Revere was likewise in close personal relations with Edes and Gill, the publishers of the exculpatory pamphlet, and he often prepared wood cuts for the paper they issued, the Boston Gazette and Country Journal. An interesting illustration of his work appears in the issue of this journal for March 12, 1770, where above the column devoted to an account of the public funeral of the victims appear four miniature black coffins. That these were the work of Revere we learn from an old account book, found among his papers, wherein, under the entry for March 9, is a charge to Edes and Gill of six shillings for “Engraving 5 Coffings for Massacre,” while pinned to the page is a paper pattern the size and shape of the tiny coffins appearing in the newspaper. The State Historical Society of Wisconsin possesses a copy of this old journal, and there may be seen the heavily black-leaded page, on which mourning is displayed for the Boston dead, and the prints of the “coffings” engraved by Revere, on each of which is cut a skull and crossbones over the initials
of the victim. On that of the youngest of the four appear the words: “Ae. 17,” with a scythe and hourglass indicative of his having been cut off in the flower of youth. On the same page with the account of the tragedy and the funeral occurs the following interesting letter from Captain Preston:
Boston-Gaol, Monday, 12th March, 1770.
Messieurs Edes & Gill,
Permit me thro’ the Channel of your Paper, to return my Thanks in the most Publick Manner to the Inhabitants of this Town—who throwing aside all Party and Prejudice, have with the utmost Humanity and Freedom stept forth Advocates for Truth, in Defence of my injured Innocence, in the late unhappy Affair that happened on Monday Night last: And to assure them, that I shall ever have the highest Sense of the Justice they have done me, which will be ever gratefully remembered, by
Their much obliged and most obedient humble Servant,
Thomas Preston.
Let us now examine the picture which Paul Revere prepared to be presented, with the official pamphlet, to the view of the British public in order to affect its opinion of the action of the troops. The engraving is 8½ by 9¾ inches in size, and is colored by hand in red, blue, green, and brown. In the background is the Boston town hall, now known as the “Old State House,” with its graceful clock-tower rising into a pale blue sky. At the upper left hand is a chubby, cheerful-looking crescent moon. The public square is framed on both sides by its enclosing buildings, over the portal of one of which, at the right, is the inscription “G R (for Georgius Rex) Custom House.” Higher still, along the entire façade of the building stretches the imaginary and ironical designation “Butcher’s Hall.”
In the foreground of the picture, and in front of the Custom House stands in a menacing attitude the file of soldiers, very red of coats and black of boots. Each has his gun outstretched with its bayonet pointing to the crowd, while the clouds of smoke that roll around and behind the figures testify that the guns have just been discharged among the
unhappy bystanders. At the extreme right of the line of soldiers stands Captain Preston with uplifted, menacing sword. Opposite the firing squad is the crowd of citizens, some of whom have fallen to the ground, or are being supported in the arms of their comrades. From the breasts and temples of the wounded streams of blood pour forth and dye the pavement roundabout. The crowd is in great agitation. One venturesome townsman lifts his hand as though he would push back an advancing bayonet. Another clasps his hands in horror to his breast. Some of the bystanders have turned as if to flee, but most of them are engaged in succoring their wounded comrades. One man in brown coat and green vest is being tenderly lifted by two friends; his head falls helplessly to one side while a bright red jet of blood pours from his breast over the green waistcoat. One of the victims lies on his back, his head drawn up as if he were in agony, one hand clasps his breast, from a wound in which a crimson stream flows forth. The boy victim lies motionless on the ground, a pool of blood from his forehead dyeing the pavement near his head. In front of this whole group stands a composed, indifferent-looking dog, quite unmoved by the tragic scene behind him. The quaint costumes and stiff attitudes of the actors in the picture, the shapeless, ill-drawn legs of the soldiers, and the stolid, expressionless faces of the participants indicate that the engraver was a tyro in his art. To the observer, however, these defects in some measure enhance the interest of the picture and give it the charm peculiar to primitive productions.