The old circumlocution office had neither learned how to do it, nor how graciously or gracefully to leave off attempts which had resulted in not doing it.
During the year following, 1767, came another bill, with a still larger fowl behind it, a curious, sleepy-eyed, dove-colored bird, with prehensile claws admirably sheathed when not taking hold, but very strong when its real strength was tested.
This bill was to tax glass, paper, painters’ colors, and tea. More colonial pluck,—more total abstinence,—more brisk talk between governors and colonial legislatures,—more effervescing revolutions produced by patriotic acids and alkalies stirred by newly cut sticks,—more courteous shows of loyalty and equally firm, resolute, belligerent acts.
The colonial grievances were gathering into preparations and generating motive-power to start the revolutionary wheel.
At Boston, in March, 1770, the first blood was shed. The ink of the Boston “News-Letter,” which was still published, seemed to have turned red, and was beginning to be let out. All duties were now repealed, except those on tea. The old sting was thus again left, and the colonial face, into which it thrust its tiny hornet spear, began to swell and inflame.
Preparations were now made to drive back the English bees which were now seen to come over in swarms, and to settle down around Boston and other tender spots. Congress—that academy of celebrated American state doctors—was called for in September, 1774, to apply poultices and such other remedies as they deemed best to the inflamed parts. After much consultation together, feeling the patient’s pulse and testing his vitality, they became convinced that they had to deal with one of those surgical cases which are quoted often afterwards as leading, and for the successful operation in which careful preparations must be made.
The military revolutionary wheel was at length set in motion. It had thirteen spokes, made of various kinds of wood, all unseasoned; but they were, after a little patient effort, compactly and well fitted into the hub. A patriotic band, put around its periphery, held the wheel together, and enabled it to work successfully many years, and to endure the strains and jars of colonial revolutionary wagoning.
The Surprise Party to Fort Ticonderoga.
(p. 247)
It is noteworthy that the first formal demonstration in the war, was the despatch by the British commander, Gage, April 18, 1775, of eight hundred men to destroy some colonial stores at Concord,—an irruption into the very temple of peace itself. At Lexington, half-way to their destination, this detachment was met by some seventy provincial volunteers, who entered a bayonet protest against this breach of the peace; but this mild protestation was answered by a sharp, crackling retort, which was heard all through the Colonies. It was the mot de resistance. The protesters retired, and the detachment, riding eight miles further, to the Emerson-ian city, scattered the ammunition and food there, and rode back again to Boston, being quickened on the way by fowling-pieces and duck-guns, discharged at the red-breasted coveys. On hearing the news of the battle of Lexington, Ethan Allen, gathering together a party of Green Mountain boys, presented himself on the evening of May 10, 1775, before the sleepy, dozy doors of Fort Ticonderoga, which were knocked open, and its commandant, De La Plaine, knocked up by a summons to surrender in the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress. The success of this little surprise party was much talked of, and raised more spirits than the revenue acts.