourable crisis to at­tempt it; 'tis not the thought of a day, a month, or a year. Have you any more objections?

I have one more, my Lord—

Well, pray let's hear it; these lawyers will be heard.

The Bishops and Clergy are a powerful, numerous body; it would be necessary, my Lord, to gain them over, or keep them silent—A religious war is the worst of wars.

You are very right, I have 'em fast enough—Mammon will work powerfully on them—The keys—the keys—His Grace my Lord of Suffolk, and Dean Tucker, are managing this business for me, and feeding them with the hopes of being all created Arch-bishops here, and each to have a diocese, and Bishops of their own appointment in America; not a city or town there but must be provided with a Bishop: There let religion erect her holy altars, by which means their revenues will be augmented beyond that of a Cardinal. All this we must make 'em believe.

True, my Lord, what is a Bishop without faith? This is the grandest stroke of religious circumven­tion that ever was struck.—I've done, my Lord.

Very well; you'll not fail to meet the privy council here this evening; in the mean time you'll go and search the statutes for other precedents to strengthen the cause; and remember I have enjoin'd you to secrecy.

Depend upon it, my Lord, I cannot prove ungrateful to your Lordship, nor such an enemy to myself.

SCENE III.

This Mocklaw is a cursed knowing dog, and I believe the father of Brazen; how readily he found an old act of parliament to my purpose, as soon as I told him I would make it worth his study; and the thoughts of a pension will make him search his old worm-eaten statute books from the reign of king Arthur down to this present time; how he raises objections too to make me think his mind is ever bent on study to serve me. The shaking of the treasury keys is a fine bait.

Charters, magna Cha [...]tas, bill of rights, acts of assembly, resolves of congresses, trials by juries (and acts of parliament too) when they make against us, must all be annihilated; a suspending power I approve of, and of royal proclama­tions.—

I wait your Lordship's orders.

Write a number of cards, and see that the Lords of the privy council, and Mr. Judas, be summoned to give their attendance this evening at six o'clock, at my Pandemonium.

I'm gone, my Lord.

How do we show our authority? how do we maintain the royal prerogative? keep in awe the knowing ones of the opposite party, and blind the eyes of the ignorant mul­titude in Britain? Why, by spirited measures, by an ac­cumulation of power, of deception, and the shaking of the keys, we may hope to succeed; should that fail, I'll en­force them with the pointed bayonet; the Americans from one end to the other shall submit, in spite of all opposi­tion; I'll listen to no overtures of reconciliation from any petty self-constituted congress, they shall submit implicitly to such terms as I of my royal indulgence please to grant. I'll show them the impudence and weakness of their re­solves, and the strength of mine; I will never soften; my inflexibility shall stand firm, and convince them the second Pharaoh is at least equal to the first. I am unalterably de­termined at every hazard and at the risk of every con­s [...]quence [Page 8] sequence to compel the colonies to absolute submission. I'll draw in treasure from every quarter, and, Solomon-like, wallow in riches; and Scotland, my dear Scotland▪ shall be the paradise of the world. Rejoice in the name of Para­mount, and the sound of a bawbee shall be no more heard in the land of my nativity.—

SCENE. IV.

My Lord, the notices are all served.

It's very well, Charley.

My Lord, be pleased to turn your eyes, and look out of the window, and see the Lord Mayor, Alder­men, Common council and Liverymen going to St. James's with the address.

Where? Sure enough—Curse their im­pudence; how that [...]quinting scou [...]drel swells with im­portance—Mind, Charley, how fond he is of bowing to the gaping multitude, and ev'ry upstart he fees at a window—I hope he'll not turn his blare eyes t'wards me—I want none of his bows, not I—Stand before me, Charley—

I will, my Lord, and if he looks this way, I'll give him such a devili [...]h grin as best suits such fellows as him, and make him remember it as long as he lives.

Do so, Charley; I hate the dog mortally, I religiously hate him, and hope ere long to have satis­faction for his in [...]olence, and the freedoms he has taken with me and my connexions; I shall never forget the many scandalous verses, lampoons and pasquinades he made upon us.

Indeed he has used your Lordship too ill ever to be forgotten or forgiven.

Damn him, I never intend to do either—See again how he bows—there again—how the mob throw up their hats, [...]plit their throats; how they huzza too; they make a mere god of the fellow; how they idolize him—Ignorant brutes!

A scoundrel; he has climb'd up the stilts of preferment strangely, my Lord.

Strangely, indeed; but it's our own faults.

He has had better luck than honester folks; I'am surpris'd to think he has ever rose to the honour of presenting a remonstrance, or rather, that he could ever have the impudence to think of remonstrating.

Aye, Charley, you see how unaccountably things turn out; his audacity is unparalelled—a Newgate dog.

My Lord, I believe the fellow was never known to blush; and indeed 'tis an observation I made some time since, and I believe a just one, without an ex­ception, that those who squint never blush.

You must be mistaken, Charley.

No, my Lord, it's a fact, I had an uncle squinted exactly like him, who was guilty of many scan­dalous things, and yet all the parish, with the parson at their head, could not make him blush, so that at last he be­came a bye-word—Here comes old shame-the-devil; this dog is the very spawn of him.

Hoot, mon! ye give your uncle a shoking character.

I only mention it, my Lord, for the simila­rity's sake.

For the spawn of him, and the similarity's sake, I'am apt to think you've been abusing your own cousin all this while.

God forbid, my Lord, I should be any how allied to him.

I fancy, Charley, if the truth was known, your uncle did not mention you in his will, and forgot to leave you the mansion house and farm at Gallows-hill. Am I right, Charley?

You're right, my Lord, upon my honour—but—

I thought so—Well, never mind—Ha, ha, ha, who are those two fat fellows there that go in such state?

I suppose them to be a couple of Livery Tal­low-chandlers, my Lord, by their big bellies.

Ha, ha,—what work the guards would make amongst them—but they must not be called yet.—And who are those other two behind 'em?

This is Mr. Hone, and the other Mr. Strap, a couple of the Corporation Barbers, for [...]ooth.

Ha, ha, ha, I thought they had been a couple of Dukes;—and that one—who is he with the Beehive whig?

That is Mr. Alderman Pipe [...]ank, in New­gate-street.

A parcel of Newgate dogs altogether—Well, it is a good deal of satisfaction to me to think how this fellow will be received at St. James's; he'll not return back so pleas'd as he seems to be now, I warrant you—I have taken care he shall meet with a d—d cold recep­ [...]ion there; he will have to make his appearance before Lord Frostyface, Lord Scarecrow, Lord Sneerwell, Lord Firebrand, Lord Mawmouth, Lord Waggonjaws, Lord Gripe, Lord Brass, Lord Surly and Lord Tribulation, as hard-fac'd fellows as himself; and the beauty of it is, not one of them loves him a whit more than I do.

That will be rare diversion for them that are present; he'll look then, my Lord, like Sampson making sport for the Philistines.

Aye, but I wish he was as blind too, as Sampson was.—Well, Charley, we have been dispos'd to be a little merry with this ridiculous parade, this high life below stairs. I wish you had begun your description a little sooner, before they were all gone; the looks of these wiseacres affords us some mirth, tho' we despise them and their politics, and it's not unlikely it may end in blood—Be it so, I'm prepar'd for the worst.

Rather so, my Lord, than submit to such rascals.

I'll give up my life first for a sacrifice.

SCENE V.

My Lords and Gentlemen, it seems oppo­sition to our measures are making hasty-strides; the discon­tented faction, the supporters and encouragers of rebellion, and whose hearts are tainted therewith, seem bent, if pos­sible, on the destruction of Britain, and their own aggrandise­ment. Are not the daily papers filled with treasonable re­solves of American congresses and committees, extracts of letters, and other infamous pieces and scurrilous pamph­lets, circulating with unusual industry throughout the kingdom, by the enemies of Britain, thereby poisoning the minds of our liege subjects with their detestable te­nets?—And did you not this day see the procession, and that vile miscreant Lord Patriot at their head, going to St. James's with their remonstrance, in such state and pa­rade as manifestly tended to provoke, challenge and defy majesty itself, and the powers of government? and yet nothing done to stop their pernicious effects.—Surely, my Lords and Gentlemen, you must agree with me, that it is now become highly expedient that an immediate stop should be put to such unwarrantable and dangerous pro­ceedings, by the most vigorous and coercive measures.

I entirely agree with your Lordship, and was ever firmly of opinion, that licentiousness of every kind, (particularly that of the Press) is dangerous to the state; the rabble should be kept in awe by examples of severity, and a proper respect should be enforced to supe­riors. I have sufficiently shewn my dislike to the freedom of the press, by the examples I have frequently made (tho' too favourable) of several printers, and others, who had greatly trespassed, and if they still persist, other measures should be taken with them, which the laws will point out; and as to Lord Patriot, he's a fellow that has been out­law'd, scandal proof, little to be got by meddling with him; I would advise to let him alone for the present, and humble America first.

I am very clear in it, please your Lord­ship; [Page 12] there are numbers of men in this country who are ever studying how to perplex and entangle the state, con­stantly thwarting government, in ev'ry laudable under­taking; this clamorous faction must be curbed, must be sub­dued and crush'd—our thunder must go forth, America must be conquered. I am for blood and fire to crush the rising glories of America—They boast of her strength; she must be conquered, it half Germany is called to our assistance.

I entirely agree with you, Mr. Brazen; my advice is, that Lord Boston and Admiral Tombstone be immediately despatch'd to Boston, with two or three regiments (tho' one would be more than sufficient) and a few ships to shut up their ports, disannul their charter, stop their trade, and the pusillanimous beggars, those scoundrel rascals, whose predominant passions are impudence and fear, would immediately give up, on the first landing of the regulars, and fly before 'em like a hare before the hounds; that this would be the case, I pawn my honour to your Lordships, nay I'll sacrifice my life: My Lords, I have more­over the testimony of General Amherst and Colonel Grant to back my assertion; besides here's Mr. Judas, let him speak.

If this is the same Colonel Grant that was at Fort Duque [...]ne, the same that ran away from the French and Indians, the same that ran away from the French and Indians, the same that was rescued by Colonel Washington, I have no idea of his honour or testimony.

He's a Gentleman, my Lord Hypocrite, of undoubted veracity.

You might as well have said courage too; I have exceptions against both; and as to General Amher [...]t's assertion that he could drive all America with five thousand men, he must have been joking, as he is quite of a diff'rent opinion now.

What is your opinion of your country­men, Mr. Judas, with respect to their courage?

The same that I ever told you, my Lord; as to true courage they have none, I know 'em well—they have a plenty of a kind of enthusiastic real, which they substitute in the room of it; I am very certain they would never face the regulars, tho' with the advantage of ten to one.

All this, and a great deal more, would [Page 13] never convince me of the general cowardice of the Ame­ricans—but of the cowardice of Grant I've been long con­ [...]inced, by numbers of letters formerly from America—I'am for doing the business effectually; don't let us be too sanguine, trust to stories told by every sycophant, and hurry [...] over head to be laugh'd at; the Americans are bold, stubborn and sour; it will require foreign assistance to subdue 'em.

These sour Americans, ignorant brutes, unbroke and wild, must be tamed; they'll soon be humble if punish'd; but if disregarded, grow fierce.—Barbarous na­tions must be held by fear, rein'd and spurr'd hard, chain'd to the oar, and bow'd to due controul, 'till they look grim with blood; let's first humble America, and bring them under our feet; the olive-branch has been held out, and they have rejected it; it now becomes us to use the iron rod to break their disobedience; and should we lack it, foreign assistance is at hand.

All this I grant, but I'm for sending a force sufficient to crush 'em at once, and not with too much precipitation; I am first for giving it a colour of impartiality, forbearance and religion.—Lay it before par­liament; we have then law on our side, and endeavour to gain over some or all of the Methodist Teachers, and in particular my very good friend Mr. Wesley, their Bishop, and the worthy Mr. Clapum, which task I would under­take; it will then have the sanction of religion, make it less suspected, and give it a better grace.

I should choose it to be done by consent of parliament; we stand then on firmer ground; there's no doubt they'll grant ev'ry thing your Lordship proposes upon my motion: but to tell the truth, I'd rather be in purgatory so long, than to run the gantlet of the Bold Irishman's tongue.

Aye, aye, don't part with the law while it's in our favour, or we can have it by asking for—and as to the Bold Irishman, don't be brow-beaten, you must sum­mon all your brass, and put on a rugged highwayman's face like his; I expect some work of that kind too, but the devil himself shan't brow-beat me.

I am glad to find, my Lords and Gentle­men, [Page 14] you all see the necessity of sending over troops and ships; I intend my Lord Cat [...]paw shall lay it before parliament, and am very certain they'll pass any acts I can desire. I thank you, Lord Hypocrite, for your kind offer, and accept of it; his Grace my Lord of Suffolk and Dean Tucker are n [...]gociating the same business with the rest of my Lords the Bishops, and will succeed; so that it will carry the appearance of law and of religion, and will be suf­ficiently grac'd; I'll warrant you no one shall have cause to complain of its wanting grace. And now, my Lords and Gentlemen, as it's so late, and we have gone through all the business at this time proposed, you are at your liberty to withdraw.

is now fixed, irr [...]vocably fixed; the [...]torm is ready to burst; the low'ring clouds portend their fate my glory, their fall my triumph—But I must h [...]te to be gone, the ceremonies await my pr [...]sence; deeds of darkness must be done by night, and, like the sil [...]nt mol [...], work under ground:

SCENE I.

I Much lament, my Lords, the present un­happy situation of my country; where'er I turn my eyes, to Europe, Asia, Africa, or America, the prospect appears the same.—Look up to the throne, and behold your king, if I may now call him by that soft title—Where is the wisdom, the justice, the religion, that once adorn'd that throne, and shed the benign influence of their bright rays through the four quarters of the globe? Alas! they're flown!

Mark his forlorn looks—his countenance dejected, [Page 15] a sullen greatness fixed on his brow, as if it veil'd in blood some awful purpose, his eyes flaming and sanguinary; how I bewail him for his predecessor's sake!—Long—long have I been an old, and I trust a faithful servant in the family—Can I then restrain one tear? No, 'tis impossible!-View that arch-dragon, that old fiend, Paramount, that rebel in grain, whispering in his ear. View his wretched ministers hovering round him, to accomplish their accursed purpose, and accelerate his destruction—View the whole herd of administration (I know 'em well) and tell me if the world can furnish a viler set of miscreants? View both houses of parliament, and count the number of Tyrants, Jacobites, Tories, Placemen, Pensioners, Sycophants and Panders. View the constitution, is she not disrob'd and dismantled? is she not become like a virgin deflower'd? View our fleets and armies commanded by bloody murdering butchers! View Britain herself as a sheep without a shepherd! And lastly view America, for her virtue bleeding and for her li­berty weltering in her blood!

Such hath, and ever will be the fate of kings, who only listen to the voice of pleasure, thrown in their way by the sirens of administration, which never fail to swallow them up like a quicksand—like a serpent, who charms and fascinates, bewitches and enchants with his eye the unwary bird; witness the fatal catastrophe of Reho­b [...]am, who rejected the counsel of the wise and experienced, and gave up all to the advice and guidance of young, un­skilful and wic [...]d counsellors. Had he listen'd to you, my Lord, had he followed your advice, all, all would have gone well—Under your auspicious administration Britain flourished, but ever since has been on the decline, and pa­triotism, like religion, scarcely now more than a sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.

My counsel has been rejected—my con­ciliatory plan thrown under the table, and treated with contempt; the experience of gray hairs called the super­annuated notions of old age—my bodily infirmities—my tottering frame—my crazy carca [...]e, worn out in the service of my country, and even my very crutches, have been made the subject of their ridicule.

Gratitude, like religion and patriotism, are about taking their flight, and the law of the land stands on tiptoe; the constitution, that admirable fabric, that work of ages, the envy of the world, is deflower'd indeed, and made to commit a rape upon her own body, by the avaricious frowns of her own father, who is bound to protect her, not to destroy—Her pillars are thrown down, her capitals broke, her pedestals demolish'd and her foun­dation nearly destroy'd.—Lord Paramount and his wretched adviser Mocklaw baffles all our efforts.—The statutes of the land superseded by royal proclamations and dispensing powers, &c. &c. the bloody knife to be held to the throats of the Americans, and force them to submit to slav'ry.—Administration have commenced bloody tyrants, and those that should protect the subject, are become their execu­tioners; yet will I dispute with them inch by inch, while there's a statute book left in the land. Come forth, thou grand deceiver! I challenge thee to come forth!

Our friends must bestir themselves once more, perhaps we may yet turn the scale.—If the voice of religion, wisdom and justice should fail, let us sound the trumpet of liberty and patriotism, that will conquer them in America, I know; let us try to storm them here with the united whole, and if by a base majority they still carry their point, we can nevertheless wash our hands and be clean.

From the pulpit, in the house of God, have I spoken aloud, I have lifted up my voice like a trum­pet, Oh! Britain, how art thou fallen! Hear now, O house of Britain, is it a small thing for you to weary man, but will you weary your God also? In the house of Lords have I borne my testimony: Hear now, O ye Princes, and I will yet declare in Britain, and shew forth in America, I will not cease 'till I bring about (if possible) unity, peace and concord.

Much to be wished for; but alas! I fear it's now too late; I foresee the tendency and consequence of those diabolical measures that have been pursued with unrelenting fury. Britain will ruin her trade, waste her wealth, her strength, her credit and her importance in the [Page 17] scale of Europe. When a British king proves ungrateful and haughty, and strives to be independent of his people, (who are his sole support) the people will in their turn likewise strive to be independent of him and his myrmidons, and will be free; they will erect the anfractuous standard of independency, and thousands and tens of thousands will flock to it, and solace themselves under its shade.—They have often been told of this, but affected to despise it; they know not America's strength, they are ignorant of it; fed by the flatt'ry of every sycophant tale, imagine themselves almighty, and able to subdue the whole world. America will be lost to Britain for ever, and will prove her downfall. America is wise, and will shake off the galling yoke before it be rivetted on them; they will be drove to it, and who can blame them? Who can blame a gally slave for making his escape?—Britain will miscarry in her vile projects, her knight errant, her Don Quixotte schemes in America: America will resist; they are not easily to be subdued; (nay 'tis impossible) Britain will find it a harder task than to con­quer France and Spain united, and will cost 'em more blood and treasure than a twice seven years war with those European powers; they will stand out 'till Britons are tired. Britain will invite her with kind promises and open arms; America will reject them; America will triumph, rejoice and flourish, and become the glory of the earth; Britain will languidly hold down her head, and become first a prey to a vile Pre­t [...]nder, and then be subject to the ravagers of Europe. I love the Americans, because they love liberty. Liberty flourishes in the wilds of America. I honour the plant, I revere the tree, and would cherish its branches. Let us, my friends, join hands with them, follow their example, and endeavour to support expiring liberty in Britain; whilst I have a tongue to speak, I will support her wherever found; whilst I have crutches to crawl with, I will try to find her out, and with the voice of an arch-angel will demand for a sacrifice to the nation those miscreants who have wickedly and wantonly been the ruin of their country. Oh, Liberty! Oh, my country!

Oh, Religion! Oh, Virtue! whither art thou fleeing? Oh, thou Defender of the Faith! Oh, ye [Page 18] mighty Lords and Commons! Oh, ye deluded Bishops! ye learned props of our unerring church, who preach up vengeance, force and fire, instead of peace! be wise in time, left the Americans be driven to work out their own salva­tion without fear or trembling.

SCENE II.

That Brazen Lawyer See Wedderburne's speech., that Lord Chancellor, that wou'd be, held forth surprisingly last night, he beat the drum in your ears, brother soldier.

I think he did; he beat a Tatoo for us all.

No politicians but lawyer politicians, it seems, will go down; if we believe him, we must all turn lawyers now, and prate away the liberties of the nation.

Aye, first we must learn to rall at the clamorous faction, disappointed politicians—ever restless—ever plot­ting—constantly thwarting government, in laudable and blameable purposes.—Inconsiderable party—inconsistent in their own politics—hostile to all government, soured by disappointment, and urged by want—proceeding to un­justi [...]iable lengths—and then sound the magnanimity of a British senate, animated by the sacred fire caught from a high-spirited people—

And the devil knows what beside—Magnanimity and sacred fire, indeed!—Very magnanimous sounds, but pompous nothings! Why did he not tell us where was the magnanimity of the British senate at the time of the dispute about Falkland's Island? What sort of fire animated them then?—Where was the high spirit of the people?—Strange sort of fire, and strange sort of spirit, to give up to our inveterate enemies, the Spaniards, our property unasked for, and cut our best friends and brethren the Americans throats, for defending theirs against lawless tyranny; their sacred fire became then all fumo, and the strength of their boasted spirits eva­porated into invisible effluvium; the giant then sunk sure enough spontaneously into a dwarf; and now, it seems the dwarf having been feeding upon smoaky fire and evaporated spirits, is endeavouring to swell himself into a giant again, [Page 19] like the frog in the fable, 'till he bursts himself in silent thunder—But let the mighty Philistine, the Goliath Para­mount, and his oracle Mocklaw, with their thunder bel­lowed from the brazen mortar-piece of a turn-coat lawyer, have a care of the little American David!

Aye, indeed! America will prove a se­cond Sampson to 'em; they may put out his eyes for a while, but he'll pull their house down about their ears for all that. Mr. Brazen seem'd surpris'd at the thought of relinqui [...]hing America, and bawl'd out with the vocifera­tion of an old miser that had been robb'd—Relinquish America! relinquish America! forbid it heavens! But let him and his masters take great care, or America will save 'em the trouble, and relinquish Britain.

Or I'm much mistaken, Brazen says, establish first your superiority, and then talk of negotiating.

That doctrine suits 'em best; just lik [...] a cowardly pickpocket, or a bloody highwayman, knock a man down first, and then tell him stand and deliver.

A just comparison, and excellent simile, by my soul! But I'm surpris'd he did not include the Clergy among the number of professions unfit (as he said) to be politicians.

Did you ever know a lawyer to meddle with religion, unless he got a fee by it? he'll take care and [...]teer clear of that; if it don't come in his way, he'll never break his neck over a church bible, I warrant you—Mammon is his god—Judge Jeffereys is his priest—Star-chamber doctrine is his creed—fire, flames and faggot, blood, murder, halters and thund'ring cannon are the cere­monies of his church—and lies, misrepresentations, deceit, hypocrisy and di [...]imulation are the articles of his religion.

You make him a monster, indeed.

Not half so bad as he is, my Lord; he's following close to the heels [...]f that profound sage, that oracle, Mocklaw, his tutor: I can compare the whole herd of them to nothing else but to the swine we read of running headlong down the hill, Paramount their devil, Mocklaw the evil spirit, and Brazen their driver, as unfit to guide the chariot of state as Phaeton was to guide the chariot of the [...]un.

And thus they'll drive liberty from out the land, yet I hope they'll meet the ambitious Phaeton's fate; but when a brave people, like the Americans, from their infancy us'd to liberty (not as a gift, but who in­herit it as a birth-right, but not as a mess of pottage, to be bought by, or sold to, ev'ry hungry glutton of a minister) find attempts made to reduce them to slavery, they generally take some desperate successful measure for their deliverance. I should not be at all surpris'd to hear of independency pro­claim'd throughout their land, of Britain's armies beat, their fleets burnt, sunk, or otherwise destroy'd. The same principle which Mr. Brazen speaks of, that inspires British soldiers to fight, namely the ferment of youthful blood, the high spirit of the people, a love of glory, and a sense of national honour, will inspire the Americans to withstand [...]m; to which I may add, liberty and property.—But what is national honour? Why, national pride.—What is national glory? Why national nonsense, when put in competition with liberty and property.

Of Britain I fear liberty has taken its farewell, the aspiring wings of tyranny hath long hovered over, and the over-shadowing influence of bribery hath ecclips'd its rays and dark'ned its lustre; the huge Para­mount, that temporal deity, that golden calf, finds servile wretches enough so base as to bow down, worship and adore his guilded horns;—let 'em e'en if they will:—But as for me, tho' I should stand alone, I would spurn the brute, where he forty-five Alluding to the North-Briton, Number forty-five. times greater than he is; I'll administer, ere long, such an emetic to him, as shall make the monster disgorge the millions yet unaccounted for, and never shall it be said, that Patriot ever feared or truckled to him, or kept a silent tongue when it should speak.

There I'll shake hands with you, and my tongue shall echo in their ears, make their arched ceiling shake, the treasury bench crack, and the great chair of their great speaker tremble, and never will I cease lash­ing them, while lashing is good, or hope remains; and when the voice of poor liberty can no longer be heard in Britain or Hibernia, let's give Caledonia a kick with our [Page 21] heels, and away with the goddess to the American shore, crown her, and defy the grim king of tyranny, at his peril, to set his foot there.—Here let him stay, and wallow in sackcloth and ashes, like a beast as he is, and, Nebucad­nezzar-like, eat grass and thistles.

SCENE I.
In BOSTON.

AT length, it seems, the bloody flag is hung out, the ministry and parlia­ment, ever studious in mischief, and bent on our destruction, have ordered troops and ships of war to shut our ports, and starve us into submission.

And compel us to be slaves; I have heard so. It is a fashionable way to requite us for our loyalty, for the present we made them of Louisburg, for our protection at Duquesne, for the assistance we gave them at Quebec, Martinico, Guadaloupe, the Havannah, &c. &c. Blast their councils, spurn their ingratitude! Soul of Pepperel! whither art thou fled?

They seem to be guided by some secret de­mon; this stopping our ports and depriving us of all trade is cruel, calculated to starve and beggar thousands of fa­milies, more spiteful than politic, more to their own dis­advantage than ours: But we can resolve to do without trade; it will be the means of banishing luxury, which [Page 22] has ting'd the simplicity and spotless innocence of our once happy asylum.

We thank heaven, we have the necessaries of life in abundance, even to an exuberant plenty; and how oft' has our hospitable tables fed numbers of those ungrate­ful monsters, who would now, if they could, famish us?

No doubt, as we abound in those temporal blessings, it has tempted them to pick our pockets by vio­lence, in hopes of treasures more to their minds.

In that these thir [...]ters after gold and human blood will be disappointed.—No Perus or Mexicos here they'll find—but the demon you speak of, tho' he acts in secret is notoriously known. Lord Paramount is that de­mon, that bird of prey, that ministerial cormorant, that waits to devour, and who first thought to disturb the re­pose of America; a wretch no friend to mankind, who acts thro' envy and avarice, like [...]atan, who escap'd from hell to disturb the regions of paradise; after ransacking Britain and Hibernia for gold, the growth of hell, to feed his luxury, now waits to ri [...]e the bowels of America.

May he prove more unsuccessful than [...]atan; blind politics, rank infatuation, madness detestable, the concomitants of arbitrary power! They can never think to succeed; but should they conquer, they'll find that he who overcometh by force and blood, hath overcome but half his foe—Capt. Pre [...]ton's massacre is too recent in our memories; and if a few troops dar'd to commit such hellish unprovok'd barbarities, what may we not expect from [...]e­gions arm'd with vengeance, whose leaders harbour prin­ciples repugnant to freedom, and possess'd with more than diabolical notions? Surely our friends will oppose them with all the power heaven has given them.

Nothing more certain; each citizen and each individual inhabitant of America are bound by the ties of nature; the laws of God and man justify such a procedure; passive obedience for passive slaves, and non-resistance for servile wretches who know not, neither deserve, the sweets of liberty. As for me and my house, thank God, such detestable doctrine never did, nor shall ever, enter over my [...].

Would all America were so zealous as you.—The appointment of a general Continental Congress was a judicious measure, and will prove the salvation of this new world, where counsel mature, wisdom and strength united, will prove a barrier, a bulwark, against the en­croachments of arbitary power.

I much approve of the choice of a congress; America is young, she will be to it like a tender nursing mother, she will give it the paps of virtue to suck, cherish it with the milk of liberty, and fatten it on the cream of patriotism; she will train it up in its youth, and teach it to shun the poison of British voluptuousness, and instruct it to keep better company. Let us, my friend, support her all in our power, and set on foot an immediate associa­tion; they will form an intrenchment, too strong for ministerial tyranny to o'erleap.

I am determined so to do, it may prevent the farther effusion of blood—and—

SCENE II.

My friends, I yet will hail you good morrow, tho' I know not how long we may be indulg'd that liberty to each other; doleful tidings I have to tell.

With sorrow we have heard it—good mor­row, Sir.

Wou'd to God it may prove false, and that it may vanish like the dew of the morning.

Beyond a doubt, Sir, it's too true.

Perhaps, my friends, you have not heard all.

We have heard too much, of the troops and ships coming over, we suppose you mean; we have not heard more, if more there be.

Then worse I have to tell, tidings which will raise the blood of the patriot, and put your virtue to the proof, will kindle such an ardent love of liberty in your breasts, as time will not be able to exterminate—

Pray let us hear it, I'm all on fire [...]

I'm impatient to know it, welcome or un­welcome.

Such as it is, take it; your charter is an­nihilated; you are all, all declared rebels; your estates are to be confiscated; your patrimony to be given to those who ever labour'd for it; popery to be established in the room of the true catholic faith; the Old South, and other houses of our God, converted perhaps into nunneries, inqui­sitions, barracks and common jails, where you will peri [...] with want and famine, or suffer an ignominious death [...] your wives, children, dearest relatives and friends, forever separated from you in this world, without the prospect of receiving any comfort or consolation from them, or the least hope of affording any to them.

Perish the thought!

I've heard enough;—To arms! my dear friends, to arms! and death or freedom be our motto!

A noble resolution; Posterity will crown the urn of the patriot who consecrates his talents to virtue and freedom; his name shall not be forgot; his reputation shall bloom with unfading verdure, while the name of the tyrant, like his vile body, shall moulder into dust. Put your trust in the Lord of hosts, he is your strong tower, he is your helper and defence, he will guide and strengthen the arm of flesh, and scatter your enemies like chaff.

Let us not hesitate.

Not a single moment;—'tis like to prove a mortal strife, a never-ending contest, tyranny or death.

Delays may be dangerous.—Go and awake your brethren that sleepeth;—rou [...]e them up from their le­thargy and supineness, and join with confidence tempo [...] with spiritual weapons.—Perhaps they be now landing and this moment, this very moment, may be the last [...] your liberty.—Prepare yourselves—be ready—stand fa [...]t—ye know not the day nor the hour.—May the Ruler of [...] send us liberty and life.—Adieu! my friends.

SCENE III.
In a street in BOSTON.

Frequent town-meetings and consultations amongst the inha­bitants;—Lord Boston arrives with the forces and ships;—lands and fortifies Boston, &c.

I have said and done all that man could say or do.—'Tis wrong, I insist upon it, and time will show it, to suffer them to take possession of Castle William and fortify Boston Neck.

I cannot see, good Sir, of what advantage it will be to them;—they've only a mind, I suppose, to keep their soldiers from being inactive, which may prejudice their health.

I wish it may prove so, I would very gladly confess your superior knowledge in military manoeuvres; but till then, suffer me to tell you, it's a stroke the most fatal to us,—no less, Sir, but to cut off the communica­tion between the town and country, making prisoners of us all by degrees, and give 'em an opportunity of making excursions, and in a short time subdue us without resistance.

I think your fears are groundless.

Sir, my reason is not to be trifled with. Do you not see or hear ev'ry day of insults and provocations to the peaceable inhabitants? This is only a prelude. Can men of spirit bear forever with such usage? I know not what business they have here at all.

I suppose they're come to protect us.

Damn such protectors, such cut-throat villains; protect us? from what? from whom?—

Nay, Sir, I know not their business;—let us yet bear with them 'till we know the success of the peti­tion from the Congress;—if unfavourable, then it will be our time.

Then, I fear, it will be too late; all that time we lose, and they gain ground; I have no notion of trust­ing to the success of petitions, waiting twelve months for no answer at all. Our assemblies have petitioned often, and as often in vain; 'twould be a miracle in these days to [Page 26] hear of an American petition being granted; their omni­potencies, their demi-godships (as they think themselves) no doubt think it too great a favour done us to throw our pe­titions under their table, much less vouchsafe to read them.

You go too far;—the power of King, Lords and Commons is uncontroulable.

With respect to tyrannising they would make it so, if they could, I know, but there's a good deal to be said and done first; we have more than half the bargain to make.

Sure you would not go to dispute by arms with Great-Britain.

Sure I would not suffer you to pick my pocket, Sir.

If I did, the law is open for you—

I have but a poor opinion of law, when the devil sits judge.

What would you do then, Sir, if I was to pick your pocket?

Break your head, Sir—

Sure you don't mean as you say, Sir—

I surely do—try me, Sir—

Excuse me, Sir, I am not of your mind, I would avoid every thing that has the appearance of rashness.—Great-Britain's power, Sir—

Great-Britain's power, Sir, is too much magni­fied, 'twill soon grow weak, by endeavouring to make slaves of American freemen; we are not Africans yet, neither bond-slaves.—You would avoid and discourage every thing that has the appearance of patriotism, you mean.—

Who? me, Sir?

Yes, you, Sir;—you go slily pimping, spying and sneaking about, cajoling the ignorant, and insinuating bugbear notions of Great-Britain's mighty power into weak people's ears, that we may tamely give all up, and you be rewarded, perhaps, with the office of judge of the admiralty, or continental hangman, for ought I know.

Who? me, Sir?

Aye, you, Sir;—and let me tell you, Sir, you've been long suspected—

Of what, Sir?

For a rank Tory, Sir.

What mean you, Sir?

I repeat it again—suspected to be an enemy to your country.

By whom, Sir? Can you show me an instance?

From your present discourse I suspect you—and from your connexions and artful behaviour all suspect you.

Can you give me a proof?

Not a point blank proof, as to my own know­ledge; you're so much of a Jesuit, you have put it out of my power;—but strong circumstances by information, such as amount to a proof in the present case, Sir, I can furnish you with.

Sir, you may be mistaken.

'Tis not possible, my informant knows you too well.

Who is your informant, Sir?

A gentleman, Sir; and if you'll give yourself the trouble to walk with me, I'll soon produce him.

Another time; I cannot stay now;—'tis dinner­time.

That's the time to find him.

I cannot stay now.

We'll call at your house then.

I dine abroad, Sir.

Be gone, you scoundrel! I'll watch your waters; 'tis time to clear the land of such infernal vermin.

SCENE IV.
In BOSTON, while the Regulars were flying from LEXINGTON.

If Colonel Smith succeeds in his embassy, and I think there's no doubt of it, I shall have the pleasure this ev'ning, I expect, of having my friends Hancock and Adam's good company; I'll make each of them a present of a pair of handsome iron ruffles, and Major Provost shall [Page 28] provide a suitable entertainment for them in his apart­ment.

Sure they'll not be so unpolite as to refuse your Excellency's kind invitation.

Shou'd they, Colonel Smith and Major Pitcairn have my orders to make use of all their rhetoric and the persuasive eloquence of British thunder.

I bring your Excellency unwelcome tidings—

For heaven's sake! from what quarter?

From Lexington plains.

'Tis impossible!

Too true, Sir.

Say—what is it? Speak what you know.

Colonel Smith is defeated, and fast retreat­ing.

Good God!—What does he say? Mercy on me!

They're flying before the enemy.

Britons turn their backs before the Re­bels!—The Rebels put Britons to flight?—Said you not so?

They are routed, Sir;—they are flying this instant;—the Provincials are numerous, and hourly gaining strength;—they have nearly surrounded our troops. A reinforcement, Sir—a timely succour may save the shatter'd remnant. Speedily! speedily, Sir! or they're irretrievably lost!

Good God! What does he say? Can it be possible?

Lose no time, Sir.

What can I do?—O dear!

Draw off a detachment—form a brigade; pre­pare part of the train; send for Lord Percy; let the drums beat to arms.

Aye do, Captain; you know how, better than I.

Did the Rebels dare to fire on the king's troops? Had they the courage? Guards, keep round me.

They're like lions; they have killed many of our bravest officers and men; and if not checked in­stantly, will totally surround them, and make the whole prisoners. This is no time to parley, Sir.

No, indeed; what will become of me?

Your orders, Sir.

Haste, my good Percy, immediately take command of the brigade of reinforcement, and fly to the assistance of poor Smith!—Lose no time, lest they be all cut off, and the Rebels improve their advantage, and be upon us; and God knows what quarter they'll give.—Haste, my noble Earl!—Speedily!—Speedily!—Where's my guard?

I'm gone, Sir.

What means this flutt'ring round my heart? this unusual chilness? Is it fear? No, it cannot be, it must proceed from my great anxiety, my perturba­tion of mind for the fate of my countrymen. A drowsiness hangs o'er my eyelids;—fain would I repose myself a short time;—but I must not;—I must wait;—I'll to the top of yon eminence,—there I shall be safer. Here I cannot stay;—there I may behold something favourable to calm this tumult in my breast.—But, alas! I fear—Guards, attend me.

SCENE V.
Lord Boston and guards on a hill in BOSTON, that overlooks CHARLESTOWN.

Clouds of dust and smoak intercept my sight; I cannot see; I hear the noise of cannon—Percy's cannon—Grant him success!

Methinks, Sir, I see British colours waving.

Some ray of hope.—Have they got so near?—Captain, keep a good look out; tell me every thing you see. My eyes are wondrous dim.

The two brigades have join'd—Now Admiral [Page 30] Tombstone bellows his lower tier on the Provincials. How does your Excellency?

Right;—more hope still.—I'm bravely to what I was. Which way do our forces tend?

I can distinguish nothing for a certainty now; such smoak and dust!

God grant Percy courage!

His ancestors were brave, Sir.

Aye, that's no rule—no rule, Captain; so were mine.—A heavy firing now.—The Rebels must be very numerous—

They're like caterpillars; as numerous as the loc [...]ts of Egypt.

Look out, Captain, God help you, look out.

I do, Sir.

What do you see now? Hark! what dreadful noise!

(aside) How damn'd afraid he is.

(aside) He's one of your chimney corner Generals—an old granny.

If I mistake not, our troops are fast retreating; their fire slackens; the noise increases.

Oh, Captain, don't say so!

'Tis true, Sir, they're running—the enemy shout victory.

Upon your honour?—say—

Upon my honour, Sir, they're flying t'wards Charlestown. Percy's beat;—I'm afraid he's lost his ar­tillery.

Then 'tis all over—the day is lost—what more can we do?

We may, with the few troops left in Boston, yet afford them some succour, and cover their retreat across the water; 'tis impossible to do more.

Go instantly; I'll wait your return. Try your utmost to prevent the Rebels from crossing. Success attend you, my dear Captain, God prosper you!

Alas! alas! my glory's gone; my honour's stain'd. My dear guards, don't leave me, and you shall have plenty of porter and sour-crout.

SCENE VI.
Roger and Dick, two shepherds near LEXINGTON, after the defeat and flight of the Regulars.

Whilst early looking, Dick, ere the sun was seen to tinge the brow of the mountain, for my flock of sheep, nor dreaming of approaching evil, suddenly mine eyes beheld from you hill a cloud of dust arise at a small distance; the intermediate space were thick set with laurels, willows, ever­greens, and bushes of various kinds, the growth of wild nature, and which hid the danger from my eyes, thinking perchance my flock had thither stray'd; I descended, and straight onward went; but, Dick, judge you my thoughts at such a disappointment: Instead of my innocent flock of sheep, I found myself almost encircled by a herd of ravenous British wolves.

Dangerous must have been your situation, Ro­ger, whatever were your thoughts.

I soon discovered my mistake; finding a hostile appearance, I instantly turn'd myself about, and fled to alarm the shepherds.

Did they pursue you?

They did; but having the start, and being ac­quainted with the bye-ways, I presently got clear of their voracious jaws.

A lucky escape, indeed, Roger; and what rout did they take after that?

Onwards, t'wards Lexington, devouring geese, cattle and swine, with fury and rage, which, no doubt, was increased by their disappointment; and what may appear strange to you, Dick, (tho' no more strange than true) is, they seem'd to be possessed of a kind of brutish music, growling something like our favourite tune Yankee Doodle, (perhaps in ridicule) 'till it were almost thread bare, seem­ing vastly pleased (monkey-like) with their mimickry, as tho' it provoked us much.

Nature, Roger, has furnish'd some brute animals with voices, or, more properly speaking, with organs of sound that nearly resemble the human. I have heard of crocodiles weeping like a child, to decoy the unwary [Page 32] traveller, who is no sooner within their reach, but they seize and devour instantly.

Very true, Dick, I have read of the same; and these wolves, being of the canine breed, and having the properties of blood-hounds, no doubt are possess'd of a more acute sense of smelling, more reason, instinct, sa­gacity, or what shall I call it? than all other brutes. It might have been a piece of cunning of theirs, peculiar to them, to make themselves pass for shepherds, and decoy our flocks; for, as you know, Dick, all our shepherds both play and sing Yankee Doodle, our sheep and lambs are as well acquainted with that tune as ourselves, and always make up to us whene'er they hear the sound.

Yes, Roger; and now you put me in mind of it I'll tell you of something surprising in my turn: I have an old ram and an old ewe, that, whenever they sing Yankee Doodle together, a skilful musician can scarcely distinguish it from the bass and tenor of an organ.

Surprising indeed, Dick, nor do I in the least doubt it; and why not, as well as Balaam's ass, speak? and I might add, many other asses, now-a-days; and yet, how might that music be improved by a judicious disposition of its various parts, by the addition of a proper number of sheep and young lambs; 'twould then likewise resemble the counter, counter tenor, treble, and finest pipes of an organ, and might be truly called nature's organ; methinks, Dick, I could forever sit and hear such music,

Delightful, indeed; I'll attempt it with what little skill I have in music; we may then defy these wolves to imitate it, and thereby save our flocks: I am well con­vinced, Roger, these wolves intended it rather as a decoy than by way of ridicule, because they live by cunning and deception; besides, they could never mean to ridicule a piece of music, a tune, of which such brutes cannot be supposed to be judges, and, which is allowed by the best masters of music to be a composition of the most sublime kind, and would have done honour to a Handel or a Cor­rellius. Well, go on, Roger, I long to hear the whole.

When they came to Lexington, where a flock of our innocent sheep and young lambs, as usual, were feeding and sporting on the plain, these dogs of violence and rapine with haughty stride advanc'd, and berated them in a new and unheard of language to us.

I suppose learn'd at their own fam'd universities—

No doubt; they had teachers among them—Two old wolves their leaders, not unlike in features to Smith and Pitcairn, as striving to outvie each other in the very dregs of brutal eloquence, and more than Billings­gate jargon, howl'd in their ears such a peal of new-fangled execra [...]ons, and hell-invented oratory, 'till that day unheard in New-England, as struck the whole flock with horror, and made them for a while stand aghast, as tho' all the wolves in the forest had broke loose upon them.

Oh shocking!—Roger, go on.

Not content with this, their murdering leaders, with premeditated malice, keen appetite, and without provo­cation, gave the howl for the onset, when instantly the whole herd, as if the devil had entered into them, ran violently down the hill, and fixed their talons and jaws upon them, and as quick as lightening eight innocent young lambs fell a sacrifice to their fury, and victims to their rapacity; the very houses of our God were no longer a sanctuary; many they tore to pieces, and some at the very foot of the altar; others were dragged out as in a wanton gamesome mood.

Barbarity inexpressible! more than savage cruelty! I hope you'll make their master pay for 'em; there is a law of this province, Roger, which obliges the owner of such dogs to pay for the mischief they do.

I know it, Dick; he shall pay, never fear, and that handsomely too; he has paid part of it already.

Who is their master, Roger?

One Lord Paramount; they call him a free­booter; a fellow who pretends to be proprietor of all Ame­rica, and says he has a deed for it, and chief ranger of all the flocks, and pretends to have a patent for it; has been a long time in the practice of killing and stealing sheep in England and Ireland, and had like to have been hang'd [Page 34] for it there, but was reprieved by the means of his friend GEORGE—I forgot his other name—not Grenville—not George the Second—but another George—

It's no matter, he'll be hang'd yet; he has sent his dogs to a wrong place, and lugg'd the wrong sow by the ear; he should have sent them to Newfoundland, or Kamptschatka, there's no sheep there—But never mind, go on, Roger.

Nor was their voracious appetites satiated there; they rush'd into the town of Concord, and proceeded to devour every thing that lay in their way; and those brute devils, like Sampson's foxes, (and as tho' they were men) thrice attempted with firebrands to destroy our corn, our town-house and habitations.

Heavens! Could not all this provoke you?

It did; rage prompted us at length, and found us arms against such hellish mischief to oppose.

Oh, would I had been there!

Our numbers increasing, and arm'd with re­venge, we in our turn play'd the man; they, unus'd to wounds, with hideous yelling soon betook themselves to a precipitate and confused flight, nor did we give o'er the chase, 'till Phoebus grew drowsy, bad us desist, and wished us a good night.

Of some part of their hasty retreat I was a joy­ful spectator, I saw their tongues lolling out of their mouths, and heard them pant like hunted wolves indeed.

Did you not hear how their mirth was turn'd into mourning? their fury into astonishment? how soon they quitted their howling Yankee Doodle, and chang'd their notes to bellowing? how nimbly (yet against their will) they betook themselves to dancing? And he was then the bravest dog that beat time the swiftest, and footed Yankee Doodle the nimblest.

Well pleased, Roger, was I with the chace, and glorious sport it was: I oft perceiv'd them tumbling o'er each other heels over head; nor did one dare stay to help his brother—but, with bloody breech, made the best of his way—nor ever stopped 'till they were got safe within their lurking-holes—

From whence they have not the courage to peep out, unless four to one, except (like a skunk) forc'd by famine.

May this be the fate of all those prowling sheep­stealers; it behooves the shepherds to double the watch, to take uncommon precaution and care of their tender flocks, more especially as this is like to be an uncommon severe winter, by the appearance of wolves so early in the season—but, hark!—Roger, methinks I hear the sound of melody warbling thro' the grove—Let's sit a while, and partake of it unseen.

With all my heart.—Most delightful harmony! This is the First of May; our shepherds and nymphs are celebrating our glorious St. Tammany's day; we'll hear the song out, and then join in the frolick, and chorus it o'er and o'er again—This day shall be devoted to joy and festivity.

What a seraphic voice! how it enlivens my soul! Come away, away, Roger, the moments are pre­cious.

SCENE VII.

How lovely is this new-born day!—The sun rises with uncommon radiance after the most gloomy night my wearied eyes ever knew.—The voice of slumber was not heard—the angel of sleep was fled—and the awful whispers of solemnity and silence prevented my eye-lids from closing.—No wonder—the terrors and ideas of yester­day—such a scene of war—of tumult—hurry and hubbub—of horror and destruction—the direful noise of conflict—the dismal hissing of iron shot in vollies flying—such bellowing of mortars—such thund'ring of cannon—such roaring of musquetry—and such clashing of swords and bayonets—such cries of the wounded—and such streams of blood—such a noise and crush of houses, steeples, and whole streets of desolate Charlestown falling—pillars of fire, and the convulsed vortex of fiery flakes, rolling in flaming wreaths in the air, in dreadful combustion, seemed as tho' the ele­ments and whole earth were envelop'd in one general, eternal conflagration and total ruin, and intermingled with black smoke, ascending, on the wings of mourning, up to heaven, seemed piteously to implore the almighty interposi­tion to put a stop to such devastation, lest the whole earth should be unpeopled in the unnatural conflict—Too, too much for female heroism to dwell upon—But what are all those to the terrors that filled my affrighted imagination [Page 39] the last night?—Dreams—fancies—evil bodings—shadows, phantoms and ghastly visions continually hovering around my pillow, goading and harrowing my soul with the most terrific appearances, not imaginary, but real—Am I awake—Where are the British murderers?—where's my husband?—my son?—my brother?—Something more than human tells me all is not well: If they are among the slain, 'tis im­possible.—I—Oh! (She cries.)

Madam, grieve not so much.

Am I wont to grieve without a cause? Wou'd to God I did;—mock me not—What voice is that? me­thinks I know it—some angel sent to comfort me?—welcome then. (She turns about) O, my neighbour, is it you? My friend, I have need of comfort. Hast thou any for me?—say—will you not speak? Where's my husband?—my son?—my brother? Hast thou seen them since the battle? Oh! bring me not unwelcome tidings. (Cries.)

(Aside. What shall I say?) Madam, I be­held them yesterday from an eminence.

Upon that very eminence was I. What then?—

I saw the brave man Warren, your son and brother.

What? O ye gods!—Speak on friend—stop—what saw ye?

In the midst of the tempest of war—

Where are they now?—That I saw too—What is all this?

Madam, hear me—

Then say on—yet—O, his looks!—I fear!

When General Putnam bid the vanguard open their front to the—

Oh, trifle not with me—dear Neighbour!—where shall I find them?—say—

(Aside. Heavens! must I tell her!) Madam, be patient—right and left, that all may see who hate us, we are prepar'd for them—

What then?—Can you find 'em?—

I saw Warren and the other two heroes firm [Page 40] as Roxbury stand the shock of the enemy's fiercest attacks, and twice put to flight their boasted phalanx.—

All that I saw, and more; say—wou'd they not come to me, were they well?—

Madam, hear me—

O! he will not speak.

The enemy return'd to the charge, and stumbling o'er the dead and wounded bodies of their friends, Warren received them with indissoluble firmness, and not­withstanding their battalious aspect, in the midst of the battle, tho' surrounded with foes on ev'ry side—

O, my neighbour!—

Madam—his nervous arm, like a giant re­fresh'd with wine, hurl'd destruction where'er he came, breathing heroic ardour to advent'rous deeds, and long time in even scale the battle hung, 'till at last death turn'd pale and affrighted at the carnage—they ran—

Who ran?

The enemy, Madam, gave way—

Warren never ran—yet—oh! I wou'd he had—I fear—(Cries)

I say not so, Madam.

What say ye then? he was no coward, neigh­bour—

Brave to the last. (Aside. I forgot myself.)

What said you? O heavens! brave to the last! those words—why do you keep me thus?—cruel—

(Aside. She will know it.) I say, Madam, by some mistaken orders on our side, the enemy rallied and re­turn'd to the charge with fresh numbers, and your husband, son and brother—Madam—

Stop!—O ye powers!—What?—say no more mdash;yet let me hear—keep me not thus—tell me, I charge thee—

(Aside. I can hold no longer, she must know it) Forgive me, Madam—I saw them fall—and Michael, the arch-angel, who vanquish'd satan, is not more immortal than they.—(Aside. Who can relate such woes without a tear?)

Oh! I've heard enough—too—too much (Cries) yet—if thou hast worse to tell—say on—nought worse can [Page 41] be—O ye gods!—cruel—cruel—thrice cruel—cou'd ye not leave me one—(She faints, and is caught by her friend, and placed in a chair, he rings the bell, the family come in, and endeavour to bring her too)

With surprising fortitude she heard the me­lancholy relation, until I came to the last close—she then gave me a mournful look, lifted up her eyes, and immediately sunk motionless into my arms.

Poor soul!—no wonder—how I sympathize with her in her distress—my tender bosom can scarcely bear the sight! A dreadful loss! a most shocking scene it was, that brothers should with brothers war, and in intestine fierce opposition meet, to seek the blood of each other, like dogs for a bare bone, who so oft in generous friendship and commerce join'd, in festivals of love and joy unanimous as the sons of one kind and indulgent father, and separately would freely in a good cause spend their blood and sacrifice their lives for him.

A terrible black day it was, and ever will be remembered by New-England, when that vile Briton, (unworthy the name of a Briton) Lord Boston, (curse the name!) whose horrid murders stain American soil with blood; perish his name! a fratricide! 'twas he who fir'd Charlestown, and spread desolation, fire, flames and smoke in ev'ry corner—he was the wretch, that waster of the world, that licens'd robber, that blood-stain'd insulter of a free people, who bears the name of Lord Boston, but from henceforth shall be called Cain, that pillag'd the ruins, and dragg'd and murder'd the infant, the aged and infirm—(But look, she recovers.)

O ye angels! ye cherubims and seraphims! waft their souls to bliss, bathe their wounds with angelic balsam, and crown them with immortality. A faithful, loving and beloved husband, a promising and filial son, a tender and affectionate brother: Alas! what a loss!—Whom have I now to comfort me?—What have I left, but the voice of lamentation: (She weeps) III-fated bul­lets—these tears shall sustain me—yes, ye dear friends! how gladly wou'd I follow you—but alas! I must still en­dure tribulation and inquietudes, from which you are now exempt; I cannot cease to weep, ye brave men, I will [Page 42] mourn your fall—weep on—flow, mine eyes, and wash away their blood, 'till the fountain of sorrow is dried up—but, oh! it never—never will—my sympathetic soul shall dwell on your bosoms, and floods of tears shall water your graves; and since all other comfort is deny'd me, deprive me not of the only consolation left me of meditating on your virtues and dear memories, who fell in defence of liberty and your country—ye brave men—ye more than friends—ye martyrs to liberty!—This, this is all I ask, 'till sorrow overwhelms me—I breathe my last; and ye yourselves, your own bright spirits, come and waft me to your peaceful abode, where the voice of lamentation is not heard, neither shall we know any more what it is to separate.

SCENE I.
Near Norfolk, in Virginia, on board a man of war, Lord Kidnapper in the state-room, a boat appears rowing towards the ship.

BOATSWAIN!

Holla.

Damn my eyes, Mr. Boatswain, but here's a black flag of truce coming on board.

Sure enough—where are they from?

From hell, I suppose—for they're as black as so many devils.

Very well—no matter—they're recruits for the Kidnapper.

We shall be all of a colour by and by—damn me—

I'll go and inform his Lordship and his pair of doxies of it, I suppose by this time they have trim'd their sails, and he's done heaving the log.

SCENE II.
Near the state-room.

Where's his Lordship?

He's in the state-room.

It's time for him to turn out, tell him I want to speak to him.

I dare not do it, Boatswain; it's more than my life is worth.

Damn your squeamish stomach, go directly, or I'll go myself.

For God's sake! Boatswain—

Damn your eyes, you pimping son of a bitch, go this instant, or I'll stick my knife in your gammons.

O Lord! Boatswain. (Servant goes.)

What the devil—keep a pimp guard here, better station the son of a bitch at the mast head, to keep a look out there, lest Admiral Hopkins be upon us.

What's your will, Boatswain.

I beg your Lordship's pardon, (Aside. But you can soon fetch up Leeway, and spread the water sail again) please your honour, here's a boat full of fine recruits along side for you.

Recruits, Boatswain? you mean soldiers from Augustine, I imagine; what reg'mentals have they on?

Mourning, please your honour, and as black as our tarpawling.

Ha, ha, well, well, take 'em on board, Boat­swain, I'll be on deck presently.

With submission to your honour, d'ye see (scratching his head) I think we have gallows-looking dogs enough on board already—the scr [...]ings of Newgate, and the refuse of Tyburn, and when the [...] blows aft, damn 'em, they stink like polecats—but d'ye see, as your honour pleases, with submission, if it's Lord Paramount's orders, why it must be so, I suppose—but I've done my duty, d'ye see—

Ha, ha, the work must be done, Boatswain, no matter by whom.

Why, aye, that's true, please your honour, any port in a storm—if a man is to be hang'd, or have his [Page 44] throat cut, d'ye see—who are so fit to do it as his own slaves? especially as they're to have their freedoms for it; nobody can blame 'em, nor your honour neither, for you get them for half price, or nothing at all, d'ye see me, and that will help to lessen poor Owld England's taxes, and when you have done with 'em here, and they get their brains knock'd out, d'ye see, your honour can sell them in the West Indies, and that will be something in your honour's pocket, d'ye see—well, ev'ry man to his trade—but, damn my impudence for all, I see your honour knows all about it—d'ye see.

SCENE III.

All hands ahoi—hand a rope, some of you Tories, for­ward there, for his worship's reg'ment of black guards to come aboard.

Your humble servant, Gentlemen, I suppose you want to see Lord Kidnapper?—Clear the gangway there of them Tyburn tulips. Please to walk aft, brother soldiers, that's the fittest birth for you, the Kidnapper's in the state room, he'll hoist his sheet-anchor presently, he'll be up in a jiffin—as soon as he has made fast the end of his small rope athwart Jenny Bluegarter and Kate Common's stern posts.

Damn my eyes, but I suppose, messmate, we must bundle out of our hammocks this cold weather, to make room for these black regulars to stow in, tumble upon deck, and choose a soft birth among the snow?

Blast 'em, if they come within a cable's length of my hammock, I'll kick 'em to hell through one of the gun ports.

Come, come, brothers, don't be angry, I sup­pose we shall soon be in a warmer latitude—the Kidnapper seems as fond of these black regulars (as you call 'em Jack) as he is of the brace of whores below; but as they come in so damn'd slow, I'll put him in the humour of sending part of the fleet this winter to the coast of Guinea, and beat up for volun­teers, there he'll get recruits enough for a hogshead or two [Page 45] of New-England rum, and a few old pipe-shanks, and save poor Owld-England the trouble and expence of cloathing them in the bargain.

Aye, Boatswain, any voyage, so it's a warm one—if it's to hell itself—for I'm sure the devil must be better off than we, if we are to stay here this winter.

Any voyage, so it's to the southward, rather than stay here at lazy anchor—no fire, nothing to eat or drink, but suck our frosty fists like bears, unless we turn sheep-stealers again, and get our brains knock'd out. Eigh, master cook, you're a gentleman now—nothing to do—grown so proud, you wont speak to poor folks, I suppose?

The devil may cook for 'em for me—if I had any thing to cook—a parcel of frozen half starv'd dogs. I should never be able to keep 'em out of the cook-room, or their noses out of the slush tub.

Damn your old smoaky jaws, you're better off than any man aboard, your trouble will be nothing,—for I suppose they'll be disbur [...]ted in different messes among the To­ri [...]s, and it's only putting on the big pot, cockey. Ha, ha, ha.

What signifies, Mr. Boatswain, the big pot or the little pot, if there's nothing to cook? no fire, coal or wood to cook with? Blast my eyes, Mr. Boatswain, if I disgrease myself so much, I have had the honour, damn me (tho' I say it that shou'dn't say it) to be chief cook of a seventy-four gun ship, on board of which was Lord Abel-Marl and Ad­miral Poke-Cock.

Damn the lyars—old singe-the-devil—you chief cook of a seventy-four gun ship, eigh? you the devil, you're as proud as hell, for all you look as old as Matheg'lum, hand a pair of silk stockings for our cook here, d'ye see—lash a handspike athwart his arse, get a ladle full of slush and a handful of brimstone for his hair, and step one of you Tories there for the devil's barbe [...] to come and shave and dress him. Ha, ha, ha.

No, Mr. Boatswain, it's not pride—but look 'e (as I said before) I'll not disgrease my station, I'll throw up my commission, before I'll stand cook for a parcel of scape gallows, convict Tory dogs and run-away Negroes.

What's that you say? Take care, old frosty face—What? do you accuse his worship of turning kid­napper, [Page 46] and harbouring run away Negroes?—Softly, or you'll be taken up for a Whig, and get a handsome coat of slush and hogs feathers for a christmass-box, cockey: Throw up your commission, eigh? throw up the pot-halliards, you mean, old piss-to-windward? Ha, ha, ha.

I tell you, Mr. Boatswain—I—

Come, come, give us a chaw of tobacco, Cook—blast your eyes, don't take any pride in what I say—I'm only joking, d'ye see—

Well, but Mr. Boatswain—

Come, avast, belay the lanyards of your jaws, and let's have no more of it, d'ye see. (Boatswain pipes.) Make fast that boat along side there.

SCENE IV.
Lord Kidnapper comes up on the quarter deck.

Well, my brave blacks, are you come to lift?

Eas, massa Lord, you preazee.

How many are there of you?

Twenty-two, massa.

Very well, did you all run away from your masters?

Eas, massa Lord, eb'ry one, me too.

That's clever; they have no right to make you slaves, I wish all the Negroes wou'd do the same, I'll make 'em free—what part did you come from?

Disse brack man, disse one, disse one, disse one, disse one, come from Hamton, disse one, disse one, disse one, come from Nawfok, me come from Nawfok too.

Very well, what was your master's name?

Me massa na [...]e Cunney Tomsee.

Colonel [...]hompson—eigh?

Eas, massa, Cunney Tomsee.

Well then I'll make you a major—and what's your name?

Me massa cawra me Cudjo.

Cudjo?—very good—was you ever christened, Cudjo?

No, massa, me no crissen.

Well then I'll christen you—you shall be called major Cudjo Thompson, and if you behave well, I'll soon make you a greater man than your master, and if I find the rest of you behave well, I'll make you all officers, and after you have serv'd Lord Paramount a while, you shall have money in your pockets, good cloaths on your backs, and be as free as them white men there. (Pointing forward to a parcel of Tories.)

Tankee, massa, gaw bresse, massa Kidnap.

(Aside.) What a damn'd big mouth that Cudjo has—as large as our main hatch-way—

(Aside.) Aye, he's come to a wrong place to make a good use of it—it might stand some little chance at a Lord Mayor's feast.—

Now go forward, give 'em something to eat and drink there. (Aside. Poor devils, they look half starved and naked like ourselves.)

(Aside.) I don't know where the devil they'll get it; the sight of that fellow's mouth is enough to breed a fa­mine on board, if there was not one already.

Aye, he'd tumble plenty down his damn'd guts and swallow it, like Jones swallow'd the whale.

To-morrow you shall have guns like them white men. Can you shoot some of them rebels ashore, Major Cudjo?

Eas, massa, me try.

Wou'd you shoot your old master, the Colo­nel, if you could see him?

Eas, massa, you terra me, me shoot him down dead.

That's a brave fellow—damn 'em—down with them all—shoot all the damn'd rebels.

(Aside) Brave fellows indeed!

Serjeant!

I wait your Lordship's commands.

Serjeant, to-morrow begin to teach those black recruits the exercise, and when they have learn'd sufficiently well to load and fire, then incorporate them among the re­gulars and the other Whites on board; we shall in a few days have some work for 'em, I expect—be as expeditious [Page 48] as possible. (Aside to him) Set a guard over them every night, and take their arms from them, for who knows but they may cut our throats.

Very true, My Lord, I shall take particular care.

SCENE V.

Damn 'em, I'd rather see half their weight in beef.

Aye, curse their stomachs, or mutton either; then our Cook wou'dn't be so damn'd lazy as he is, strut­ting about the deck like a nobleman, receiving Paramount's pay for nothing.

Walk faster, damn your black heads. I suppose, Boatswain, when this hell-cat reg'ment's compleat, they'll be reviewed in Hyde park?—

Aye, blast my eyes, and our Chaplain with his dirty black gown, or our Cook, shall be their general, and review 'em, for he talks of throwing up his pot-halliards commission, in hopes of it.

Ha, ha, ha.—

I'd see the devil have 'em first.—

SCENE VI.

These blacks are no small acquisition, them and the Tories we have on board, will strengthen us vastly; the thoughts of emancipation will make 'em brave, and the encouragement given them by my proclamation, will greatly intimidate the rebels—internal enemies are worse than open foes.—

Very true, My Lord; David prayed that he might be preserved from secret enemies.

Aye, so I've heard, but I look upon this to be a grand manoeuvre in politics; this is making dog eat dog—thief catch thief—the servant against his master—rebel against rebel—what think you of that, parson?

A house divided thus against itself cannot stand, according to scripture—My Lord, your observation is truly scriptural.

Scripture? poh, poh—I've nothing to do with scripture—I mean politically, parson.

I know it very well; sure, My Lord, I under­stand you perfectly.

Faith that's all I care for; if we can stand our ground this winter, and burn all their towns that are accessible to our ships, and Colonel Connolly succeeds in his plan, there's not the least doubt but we shall have sup­plies from England very early in the spring, which I have wrote for; then, in conjunction with Connolly, we shall be able to make a descent where we please, and drive the rebels like hogs into a pen.

And then gather them (as the scriptures say) as a hen gathereth her chickens.

True, Mr. Scripture.

Very good, but you must take care of the hawks.

What do you mean by the hawks, Captain?

I mean the shirt-men, the rifle-men, My Lord.

Aye, damn 'em, hawks indeed; they are cursed dogs; a man is never safe where they are, but I'll take care to be out of their reach, let others take their chance, for I see they have no respect to persons—I suppose they wou'd shoot at me, if I were within their reach.

Undoubtedly, they would be more fond of you than of a wild turkey; a parcel of ignorant unmannerly rascals, they pay no more respect to a Lord than they wou'd to a devil.

The scoundrels are grown so damn'd impudent too, that one can scarcely get a roasting pig now-a-days, but I'll be even with some of 'em by and by.

I hope we shall get something good for our Christmass dinner—so much abstinence and involuntary mor­tification, cannot be good for the soul—a war in the body corporal is of more dangerous consequence than a civil war to the state, or heresy and schism to the church.

Very true, parson—very true—now I like [Page 50] your doctrine—a full belly is better than an empty sermon; preach that doctrine;—stick to that text, and you'll not fail of making converts.

The wisest of men said, there is nothing bet­ter, than that a man should enjoy that which he hath, name­ly, eat, drink, and be merry, if he can.

You're very right—Solomon was no fool, they say—(he sings)

Yet two is better than one, my Lord, for the scriptures fur­ther say, if one be alone, how can there be heat? you seem to be converted to that belief, for you have a brace of them, as the Boatswain says.

Ha, ha. It's a pity but you were a bishop, you have the scriptures so pat—now I'll go and take a short nap, meanwhile; Captain, if any thing new happens, pray order my servant to wake me.

I will, My Lord.

And you and I'll crack a bottle, Captain; (bring a bottle, boy!) 'tis bad enough to perish by famine, but ten thousand times worse to be choak'd for want of moisture. His Lordship and two more makes three; and you and I and the bottle make three more, and a three-fold cord is not easily broken; so we're even with him.

With all my heart.—Boy, bear a hand!

Coming, Sir.

Tom, Tom!—make haste, you scoundrel!—fetch two bottles. I think we can manage it.

That's right, Tom.—Now bring the glasses, and shut the door after you.

SCENE VII.
In BOSTON. A council of war after the battle of BUNKER'S HILL.

I fully expected, with the help of the last reinforcement you brought me over, and the advice and as­sistance of three accomplish'd and experienc'd Generals, I should have been able to have subdued the rebels, and gain'd immortal laurels to myself—have return'd to Old England like a Roman Consul, with a score or two of the rebel Ge­nerals, Colonels and Majors, to have grac'd my triumph.

You have been vastly disappointed, Sir—you must not look for laurels (unless wild ones) nor expect triumphs (unless sham ones) from your own victories or conquests in America.

And yet not more disappointed than you, Sir—witness your thrasonical speeches on your first land­ing, provided you had but elbow room—and Mr. Caper too to bring over Monsieur Rigadoon, the dancing-master, and Signior Rosin, the fiddler for [...]ooth; he thought, no doubt, to have country danc'd the rebels out of their liberty with some of his new cuts—with his soft music to have fascinated their wives and daughters, and with some of 'em, no doubt, to have taken the tour of America, with his reg'ment of fine sleek prancing horses, that have been feeding this six months on codfish tails; he thought to have grown fat with feasting, dancing, and drinking tea with the Ladies, instead of being the skeleton he now appears to be—not to mention any thing of his letter, wherein he laments Tom's absence; for See Burgoyne's letter. "had Tom been with him (he says) he wou'd have been out of danger, and quite secure from the enemy's shot."

I think, Gentlemen, we're even with you now; you have had your mirth and frolick with us, for dancing Yankee Doodle, as you called it, from Lexington.—I find you have had a severer dance, a brave sweat at Bunker's Hill, and have been obliged to pay the fiddler in the bargain.

However, Gentlemen, I approve (at proper sea­ [...]ons) [Page 52] of a little joking, yet I can by no means think (as we have had such bad success with our crackers) that this is a proper time to throw your squibs.

I grant you, Sir, this is a very improper time for joking; for my part, I was only speaking as to my own thoughts, when Mr. Elbow Room made remarks, which he might as well have spared.

I took you, Sir, as meaning a reflection up­on us for our late great loss, and particularly to myself, for expressing some surprise on our first landing, that you should suffer a parcel of ignorant peasants to drive you before 'em like sheep from Lexington; and I must own I was a little chagrin'd at your seeming so unconc [...]rn'd at such an affair as this, (which had nearly prov'd our ruin) by your innu­endoes and ironical talk of accomplish'd Generals, Roman Consuls and triumphs.

My mentioning accomplish'd Generals, surely, Sir, was rather a compliment to you.

When irony pass current for compli­ments, and we take it so, I shall have no objection to it.

The affair of Lexington, My Lord Boston, at which you were so much affrighted (if I am rightly in­form'd) was because you then stood on your own bottom, this of Bunker's Hill you seem secretly to rejoice at, only because you have three accomplish'd and experienc'd Ge­nerals to share the disgrace with you, besides the brave Ad­miral Tombstone—you talk of dancing and fiddling, and yet you do neither, as I see.

And pray, Sir, what did you do with the commission, the post, the Duke of Grafton gave you, in lieu of your losses at Preston election, and the expences of your trial at the king's bench for a riot, which had emptied your pockets?—Why you sold it—you sold it, Sir—to raise cash to gamble with.—

Damn it, don't let us kick up a dust among ourselves, to be laugh'd at fore and aft—this is a h [...]ll of a council of war—though I believe it will turn out one before we've done—a scolding and quarrelling like a parcel of damn'd butter whores—I never heard two whores yet scold and quarrel, but they got to fighting at last.

Pray, Gentlemen, drop this discourse, consider [Page 53] the honour of England is at stake, and our own safety de­pends upon this day's consultation.

'Tis not for argument sake—but the dignity of my station requires others should give up first.

Sir, I have done, lest you should also accuse me of obstructing the proceedings of the council of war.

For the same reason I drop it now.

Well, Gentlemen, what are we met here for?

Who the devil shou'd know, if you don't?—damn it, didn't you send for us?

Our late great loss of men has tore up the foundation of our plan, and render'd all further attempts impracticable—'twill be a long time ere we can expect any more reinforcements—and if they should arrive, I'm doubt­ful of their success.

The provincials are vastly strong, and seem no novices in the art of war; 'tis true we gain'd the hill at last, but of what advantage is it to us?—none—the loss of 1400 as brave men as Britain can boast of, is a melancholy consideration, and must make our most sanguinary friends in England abate of their vigour.

I never saw or read of any battle equal to it—never was more martial courage display'd, and the pro­vincials, to do the dogs justice, sought like heroes, fought indeed more like devils than men; such carnage and de­struction not exceeded by Blenheim, Minden, Fontenoy, Ramillies, Dettingen, the battle of the Boyne, and the late affair of the Spaniards and Algerines—a mere cock-fight to it—no laurels there.

No, nor triumphs neither—I regret in par­ticular the number of brave Officers that fell that day, many of whom were of the first families in England.

Aye, a damn'd affair indeed—many powder'd b [...]aus—petit maitres— [...]ops—fribbles—skip jacks—macaronies—jack puddings—noblemen's bastards and whores sons fell that day—and my poor marines stood no more chance with 'em than a cat in hell without claws.

It can't be help'd, Admiral; what is to be done next?

Done?—why, what the devil have you done?—nothing yet, but eat Paramount's beef, and steal a few Yankee sheep—and that, it seems, is now become a damn'd lousy, beggarly trade too, for you hav'n't left your­selves a mouthful to eat.

But what can we do, Admiral?

Do?—why suck your paws—that's all you're like to get. (Aside.) But avast, I must bowse taught there, or we shall get to logger heads soon, we're such damn'd fighting fellows.

We must act on the defensive this winter, 'till reinforcements arrive.

Defensive? aye, aye—if we can de­fend our bellies from hunger, and prevent a mutiny and civil war among the small guts there this winter, we shall make a glorious campaign of it indeed—it will read well in the American Chronicles.

I expect to be recalled this winter, when I shall lay the case before Lord Paramount, and let him know your deplorable situation.

Aye, do—and lay it behind him too; you've got the weather-gage of us this tack, me [...]s­mate; but I wish you a good voyage for all—and don't forget to tell him, the poor worms are starving too, having nothing to eat, but half starv'd dead soldiers and the ships bottoms. (Aside.) A cunning old fox, he's gnaw'd his way handsomely out of the Boston cage—but he'll never be a WOLF, for all that.

I shall desire to be recalled too—I've not been us'd to such fare—and not the least diversion or enter­tainment of any sort going forward here—I neither can nor will put up with it.

I think we're all a parcel of damn'd boobies for coming three thousand miles upon a wild goose chase—to perish with cold—starve with hunger—get our brains knock'd out, or be hang'd for sheep-stealing and rob­bing hen-roo [...]ts.

I think, Admiral, you're always grum­bling—never satisfied.

Satisfied? I see no appearance of it—we have been here these twelve hours, scolding upon empty stomachs—you may call it a council of war, (and so it is indeed, a war with the guts) or what you will—but I call it a council of famine.

As it's so late, Gentlemen, we'll adjourn the council of war 'till to-morrow at nine o'clock—I hope you'll all attend, and come to a conclusion.

And I hope you'll then conclude to favour us with one of them fine turkeys you're keeping for your sea store, (aside. or that fine, fat, black pig you or some of your guard stole out of the poor Negroe's pen) as it's near Christmass, and you're going to make your exit—you know the old custom among the sailors—pave your way first—let us have one good dinner before we part, and leave us half a dozen pipes of Mr. Hancock's wine to drink your health, and a good voyage, and don't let us part with dry lips.

SCENE I.
At MONTREAL.

SO it seems indeed, one misfortune seldom comes alone—The rebels, after the taking of Ticonderoga and Chamblee, as I just now learn by a Savage, marched immediately to be [...]iege St. John's, and are now before that place, closely investing it, and no doubt intend paying us a visit soon.

Say you so? then 'tis time to look about us.

They'll find us prepar'd, I'll warrant 'em, [Page 56] to give 'em such a reception as they little dream of—a par­cel of Yankee dogs.

Their success, no doubt, has elated them, and given 'em hopes of conquering all Canada soon, if that's their intent.

No doubt it is—but I'll cheek their career a little.—

Sir, I make bold to present you with a few prisoners—they are a scouting detachment from the army besieging St. John's.

Prisoners? Rebels, I suppose, and scarcely worth hanging.

Sir, you suppose wrong—you mean scarcely worth your while to attempt.

Pray who are you, Sir?

A man, Sir, and who had the honour, 'till now, to command those brave men, whom you call rebels.

What is your name? if I may be so bold?

Allen.

Allen?

Yes, Allen.

Are you that Allen, that Colonel Allen (as they call him) that dar'd to take Ticonderoga?

The same—the very man.

Then rebels you are, and as such I shall treat you, for daring to oppose Lord Paramount's troops, and the laws of the land.

Prisoners we are, 'tis true—but we despise the name of a rebel—With more propriety that name is applicable to your master—'tis he who attempts to destroy the laws of the land, not us—we mean to support them, and defend our property against Paramount's and parlia­mentary tyranny.

To answer you, were a poorness of spirit I despise; when Rebels dare accuse, power that replies, forgets to punish; I am not to argue that point with you: And let me tell you, Sir, whoever you are, it now ill be­comes you thus to talk—You're my prisoner—your life is [Page 57] in my hands, and you shall suffer immediately—Guards! take them away.

Cruel insult!—pardon these brave men!—what they have done has been by my orders—I am the only guilty person (if guilt there be) let me alone suffer for them all [opening his breast] Here! take your revenge—Why do you hesitate?—Will you not strike a breast that ne'er will flinch from your pointed bayonet?

Provoke me not—Remember you're my prisoners.

Our souls are free!—Strike, cowards, strike!—I scorn to beg my life.

Guards! away with them—I'll reserve you for a more ignominious death—your fate is fix'd—away with them.

(Going off) Be glutted, ye thirsters after hu­man blood—Come, see me suffer—mark my eye, and scorn me, if my expiring soul confesses fear—Come, see and be taught virtue, and to die as a patriot for the wrongs of my country.

SCENE II.
A dungeon.

What! ye infernal monsters! murder us in the dark?—What place is this?—Who reigns king of these gloomy mansions?—You might favour us at least with one spark of light—Ye cannot see to do your business here.

'Tis our orders.

Ye dear, ye brave, wretched friends!—now wou'd I die for ye all—ye share a death I wou'd gladly ex­cuse you from—'Tis not death I fear—this is only bodily death—but to die noteless in the silent dark, is to die scorn'd, and shame our suff'ring country—we fall undig­nify'd by villains hands—a sacrifice to Britain's outcast blood-hounds—This, this shakes the soul!—Come then, ye murderers, since it must be so—do your business speedily—Farewell, my friends! to die with you is now my noblest claim, since to die for you was a choice deny'd—What are ye about?—Stand off, ye wretches!

I am order'd to lay you in irons (they seize him) you must submit.

What, do you mean to torture us to death with chains, racks and gibbets? rather despatch us imme­diately—Ye executioners, ye inquisitors, does this cruelty proceed from the lenity I shewed to the prisoners I took?—Did it offend you that I treated them with friendship, ge­nero [...]ity, honour and humanity?—If it did, our suff'rings will redound more to our honour, and our fall be the more glorious—But remember, this fall will prove your own one day—Wretches! I fear you not, do your worst; and while I here lay suff'ring and chain'd on my back to the damp floor, I'll yet pray for your conversion.

Excuse us, we have only obey'd our orders.

Then I forgive you; but pray execute them.

SCENE III.
In the camp at CAMBRIDGE.

Our accounts from the North­ward, so far, are very favourable; Ticonderoga, Chamblee, St. John's and Montreal our troops are already in possession of—and Colonel Arnold, having penetrated Canada, after suff'ring much thro' cold, fatigue, and want of provisions, is now before Quebec, and General Montgomery, I under­stand, is in full march to join him; see these letters [they read]

The brave, the intrepid Arnold, with his handful of fearless troops, have dar'd beyond the strength of mortals—Their courage [...]mil'd at doubts, and resolutely march'd on, clamb'ring (to all but themselves) in [...]urmount­able precipices, whose tops, covered with ice and snow, lay hid in the clouds, and dragging baggage, provisions, am­munition and artillery along with them, by main strength, [Page 59] in the dead of winter, over such stupendous and amazing heights, seems almost incredible, unparallelled in history!—'Tis true, Hannibal's march over the Alps comes the nearest to it—it was a surprising undertaking, but when compar'd to this, appears but as a party of pleasure, an agreeable walk, a sabbath day's journey.

Posterity will stand amazed, and be astonish'd at the heroes of this new world, that the spirit of patriotism should blaze to such a heigth, and eclipse all others, should outbrave fatigue, danger, pain, peril, famine, and even death itself, to serve their country; that they should march, at this inclement season, thro' long and dreary deserts, thro' the remotest wilds, covered with swamps and standing lakes, beset with trees, bushes and briars, impervious to the chearing rays of the sun, where are no traces or vestiges of human footsteps, wild, untrod­den paths, that strike terror into the fiercest of the brute creation.

Let Britons do the like—no—they dare not attempt it—let 'em call forth the Hanoverian, the Hessian, the hardy Russian, or, if they will, the wild Cossacks and Kal­mucks of Tartary, and they would tremble at the thought! And who but Americans dare undertake it? The wond'ring moon and stars stood aloof, and turn'd pale at the fight!

I rejoice to hear the Canadians re­ceived them kindly, after their fatigue furnish'd them with the necessaries of life, and otherways treated them very humanely—And the savages, whose hair stood an end, and look'd and listen'd with horror and astonishment at the relation of the fatigues and perils they underwent, com­miserated them, and afforded all the succour in their power.

The friendship of the Canadians and savages, or even their neutrality alone, are favourable circumstances that cannot fail to hearten our men; and the junction of General Montgomery will inspire 'em with fresh ardour.

Heavens prosper 'em!

Sir, here's an express.

I have letters to your Excellency.

From whence?

From Canada, Sir.

From the army?

From the head-quarters, Sir.

I hope matters go well there.—Had General Montgomery join'd Colonel Arnold when you left it?

He had, Sir—these letters are from both those gentlemen. [gives him the letters]

Very well. You may now withdraw and refresh yourself, unless you've further to say—I'll dis­patch you shortly.

Nothing further, Sir.

SCENE III.

[Opens and reads the letters to General Lee and Putnam] I am well pleased with their contents—all but the behaviour of the haughty Carleton—to fire upon a flag of truce, hitherto unprecedented, even amongst Sa­vages or Algerines—his cruelty to the prisoners is coward­ly, and personal ill treatment of General Montgomery is unbecoming a General—a soldier—and beneath a Gentle­man—and leaves an indelible mark of brutality—I hope Ge­neral Montgomery, however, will not follow his example.

I hope so too, Sir—if it can be avoided; it's a disgrace to the soldier, and a scandal to the Gentle­man—so long as I've been a soldier, my experience has not furnish'd me with a like instance.

I see no reason why he shou'dn't be paid in his own coin.—If a man bruises my heel, I'll break his head—I cannot see the reason or propriety of bearing with their insults—does he not know it's in our power to reta­liate fourfold?

Let's be good natur'd, General—let us [...] little more of it first—

I think we have seen enough of it already for this twelve-months past. Methinks the behaviour of Lord Boston, the ill treatment of poor Allen, to be thrown into a loathsome dungeon like a murder [...]r, be loaded with [Page 61] and transported like a convict, would sufficiently rouse us to a just retaliation—that imperious red coat, Carleton, should be taught good manners—I hope to see him ere long in our College at Cambridge—

I doubt; he'll be too cunning, and play truant—he has no notion of learning American manners; ev'ry dog must have his day (as the saying is); it may be our time by and by—the event of war is uncertain—

Very true, Sir; but don't let us be laugh'd at forever.

Sir, A Messenger this moment from Quebec, waits to be admitted.

Let him enter.

What news bring you?

I am sorry, Sir, to be the bearer of an un­pleasing tale—

Bad news have you?—have you letters?

None, Sir—I came off at a moment's warn­ing—my message is verbal.

Then relate what you know.

After the arrival and junction of General Montgomery's troops with Colonel Arnold's, Carleton was summoned to surrender; he disdaining any answer, fir'd on the flag of truce—

That we have heard—go on.

The General finding no breach could be ef­fected in any reasonable time, their walls being vastly strong, and his cannon rather light, determined to attempt it by storm—The enemy were apprized of it—however he passed the first barrier, and was attempting the second, where he was unfortunately killed, with several other brave Officers—

Is General Montgomery ki [...]ed?

He is certainly, Sir.

I am sorry for it—a brave man—I could wish him a better fate!—

I lament the loss of him—a resolute soldier—

Pity such bravery should prove unsuccess­ful, [Page 62] such merit unrewarded;—but the irreversible decree of Providence!—who can gainsay?—we may lament the loss of a friend, but 'tis irreligious to murmur at pre-ordination. What happ'ned afterwards?

The Officer next in command, finding their attacks at that time unsuccessful, retired in good order.

What became of Colonel Arnold?

Colonel Arnold, at the head of about three hundred and fifty brave troops, and Captain Lamb's com­pany of artillery, having in the mean time passed through St. Rocques, attacked a battery, and carried it, tho' well defended, with the loss of some men—

I hope they proved more successful.

Aye, let us hear.

The Colonel about this time received a wound in his leg, and was obliged to crawl as well as he cou'd to the hospital, thro' the fire of the enemy, and within fifty yards of the walls, but, thro' Providence, escap'd any fur­ther damage.—

Aye, providential indeed!

Is he dangerously wounded?

I am told not, Sir.

I am glad of it.—What follow'd?

His brave troops pushed on to the second bar­rier, and took possession of it.

Very good—proceed.

A party of the enemy then [...]allying out from the palace-gate, attacked them in the rear, whom they fought with incredible bravery for three hours, and deeds of eternal fame were done; but being surrounded on all sides, and overpowered by numbers, were at last obliged to submit them­selves as prisoners of war.

Heav'ns! could any thing prove more unlucky? such brave fellows deserve better treatment than they'll get (I'm afraid) from the inhuman Carleton.

Such is the fortune of war, and the vicissitudes attending a military life; to-day conquerors, to-morrow prisoners.

He dares not treat them ill—only as prisoners. Did you learn how those brave fellows were treated?

It was currently reported in the camp they were treated very humanely.

A change for the better.

Produc'd by fear, no doubt from Gene­ral Montgomery's letter—but no matter from what cause.

How far did the remainder of the army retire?

About two miles from the city, where they are posted very advantageously, continuing the blockade, and waiting for reinforcements.

Did the enemy shew any peculiar marks of distinction to the corpse of General Montgomery?

He was interred in Quebec, with ev'ry pos­sible mark of distinction.

What day did the affair happen on?

On the last day of the year.

A remarkable day! When was the General interred?

The second of January.

What number of men in the whole attack was killed? did you learn?

About sixty killed and wounded.

Have you any thing further to com­munica [...]e?

Nothing, Sir, but to inform you they are all in good spirits, and desire reinforcements and heavy ar­tillery [...]ay be sent them as soon as possible.

That be our business—with all despatc [...]. You may for the present withdraw. Serjeant!

I wait your orders, Sir.

See that the Messenger and his horse want for nothing.

I shall, Sir.

SCENE IV.

I'll despatch an express to the Con­gress. This repulse, if I mistake not, (or victory, as Ca [...]le­ton may call it) will stand 'em but in little stead—'t will be [Page 64] only a temporary reprieve—we'll reinforce our friends, let the consequence be what it may—Qu [...]be [...] must fall, and the lofty strong walls and brazen gates (the shield of cowards) must tumble by an artificial earthquake; should they con­tinue in their obstinacy, we'll arm our friends with missive thunders in their hands, and stream death on them swifter than the winds.

I lament the loss of the valiant Montgomery and his brave officers and soldiers (at this time more espe­ci [...]y) 'tis the fortune of war, 'tis unavoidable; yet, I doubt not, out of their ashes will arise new heroes.

Who can die a more glorious, a more honourable death than in their country's cause?—let it re­double our ardour, and kindle a noble emulation in our breasts—let each American be determined to conquer or die in a righteous cause.

I have drawn my sword, and never will I sheathe it, 'till America is free, or I'm no more.

Peace is despaired of, and who can think of submission? The last petition from the Congress, like the former, has been disregarded; they prayed but for liberty, peace and safety, and their omnipotent authoritative supreme-ships will grant them neither: War, then, war open and understood, must be resolved on; this, this will humble their pride, will bring their tyrant noses to the ground, each 'em humility, and force them to hearken to reason when 'tis too late. My noble General, I join you [drawing his sword] I'll away with the scabbard, and sheathe my sword in the bosom of tyranny.

Have you not read the speed, where frowning revenge and sounds of awful dread for disgrace at Lexington and loss at Bunker's-hill echo forth? Not smiling peace, or pity, tame his sullen soul; but, P [...]aroah-like, on the wings of tyranny he rides and forfeits happi­ness to feast revenge, 'till the waters of the red sea of blood deluge the tyrant, with his mixed host of vile cut-throats, murderers, and bloody butchers.

Yet, finding they cannot conquer us, gladly would they make it up by a voluntary free will of­fering of a million of money in bribes, rather than be obliged to relish the thoughts of sacrificing their cursed [Page 65] [...] and false honour, they sending over to amuse us (to put us off our guard) a score or two of commissioners with [...] n [...]gotiations in great state, to endeavour to effect, by [...], dec [...]ption and chicanery, what they cannot ac­complish by force. Perish such wretches!—detested be their schemes!—Perish such mon [...]ters!—a reproach to hu­man understanding—their vaunted boasts and threats will [...]nish like smoke, and be no more than like snow falling on the moist ground, melt in silence, and waste away—Bla [...]ted▪ fo [...]ever blasted be the hand of the villainous traitor that re­ [...]ives their gold upon such terms—may he become leprous, [...], th [...] Syrian, yea, rather like Gehazi, the [...] of Eli [...]h [...], that it may stick to him for ever.

I join you both, and swear by all the [...] of New-England, that this arm, tho' fourscore and [...] [ [...] his sword] [...]till nervous and strong, shall [...] this sword to the last in the support of liberty and my [...], [...] the insult offer'd to the immortal Mont­ [...]m [...]ry, and brutal treatment of the brave Allen.