n, selfish, and wilful monarch blocked the way to
reconciliation. King George the Third is alone to blame for that hatred
of race against race which already hath done so much evil. And I pray
God that a great historian may arise whose pen will reveal the truth,
and reconcile at length those who are, and should be, brothers.

By October, that most beautiful month of all the year in Maryland, we
were again in Annapolis: One balmy day 'twas a Friday, I believe, and a
gold and blue haze hung over the Severn--Mr. Chase called in Gloucester
Street to give the barrister news of the Congress, which he had lately
left. As he came down the stairs he paused for a word with me in the
library, and remarked sadly upon Mr. Swain's condition. "He looks like
a dying man, Richard," said he, "and we can ill afford to lose him."

Even as we sat talking in subdued tones, the noise of a distant commotion
arose. We had scarce started to our feet, Mr. Chase and I, when the
brass knocker resounded, and Mr. Hammond was let in. His wig was awry,
and his face was flushed.

"I thought to find you here," he said to Mr. Chase. "The Anne Arundel
Committee is to meet at once, and we desire to have you with us."
Perceiving our blank faces, he added: "The 'Peggy Stewart' is in this
morning with over a ton of tea aboard, consigned to the Williams's."

The two jumped into a chaise, and I followed afoot, stopped at every
corner by some excited acquaintance; so that I had the whole story, and
more, ere I reached Church Street. The way was blocked before the
committee rooms, and 'twas said that the merchants, Messrs. Williams,
and Captain Jackson of the brig, were within, pleading their cause.

Presently the news leaked abroad that Mr. Anthony Stewart, the brig's
owner, had himself paid the duty on the detested plant. Some hundreds
of people were elbowing each other in the street, for the most part quiet
and anxious, until Mr. Hammond appeared and whispered to a man at the
door. In all my life before I had never heard the hum of an angry crowd.
The sound had something ominous in it, like the first meanings of a wind
that is to break off great trees at their trunks. Then some one shouted:
"To Hanover Street! To Hanover Street! We'll have him tarred and
feathered before the sun is down!" The voice sounded strangely like
Weld's. They charged at this cry like a herd of mad buffalo, the weaker
ones trampled under foot or thrust against the wall. The windows of