him were his
favorite councillors and the bitterest foes of New England. At his
right hand rode Edward Randolph, our arch-enemy, that "blasted
wretch," as Cotton Mather calls him, who achieved the downfall of our
ancient government and was followed with a sensible curse-through life
and to his grave. On the other side was Bullivant, scattering jests
and mockery as he rode along. Dudley came behind with a downcast look,
dreading, as well he might, to meet the indignant gaze of the people,
who beheld him, their only countryman by birth, among the oppressors
of his native land. The captain of a frigate in the harbor and two or
three civil officers under the Crown were also there. But the figure
which most attracted the public eye and stirred up the deepest feeling
was the Episcopal clergyman of King's Chapel riding haughtily among
the magistrates in his priestly vestments, the fitting representative
of prelacy and persecution, the union of Church and State, and all
those abominations which had driven the Puritans to the wilderness.
Another guard of soldiers, in double rank, brought up the rear.

The whole scene was a picture of the condition of New England, and its
moral, the deformity of any government that does not grow out of the
nature of things and the character of the people--on one side the
religious multitude with their sad visages and dark attire, and on the
other the group of despotic rulers with the high churchman in the
midst and here and there a crucifix at their bosoms, all magnificently
clad, flushed with wine, proud of unjust authority and scoffing at the
universal groan. And the mercenary soldiers, waiting but the word to
deluge the street with blood, showed the only means by which obedience
could be secured.

"O Lord of hosts," cried a voice among the crowd, "provide a champion
for thy people!"

This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a herald's cry to
introduce a remarkable personage. The crowd had rolled back, and were
now huddled together nearly at the extremity of the street, while the
soldiers had advanced no more than a third of its length. The
intervening space was empty--a paved solitude between lofty edifices
which threw almost a twilight shadow over it. Suddenly there was seen
the figure of an ancient man who seemed to have emerged from among the
people and was walking by himself along the centre of the street to
confront the armed band. He wore the old Puritan dress--a dark cloak