Still, side by side with these strong assertions of independence, there existed curiously enough an almost equally strong feeling of reluctance to sever the long-standing relation between the colonies and the mother country. England was still “home,” even in the language of James Otis, as is clear from his correspondence, in which he speaks of certain legal decisions as being “sent home for approbation.” Though all were agreed as to the character and tendency of such acts of the imperial legislature as the Stamp Act, the Revenue Act, the Port Bill, and the Billeting Bill, hopes were entertained to the last that some method of solution would be eventually discovered that would avert the disaster of revolution. “In America,” said Rev. Andrew Elliot, a popular and much-respected minister in Boston, “the people glory in the name, and only desire to enjoy the liberties of England.” And he added, significantly enough, “Oppression makes wise men mad.” Even Thomas Jefferson, in a letter to John Randolph, as late as 1775, expressed his decided preference “to be dependent on England under proper limitation, to being dependent on any other nation, or on no nation whatsoever.” “We strongly enjoin you,” said the Pennsylvania Assembly, November 9, 1775, largely influenced by Farmer Dickenson, in its instructions to its delegates, “that you, in behalf of this colony, dissent from and utterly reject any proposition, should such be made, that may cause or lead to a separation from our mother country, or a change of the form of this government.” In almost identical words the Assembly of New Jersey expressed its dread of “separation from England.” “For what are we to encounter the horrors of war?” asked a writer in the New York Gazette, April 8, 1776, as quoted by Mr. Oscar Straus, in his admirable little work on “The Origin of the American Republic.” “It is a form of government which Baron Montesquieu, and the best writers on the subject, have shown to be attended with many mischiefs and imperfections, while they pay high encomiums on the excellency of the British Constitution. The Continental Congress has never lisped the least desire for independency or republicanism. All their publications breathe another spirit.” What strong ground the Gazette had for the above statement will be seen from the words of the address sent to the British Parliament and People by the Congress of Delegates which met on the 5th September, 1774, at Carpenter’s Hall, Philadelphia. “You have been told,” says the Congress, “that we are impatient of government and desirous of independence. These are calumnies. Permit us to be free as yourselves, and we shall esteem a union with you to be our greatest glory and our greatest happiness.”
It is always the unexpected that happens, however, and, strange as it may appear, in little more than a year after the publication of the warnings of the New York Gazette, and the strong deprecations of leading colonists, the first decisive and irrevocable step towards revolution of the government and the autonomy and independence of the colonies was taken. On July 4, 1776, the Rubicon was passed: the Declaration of Independence was proclaimed.
To trace the causes and indicate the character of this sudden and irreversible revulsion of feeling is to relate the story of the public career of James Otis as primus inter pares and leader of the popular party in the Province of Massachusetts. For ten years, with the exception of some brief intervals of popular misunderstanding and disfavor, he stood forth as the eloquent exponent and acknowledged champion of the popular cause. Long prior to 1760 he had achieved renown as a lawyer, and the skill and distinction he had attained in his profession had already received due and appropriate recognition and reward in his appointment to the Attorney-Generalship of the Province. In that year, however, the outcry against the administration of the Acts of Trade became loud and general, and in the discontent and excitement which prevailed the over-zealous agents of the Executive came into collision with the people. The revival of an old “Act for the better securing and encouraging the trade of His Majesty’s colonies in America,” imposed a duty of sixpence on molasses and other articles imported from the French and Spanish West Indies. As this was tantamount to doubling the price, the trade was forced into contraband channels, and vigorous measures had to be adopted for the suppression of the illicit traffic. A third of the forfeited goods belonged to the king, and were appropriated for the benefit of the colony; a third belonged to the governor; and a third fell to the informers. But as that portion of the spoils which accrued to the colony was not claimed, the money was used to stimulate the zeal and vigilance of the customs-officers. These persons, armed with “writs of assistance” issued by the Chancellor of the Exchequer in England, were empowered to enter and search any private house suspected of containing smuggled goods, and seize whatever articles might be considered contraband within the meaning of the acts. Against these proceedings resistance was bold and general, suspected householders answering the demand of the customs-officers by closing the doors in their faces. It was the duty of Otis, as Advocate-General of the Province, to uphold the action of the executive government; but he refused to argue for the writs, and resigned. On his resignation becoming known he was at once retained, along with Oxenbridge Thacher, to defend the cause of the people, and his splendid triumph in this capacity made him the popular hero. His opponent, as has been already intimated, was his old friend, Jeremiah Gridley, King’s Attorney,—a lawyer of great learning and acuteness. An eye-witness comments on the sublime spectacle of Otis, spite of the difficulties of his position, the excitement of the hour, and the fire and vehemence of his own passionate nature, treating his old master “with all deference, respect, and esteem”, but confuting all his arguments, and reducing him to silence, and Gridley, on the other hand, “seeming to exult inwardly at the glory and triumph of his pupil.”
In answering, almost at the outset, a charge which made his highest public virtue his fault,—the charge that he had deserted his office,—he said: “I renounced that office, and I argue this cause from the same principle, and I argue it with the greater pleasure as it is in favor of British liberty at a time when we hear the greatest monarch upon earth declaring from his throne that he glories in the name of Briton, and that the privileges of his people are dearer to him than the most valuable prerogatives of his crown; and it is in opposition to a kind of power, the exercise of which in former periods of English history cost one king his head, and another his crown.”
The only principles of public conduct that are worthy of a gentleman or a man are to sacrifice estate, ease, health, and applause, and even life itself, to the sacred calls of his country. The glowing and oft-quoted eulogy of John Adams on this great argument, which is said to have lasted nearly five hours, is a commonplace of history, but we cannot forbear repeating it. Otis was a flame of fire; with a promptitude of classical allusions, a depth of research, a rapid summary of historical events and dates, a profusion of legal authorities, a prophetic glance of his eyes into futurity, and a rapid torrent of impetuous eloquence, he hurried away all before him. American independence was then and there born. Every man of an immense crowded audience appeared to me to go away as I did, ready to take up arms against the “writs of assistance.” The speech, says Bowen, “gave vitality and shape to the dim sense of oppression and wrong from the mother country, which already rested indistinctly on the minds of the colonists.” “It breathed,” says Adams, “into this nation the breath of life.”
The effect, however, which John Adams and other admirers of Otis have ascribed to his great legal triumph was obviously not the one Otis himself intended it to produce. There was, after all, something exceedingly vague and uncertain about his attitude and principles as a politician and a statesman. His contemporaries felt this, and somewhat unfeelingly accused him of inconsistency. At one time he was equally censured by his friends and by foes. In his “Vindication of the Conduct of the House of Representatives of the Province of Massachusetts Bay,” published in 1762, occurs the following: “The British Constitution of government, as now established in His Majesty’s person and family, is the wisest and best in the world. The King of Great Britain is the best and most glorious monarch upon the globe, and his subjects the happiest in the universe.” And yet Lord Mansfield, whose marble figure stands proudly among those of other distinguished Englishmen in the corridor of the British House of Commons, defended him in Parliament, not as a loyalist, but as a revolutionist. “Otis” said he, “is a man of consequence among the people over there. It was said the man is mad. What then? One madman often makes many. Massaniello was mad, nobody doubts; yet for all that he overturned the government of Naples.” Friends of the government on both sides of the water suggested that Otis should be proceeded against for treason, but the British Attorney-General declared the “writs of assistance” illegal, and there, for a time, the matter ended.
When, in January, 1763, preliminaries of peace between France and England were signed, the people of Boston rejoiced, and Otis, as their spokesman, said: “The true interests of Great Britain and her plantations are mutual, and what God in His providence has united, let no man dare attempt to pull asunder.” Governor Bernard, however, who inferred from this strain of remark that the province would soon recover its reputation for loyalty, seriously overrated its significance. When the General Assembly of Massachusetts met in 1764, Otis, as chairman of the Committee of Correspondence, drew up the draft of an address to Parliament, to prevent the passage of the Stamp Act; but it was not presented. The act passed into law, and Boston was immediately caught in a whirlwind of popular indignation and excitement. The mob burnt the effigy of Oliver, who, in an evil moment, had accepted the office of Distributor of Stamps, and he, deeming discretion the better part of valor, resigned his post immediately thereafter, under Liberty-tree. The house of Hutchinson, Lieutenant Governor, was demolished, while Bernard, the chief offender, was left undisturbed. Mobocracy, however, was not a pleasant contemplation to the sober and law-abiding people of Boston, and next day the inhabitants of the town assembled in Faneuil Hall and denounced the authors of outrage and violence.
The Stamp Act Congress, originally proposed by Otis, met in New York, October 19, 1765. He, together with Timothy Ruggles and Colonel Partridge, were delegated to attend as the representatives of Massachusetts. Otis took a prominent and influential part in the deliberations of the Congress, and was one of the committee chosen to draft an address to Parliament praying for the repeal of the obnoxious law, which had nearly brought business to a stand-still in many of the colonies, for, as Hutchinson remarks, “No wills were proved, no administrations granted, no deeds nor bonds executed.” Agitation and appeal were successful. Parliament beat a retreat and dropped the attempt to tax the American colonies, like a red-hot poker. [H] But the breach between the popular party and the friends and representatives of the government was destined never to be healed. Between Hutchinson and Otis especially relations were of a very unfriendly character, and it must have been exceedingly difficult for the partisans on either side to keep cool when the leaders were so apt to catch fire. Still, when the Revenue Act of 1767 fell like a firebrand among the colonists, Otis, singularly enough, was almost alone in advising moderation and caution. In the following year his action and attitude were more consistent; he was once more the advocate of resistance, and was appointed to draft letters to the King, to De Berdt, the agent of the Province in London, and a circular-letter, addressed to the colonial assemblies, requesting them “to unite in some suitable measures of redress.” [I] Governor Bernard demanded the rescinding of the letters; and Otis replied in a speech which the Governor described as “the most violent, abusive, and treasonable declaration that perhaps ever was delivered.” It is a very significant indication of the state of popular feeling in Massachusetts at the time that, while only seventeen members of the House were ready to say “Yes” to the Governor’s demand, nintey-two were resolved to say “No.” In the summer of 1769 a violent and disgraceful affray took place between Otis and Robinson, the Commissioner of Customs, in a coffee-house, in which Otis received a severe blow on the head. From that moment his public career was practically at an end. He became the victim of insanity. From 1771 to 1783 he lived aloof from the excitement of public affairs. His death was singularly tragic and fearfully sudden. As he stood at the door of his home in Andover, during a storm, a flash of lightning struck him lifeless to the ground; so that he may almost be said to have been carried to his rest in a chariot of fire.
As to the place of Otis in the early colonial history of America it is somewhat difficult to state it. His influence as the leader and exponent of popular opinion was undoubtedly very great so long as it lasted, and in the main it was beneficial. If, like many another great moral and political force, he accomplished something entirely different from what he intended, both what he intended and what he actually accomplished were equally a credit to him. Some of his contemporaries thought that his courage, his eloquence, his pure and undiluted patriotism, had a serious drawback in the irrepressible fire and vehemence of his nature; but passion enters largely into the composition of all noble natures, and is, in no inconsiderable degree, the secret of their success. Otis was certainly wanting in some of the elements of greatness displayed by the most distinguished of his contemporaries and compatriots. His style of statemanship was not so far-seeing, comprehensive, and solid as that of a Samuel Adams, a Thomas Jefferson, a John Dickenson, or a Benjamin Franklin, and it certainly lacked the Machiavellian coolness and argumentativeness of a Hutchinson. But what Otis accomplished was impossible to any of them. His work was quite unique in its way, and his public life and action have produced results as valuable and lasting as the public labors of any of the noble men who devoted without stint their best thought and energies to laying down, deep, strong, and enduring, the foundation-stones of the American Republic.