THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR. 283 



But the time for more sturdy patriotism was yet to 

 come. During the ten years of excitement in Boston pre- 

 ceding the outbreak of war some of our young men, who 

 were learning their trades of shipbuilding or of what else in 

 that town, were fast developing their sentiments of rebellion. 

 But no specific deed of historic interest was participated in 

 by us until the memorable Tea Party of December 16, 1773. 

 On that occasion, which the historian John Fiske calls 

 "one of the most momentous days in the history of the 

 world," three of our young men were active participants. 

 We all have read of that whole day mass meeting in the 

 Old South Church, Boston, where a throng of seven thou- 

 sand men on the streets and indoors struggled to keep 

 down their anger while they discussed the means of pro- 

 tecting themselves from the tyranny of King George. 

 They were determined not to allow the Dartmouth to 

 land her cargo of tea with its odious tax ; but they had 

 tried in vain every lawful means of defense. 



It had now grown dark and the church was dimly lighted 

 with candles. Amid profound stillness Samuel Adams arose and 

 said, quietly but distinctly, " This meeting can do nothing more 

 to save the country." It was the declaration of war; the law had 

 shown itself unequal to the occasion, and nothing now remained 

 but a direct appeal to force. 



Scarcely had the watchword left his mouth when a war whoop 

 answered from outside the door, and fifty men in the guise of 

 Mohawk Indians passed quickly by the entrance and hastened to 

 Griffin's Wharf. Before the nine o'clock bell rang, the three 

 hundred and forty-two chests of tea laden upon three ships had 

 been cut open and their contents emptied into the sea. Not a 

 person was harmed, no other property was injured ; and the vast 

 crowd, looking upon the scene from the wharf in the clear frosty 

 moonlight, was so still that the click of the hatchets could be 

 distinctly heard. Next morning, the salted tea, driven by wind 

 and wave, lay in long rows on Dorchester beach, while Paul 

 Revere, booted and spurred, was riding posthaste to Philadelphia, 



