ere pauperized. Thousands of farms were abandoned,
hundreds of factories were deserted, while the fiendish, cheating
boss-gambler sharks were gorged to repletion with their infamous
plunder; then followed a frenzy of hatred on the part of the masses
against the classes: city treasuries were depleted to feed the
starving with free soup, the cities were crowded with the desperate,
hungry multitudes who had lost their all, and bloody riots capped the
climax of a hell on earth.

From the cupola of the State House in Boston, a little group of
citizens gazed upon a scene which would daunt the stoutest heart;
these five men standing motionless and speechless under the gilded
dome are of widely differing stations in life, as far apart as the
poles in culture, education, and creed, but their faces wore the same
expressions of profound sadness mingled with stern determination.

The tall man on the right is the Governor of the State of
Massachusetts, a millionaire, a classic face showing his aristocratic
lineage in every feature, a scholarly, furrowed brow, dressed with
scrupulous care, and looking at the frightful scenes with the
dauntless eye of an eagle. He is the chosen leader of the Republican
party which for many years has controlled the destinies of the "Old
Bay State." Next stands a man in every way in strong contrast to his
refined companion, a short, stout, ruddy-faced son of Ireland, but
now Mayor of the city of Boston, a Democrat of Democrats, carelessly
dressed, a political boss, who under ordinary circumstances would
never have affiliated with his lordly neighbor.

Next in the line is a smooth-faced portly man, clad in fine
broadcloth, unmistakably a Catholic Priest; next is a man of soldierly
bearing whose uniform and shoulder-straps proclaim him to be the
commander of the national guard of the State; close beside the
guardsman is the stalwart superintendent of the city police. For a few
minutes only, these men were spell-bound by the terrible scenes before
them. A mob of ragged wild-eyed men and women are straggling along the
street, some wearing the red caps of Anarchy, firing revolvers at the
windows of the houses and at every well-dressed person in sight, some
waved strange banners labelled "Bread or blood," "Down with the rich,"
"Shoot the soldiers"; many blood-red flags are waved with demoniacal
yells.

Directly in front of this howling mob is massed the First Corps of
Cadets, and the 9th Regiment of Iris