Daughters of the Revolution. Charles Carleton Coffin
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were at the narrowest part of the peninsula, and Mr. Bushwick told about the barricade built by the first settlers at that point to protect the town from the Indians, and pointed to a large elm-tree which they could see quite a distance ahead.
“That is the Liberty Tree,”3 he said.
“Why do you call it the Liberty Tree?”
“Because it is where the Sons of Liberty meet. It is a mighty fine tree, and, as near as we can make out, is more than one hundred years old. We hang the Pope there on Guy Fawkes’ day, and traitors to liberty on other days.”
“I have heard you have jolly good times on Gunpowder Plot days.”
“You may believe we do. You would have laughed if you’d been here Gunpowder day seven years ago this coming November, when the Pope, Admiral Byng, 4 and the Devil, all were found hanging on the old elm.”
“I don’t think I ever heard about Admiral Byng and Nancy Dawson.”
“Well, then, I must tell ye. Byng didn’t fight the French and Spaniards at Minorca, but sailed away and sort o’ showed the white feather, and so was court-martialed and shot on his own ship.”
“What did Nancy do?”
“Oh, Nancy never did anything except kick up her heels; she’s the best dancer in London, so they say. We haven’t any theatre in this ’ere town, and don’t have much dancing. We have the Thursday lecture instead.”
Robert wondered whether the allusion to the lecture was said soberly or in sarcasm.
“In London they go wild over dancing. Maybe I might sing a song about her if ye would like to hear it.”
“I would like very much to hear it.”
Mr. Bushwick took the quid of tobacco from his mouth, cleared his throat, and sang, —
“‘Of all the girls in our town,
The black, the fair, the red, the brown,
That dance and prance it up and down,
There’s none like Nancy Dawson.
“Her easy mien, her shape, so neat,
She foots, she trips, she looks so sweet,
Her every motion so complete, —
There’s none like Nancy Dawson.
“‘See how she comes to give surprise,
With joy and pleasure in her eyes;
To give delight she always tries, —
There’s none like Nancy Dawson.’”
“That’s a good song,” said Robert. Mr. Bushwick put the quid once more in his mouth, and went on with the story.
“On that night a great crowd gathered around the tree; the boys who go to Master Lovell’s school came with an old knocked-kneed horse and a rickety wagon with a platform in it. They fixed the effigies on the platform with cords and pulleys, so that the arms and legs would be lifted when the boys under it pulled the strings. We lighted our torches and formed in procession. The fifers played the Rogue’s March, and the bellman went ahead singing a song.
“‘Don’t you remember
The fifth of November —
The gunpowder treason plot?
I see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
“‘From the city of Rome
The Pope has come
Amid ten thousand fears,
With fiery serpents to be seen
At eyes, nose, mouth, and ears.
“‘Don’t you hear my little bell
Go chinking, chinking, chink?
Please give me a little money
To buy my Pope a drink.’
“The streets were filled with people, who tossed pennies into the bellman’s hat. Everybody laughed to see the Pope lifting his hands and working his under jaw as if preaching, Byng rolling his goggle eyes, Nancy kicking with both legs, and the Devil wriggling his tail. We marched awhile, then put the Pope and the devil into the stocks, Nancy in the pillory, tied Byng to the whipping-post and gave him a flogging, then kindled a bonfire in King Street, pitched the effigies into it, and went into the Tun and Bacchus, Bunch of Grapes, and Admiral Vernon, and drank flip, egg-nogg, punch, and black strap.”5
Mr. Bushwick chuckled merrily, and took a fresh quid of tobacco. Robert also laughed at the vivacious description.
“But I don’t quite see why it should be called the Liberty Tree,” Robert said.
“I was coming to that. You know that Lord Bute brought forward the Stamp Act a few years ago: well, this old elm being so near the White Lamb and the White Horse, it was a convenient place for the citizens to meet to talk about the proposition to tax us. One evening Ben Edes, who publishes the ‘Gazette and News-Letter,’ read what Ike Barre said in Parliament in opposition to the Stamp Act, in which he called us Americans Sons of Liberty, and as that was our meeting-place, we christened the place Liberty Hall and the old elm Liberty Tree. That was in July, 1765, just after Parliament passed the Stamp Act. The king had appointed Andrew Oliver stamp-master, and one morning his effigy was dangling from the tree, and a paper pinned to it writ large: —
“‘Fair Freedom’s glorious Cause I’ve meanly quitted
For the sake of pelf;
But ah, the Devil has me outwitted;
Instead of hanging others,
I’ve hanged myself.’
“Then there was a figure of a great boot, with the Devil peeping out of it, to represent the king’s minister, Lord Bute. When night came, all hands of us formed in procession, laid the effigies on a bier, marched to the Province House so that the villain, Governor Bernard, could see us, went to Mackerel Lane, tore down the building Oliver was intending to use for the sale of the stamps, went to Fort Hill, ripped the boards from his barn, smashed in his front door, and burned the effigies to let him know we never would consent to be taxed in that way. A few days later Oliver came to the tree, held up his hand, and swore a solemn oath that he never would sell any stamps, so help him God! And he never did, for ye see King George had to back down and repeal the bill. It was the next May when Shubael Coffin, master of the brigantine Harrison, brought the news. We set all the bells to ringing, fired cannon, and tossed up our hats. The rich people opened their purses and paid the debts of everybody in jail. We hung lanterns on the tree in the evening, set off rockets, and kindled bonfires. John Hancock kept open house, with ladies and gentlemen feasting in his parlors, and pipes of wine on tap in the front yard for everybody.”
“It must have been a joyful day,” said Robert.
“That’s what it was. Everybody was generous. Last year when the day came round a lot of us gathered under the old tree to celebrate it. Sam Adams was there, James Otis, Doctor Warren, John Hancock, and ever so many more. We fired salutes, sang songs, and drank fourteen toasts. That was at ten o’clock. Just before noon we rode out to the Greyhound Tavern in Roxbury in carriages and chaises, and had a dinner of fish, roast pig, sirloin, goose, chickens and all the trimmings, topping off with plum-pudding and apple-pie, sang Dickenson’s Liberty Song, drank thirty more toasts, forty-four in all, filling our glasses with port, madeira, egg-nogg, flip, punch, and brandy. Some of us, of course, were rather jolly, but we got home all right,” said Mr. Bushwick, laughing.
“You mean that some of you were a little weak in the legs,” said Robert.
“Yes, and that the streets were rather crooked,” Mr. Bushwick replied, laughing once more.
They were abreast of the tree, and Robert reined in Jenny while he admired its beautiful proportions.
“I