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Long years ago when society was young, learning was centered in one man
in each community, and that man was the priest. It was the priest who was
sent for in every emergency of life. He taught the young, prescribed for
the sick, advised those who were in trouble, and when human help was vain
and man had done his all, this priest knelt at the bedside of the dying
and invoked a Power with whom it was believed he had influence.
The so-called learned professions are only another example of the
Division of Labor. We usually say there are three learned professions:
Theology, Medicine and Law. As to which is the greatest is a much-mooted
question and has caused too many family feuds for me to attempt to decide
it. And so I evade the issue and say there is a fourth profession, that is
only allowed to be called so by grace, but which in my mind is greater
than them all—the profession of Teacher. I can conceive of a condition
of society so high and excellent that it has no use for either doctor,
lawyer or preacher, but the teacher would still be needed. Ignorance and
sin supply the three "learned professions" their excuse for
being, but the teacher's work is to develop the germ of wisdom that is in
every soul.
And now each of these professions has divided up, like monads, into
many heads. In medicine, we have as many specialists as there are organs
of the body. The lawyer who advises you in a copyright or patent cause
knows nothing about admiralty; and as they tell us a man who pleads his
own case has a fool for a client, so does the insurance lawyer who is
retained to foreclose a mortgage. In all prosperous city churches, the
preacher who attracts the crowd in the morning allows a 'prentice to
preach to the young folks in the evening; he does not make pastoral calls;
and the curate who reads the service at funerals is never called upon to
perform a marriage ceremony except in a case of charity. Likewise the
teacher's profession has its specialists: the man who teaches Greek well
can not write good English; the man who teaches composition is baffled and
perplexed by long division; and the teacher who delights in trigonometry
pooh-poohs a kindergartner.
Just where this evolutionary dividing and subdividing of social cells
will land the race no man can say; but that a specialist is a dangerous
man, is sure. He is a buzz-saw with which wise men never monkey. A surgeon
who has operated for appendicitis five times successfully is above all to
be avoided. I once knew a man with lung trouble who inadvertently strayed
into an oculist's and was looked over and sent away with an order on an
optician. And should you through error stray into the office of a nose and
throat specialist, and ask him to treat you for
varicose veins, he would probably do so by nasal douche.
Even now a specialist in theology will lead us, if he can, a merry
"ignis-fatuus" chase and land us in a morass. The only thing
that saved the priest in days agone was the fact that he had so many
duties to perform that he exercised all his mental muscles, and thus
attained a degree of all-roundness which is not possible to the
specialist. Even then there were not lacking men who found time to devote
to specialties: Bishop Georgius Ambrosius, for instance, who in the
Fifteenth Century produced a learned work proving that women have no
souls. And a like book was written at Nashville, Tennessee, in Eighteen
Hundred Fifty-nine, by the Reverend Hubert Parsons of the Methodist
Episcopal Church (South), showing that negroes were in a like predicament.
But a more notable instance of the danger of a specialty is the Reverend
Cotton Mather, who investigated the subject of witchcraft and issued a
modest brochure incorporating his views on the subject. He succeeded in
convincing at least one man of its verity, and that man was himself, and
thus immortality was given to the town of Salem, which, otherwise, would
have no claim on us for remembrance, save that Hawthorne was once a clerk
in its custom-house.
A very slight study of Colonial history will show any student that, for
two centuries, the ministers in New England occupied very much the same
position in society that the priest did during
the Middle Ages. As the monks kept learning from dying off the face of the
earth, so did the ministers of the New World preserve culture from passing
into forgetfulness. Very seldom, indeed, were books to be found in a
community except at the minister's. And during the Seventeenth Century,
and well into the Eighteenth, he combined in himself the offices of
doctor, lawyer, preacher and teacher. Mr. Lowell has said: "I can not
remember when there was not one or more students in my father's household,
and others still who came at regular intervals to recite. And this was the
usual custom. It was the minister who fitted boys for college, and no
youth was ever sent away to school until he had been drilled by the local
clergyman."
And it must further be noted that genealogical tables show that very
nearly all of the eminent men of New England were sons of ministers, or of
an ancestry where ministers' names are seen at frequent intervals. As an
intellectual and moral force, the minister has now but a rudiment of the
power he once exercised. The tendency to specialize all art and all
knowledge has to a degree shorn him of his strength. And to such an extent
is this true, that within forty years it has passed into a common proverb
that the sons of clergymen are rascals, whereas in Colonial days the
highest recommendation a youth could carry was that he was the son of a
minister.
The Reverend John Hancock, grandfather of John
Hancock the patriot, was for more than half a century the minister of
Lexington, Massachusetts. I say "the minister," because there
was only one: the keen competition of sect that establishes half a dozen
preachers in a small community is a very modern innovation.
John Hancock, "Bishop of Lexington," was a man of pronounced
personality, as is plainly seen in his portrait in the Boston Museum of
Fine Arts. They say he ruled the town with a rod of iron; and when the
young men, who adorned the front steps of the meetinghouse during service,
grew disorderly, he stopped in his prayer, and going outside soundly
cuffed the ears of the first delinquent he could lay hands upon. In his
clay there was a dash of facetiousness that saved him from excess,
supplying a useful check to his zeal—for zeal uncurbed is very bad. He
was a wise and beneficent dictator; and government under such a one can
not be improved upon. His manner was gracious, frank and open, and such
was the specific gravity of his nature that his words carried weight, and
his wish was sufficient.
The house where this fine old autocrat lived and reigned is standing in
Lexington now. When you walk out through Cambridge and Arlington on your
way to Concord, following the road the British took on their way out to
Concord, you will pass by it. It is a good place to stop and rest. You
will know the place by the tablet in front, on which is the legend:
"Here John Hancock and Samuel Adams were sleeping on the night of
the Eighteenth of April, Seventeen Hundred Seventy-five, when aroused by
Paul Revere."
The Reverend Jonas Clark owned the house after the Reverend John
Hancock, and the ministries of those two men, and their occupancy of the
house, cover one hundred years and five years more. Here the thirteen
children of Jonas Clark were born, and all lived to be old men and women.
When you call there I hope you will be treated with the same gentle
courtesy that I met. If you delay not your visit too long, you will see a
fine, motherly woman, with white "sausage curls" and a high
back-comb, wearing a check dress and felt slippers, and she will tell you
that she is over eighty, and that when her mother was a little girl she
once sat on Governor Hancock's knee and he showed her the works in his
watch.
And then as you go away you will think again of what the old lady has
just told you, and as you look back for a parting glance at the house,
standing firm and solemn in its rusty-gray dignity, you will doff your hat
to it, and mayhap murmur: The days of man on earth—they are but as a
passing shadow!
"Here John Hancock and Samuel Adams were sleeping when aroused by
Paul Revere!" Merchant-prince and agitator, horse and rider—where
are you now? And is your sleep disturbed by dreams of British redcoats or
hissing flintlocks?
Phantom British warships may lie at their moorings, swinging wide on
the unforgetting tide, lanterns may hang high
in the belfry of the Old North Church tower, hurried knocks and calls of
defiance and hoof-beats of fast-galloping steed may echo and echo again,
borne on the night-wind of the dim Past, but you heed them not!
The Reverend John Hancock of Lexington had two sons. John Hancock
(Number Two) became pastor of the church of the North Precinct of the town
of Braintree, which afterwards was to be the town of Quincy.
The nearest neighbor to the village preacher was John Adams, shoemaker
and farmer. Each Sunday in the amen corner of the Reverend John Hancock's
meetinghouse was mustered the well washed and combed brood of Mr. and Mrs.
Adams. Now, this John Adams had a son whom the Reverend John Hancock
baptized, also named John, two years older than John, the son of the
preacher. And young John Adams and John Hancock (Number Three) used to
fish and swim together, and go nutting, and set traps for squirrels, and
help each other in fractions. And then they would climb trees, and
wrestle, and sometimes fight. In the fights, they say, John Hancock used
to get the better of his antagonist, but as an exploiter of fractions John
Adams was more than his equal.
The parents of John Adams were industrious and savin'—the little farm
prospered, for Boston supplied a goodly market, and weekly trips were made
there in a one-horse cart, often piloted by young John, with the
minister's boy for ballast. The Adams family had ambitions for their son
John—he was to go to Harvard and be educated, and be a minister and
preach at Braintree, or Weymouth, or perhaps even Boston!
In the meantime the Reverend John Hancock had died, and the widowed
mother was not able to give her boy a college education—times were hard.
But the lad's uncle, Thomas Hancock, a prosperous merchant of Boston,
took quite an interest in young John. And it occurred to him to adopt the
fatherless boy, legally, as his own. The mother demurred, but after some
months decided that it was best so, for when twenty-one he would be her
boy just as much and as truly as if his uncle had not adopted him. And so
the rich uncle took him, and rigged him out with a deal finer clothing
than he had ever before worn, and sent him to the Latin School and
afterward over to Cambridge, with silver jingling in his pocket.
Prosperity is a severe handicap to youth; not very many grown men can
stand it; but beyond a needless display of velvet coats and frilled
shirts, the young man stood the test, and got through Harvard. In point of
scholarship he did not stand so high as John Adams; and between the lads
there grew a small but well-defined gulf, as is but natural between
homespun and broadcloth. Still the gulf was not impassable, for over it
friendly favors were occasionally passed.
John Hancock's mother wanted him to be a preacher, but Uncle Thomas
would not listen to it—the youth must be taught to be a merchant, so he
could be the ready helper and then the successor of his foster-father.
Graduating at the early age of seventeen, John
Hancock at once went to work in his uncle's counting-house in Boston. He
was a fine, tall fellow with dash and spirit, and seemed to show
considerable aptitude for the work. The business prospered, and Uncle
Thomas was very proud of his handsome ward, who was quite in demand at
parties and balls and in a general social way, while the uncle could not
dance a minuet to save him.
Not needing the young man very badly around the store, the uncle sent
him to Europe to complete his education by travel. He went with the
retiring Governor Pownal, whose taste for social enjoyment was very much
in accord with his own. In England, he attended the funeral of George the
Second, and saw the coronation of George the Third, little thinking the
while that he would some day make violent efforts to snatch from that
crown its brightest jewel.
When young Hancock was twenty-seven, the uncle died, and left to him
his entire fortune of three hundred fifty thousand dollars. It made him
one of the very richest men in the Colony—for at that time there was not
a man in Massachusetts worth half a million dollars.
The jingling silver in his pocket when sent to Harvard had severely
tested his moral fiber, but this great fortune came near smothering all
his native commonsense. If a man makes his money himself, he stands a
certain chance of growing as the pile grows.
There is little doubt as to the soundness of Emerson's epigram, that what
you put into his chest you take out of the man. More than this, when a man
gradually accumulates wealth, it attracts little attention, so the mob
that follows the newly rich never really gets on to the scent. And besides
that, the man who makes his own fortune always stands ready to repel
boarders.
There may be young men of twenty-seven who are men grown, and no doubt
every man of twenty-seven is very sure that he is one of these; but the
thought that man is mortal never occurs to either men or women until they
are past thirty. The blood is warm, conquest lies before, and to seize the
world by the tail and snap its head off seems both easy and desirable.
The promoters, the flatterers and friends until then unknown flocked to
Hancock and condoled with him on the death of his uncle. Some wanted small
loans to tide over temporary emergencies, others had business ventures in
hand whereby John Hancock could double his wealth very shortly. Still
others spoke of wealth being a trust, and to use money to help your
fellow-men, and thus to secure the gratitude of many, was the proper
thing.
The unselfishness of the latter suggestion appealed to Hancock. To be
the friend of humanity, to assist others—this is the highest ambition to
which a man can aspire! And, of course, if one is pointed out on the
street as the good Mr. Hancock it can not be helped. It is the penalty of
well-doing.
So in order to give work to many and to promote the interests of
Boston, a thriving city of fifteen thousand inhabitants, for all good men
wish to build up the place in which they live, John Hancock was induced to
embark in shipbuilding. He also owned several ships of his own which
traded with London and the West Indies, and was part owner of others. But
he publicly explained that he did not care to make money for himself—his
desire was to give employment to the worthy poor and to enhance the good
of Boston.
The aristocratic company of militia, known as the Governor's Guard, had
been fitted out with new uniforms and arms by the generous Hancock, and he
had been chosen commanding officer, with rank of Colonel. He drilled with
the crack company and studied the manual much more diligently than he ever
had his Bible.
Hancock lived in the mansion, inherited from his uncle, on Beacon
Street, facing the Common. There was a chariot and six horses for state
occasions, much fine furniture from over the sea, elegant clothes that the
Puritans called "gaudy apparel," and at the dinners the wine
flowed freely, and cards, dancing and music filled many a night.
The Puritan neighbors were shocked, and held up their hands in horror
to think that the son of a minister should so affront the staid and sober
customs of his ancestors. Still others said, "Why, that's what a rich
man should do—spend his money, of course;
Hancock is the benefactor of his kind; just see how many people he
employs!"
The town was all agog, and Hancock was easily Boston's first citizen,
but in his time of prosperity he did not forget his old friends. He sent
for them to come and make merry with him; and among the first in his good
offices was John Adams, the rising young lawyer of Braintree.
John Adams had found clients scarce, and those he had, poor pay, but
when he became the trusted legal adviser of John Hancock, things took a
turn and prosperity came that way. The wine and cards and dinners hadn't
much attraction for him, but still there were no conscientious scruples in
the way. He patted John Hancock on the back, assured him that he was the
people, looked after his interests loyally, and extracted goodly fees for
services performed.
At the home of Adams at Braintree, Hancock had met a quiet, taciturn
individual by the name of Samuel Adams. This man he had long known in a
casual way, but had never been able really to make his acquaintance. He
was fifteen years older than Hancock, and by his quiet dignity and
self-possession made quite an impression on the young man.
So, now that prosperity had smiled, Hancock invited him to his house,
but the quiet man was an ascetic and neither played cards, drank wine nor
danced, and so declined with thanks.
But not long after, he requested a small loan from the merchant-prince,
and asked it as though it were his right, and so he got it. His manner was
in such opposition to the flatterers and those who crawled, and whined,
and begged, that Hancock was pleased with the man. Samuel Adams had
declined Hancock's social favors, and yet, in asking for a loan, showed
his friendliness.
Samuel Adams was a politician, and had long taken an active part in the
town meetings. In fact, to get a measure through, it was well to have
Samuel Adams at your side. He was clear-headed, astute, and knew the human
heart. Yet he talked but little, and the convivial ways of the small
politician were far from him; but in the fine art that can manage men and
never let them know they are managed he was a past-master. Tucked in his
sleeve, no doubt, was a degree of pride in his power, but the stoic
quality in his nature never allowed him to break into laughter when he
considered how he led men by the nose.
In Boston and its vicinity, Samuel Adams was not highly regarded, and
outside of Boston, at forty years of age, he was positively unknown. The
neighbors regarded him as a harmless fanatic, sane on most subjects, but
possessed of a buzzing bee in his bonnet to the effect that the Colonies
should be separated from their protector, England. Samuel Adams neglected
his business and kept up a fusillade of articles in the newspapers,
on various political subjects, and men who do this are regarded everywhere
as "queer." A professional newspaper-writer never takes his
calling seriously—it is business. He writes to please his employer, or
if he owns the paper himself, he still writes to please his employer, that
is to say, the public. Journalism, thy name is pander!
The man who comes up the stairway furtively, with a manuscript he wants
printed, is in dead earnest; and he has excited the ridicule, wrath or
pity of editors for three hundred years. Such a one was Samuel Adams. His
wife did her own work, and the grocer with bills in his hand often grew
red in the face and knocked in vain.
And yet the keen intellect of Samuel Adams was not a thing to smile at.
Any one who stood before him, face to face, felt the power of the man, and
acknowledged it then and there, as we always do when we stand in the
presence of a strong individuality. And this inward acknowledgment of
worth was instinctively made by John Hancock, the biggest man in all
Boston town.
John Hancock, through his genial, glowing personality, and his lavish
spending of money, was very popular. He was being fed on flattery, and the
more a man gets of flattery, once the taste is acquired, the more he
craves. It is like the mad thirst for liquor, or the Romeike habit.
John Hancock was getting attention, and he wanted more. He had been
chosen selectman to fill the place that his uncle had occupied, and when
Samuel Adams incidentally dropped a remark that
good men were needed in the General Court, John Hancock agreed with him.
He was named for the office and with Samuel Adams' help was easily
elected.
Not long after this, the sloop "Liberty" was seized by the
government officials for violation of the revenue laws. The craft was
owned by John Hancock and had surreptitiously landed a cargo of wine
without paying duty.
When the ship of Boston's chief citizen was seized by the bumptious,
gilt-braided British officials, there was a merry uproar. All the men in
the shipyards quit work, and the Calkers' Club, of which Samuel Adams was
secretary, passed hot resolutions and revolutionary preambles and eulogies
of John Hancock, who was doing so much for Boston.
In fact, there was a riot, and three regiments of British troops were
ordered to Boston.
And this was the very first step on the part of England to enforce her
authority, by arms, in America.
The troops were in the town to preserve order, but the mob would not
disperse. Upon the soldiers, they heaped every indignity and insult. They
dared them to shoot, and with clubs and stones drove the soldiers before
them. At last the troops made a stand and in order to save themselves from
absolute rout fired a volley. Five men fell dead—and the mob dispersed.
This was the so-called Boston massacre.
Pinkerton guards would blush at bagging so small a game with a volley.
They have done better again and again at Pittsburgh, Pottsville and
Chicago.
The riot was quelled, and out of the scrimmage various suits were
instigated by the Crown against John Hancock, in the Court of Admiralty.
The claims against him amounted to over three hundred thousand dollars,
and the charge was that he had long been evading the revenue laws. John
Adams was his attorney, with Samuel Adams as counsel, and vigorous efforts
for prosecution and defense were being made.
If the Crown were successful the suits would confiscate the entire
Hancock estate—matters were getting in a serious way. Witnesses were
summoned, but the trial was staved off from time to time.
Hancock had refused to follow Samuel Adams' lead in the controversy
with Governor Hutchinson as to the right to convene the General Court. The
report was that John Hancock was growing lukewarm and siding with the
Tories. A year had passed since the massacre had occurred, and the
agitators proposed to commemorate the day.
Colonel Hancock had appeared in many prominent parts, but never as an
orator.
"Why not show the town what you can do!" some one said.
So John Hancock was invited to deliver the oration. He did so to an
immense concourse. The address was read from
the written page. It overflowed with wisdom and patriotism; and the
earnestness and eloquence of the well-rounded periods was the talk of the
town.
The knowing ones went around corners and roared with laughter, but
Samuel Adams said not a word. The charge was everywhere made by the
captious and bickering that the speech was written by another, and that,
moreover, John Hancock had not even a very firm hold on its import. It was
the one speech of his life. Anyway, it so angered General Gage that he
removed Colonel Hancock from his command of the cadets.
An order was out for Hancock's arrest, and he and Samuel Adams were in
hiding.
The British troops marched out to Lexington to capture them, but Paul
Revere was two hours ahead, and when the redcoats arrived the birds had
flown.
Then came the expulsion of the British, the closing of all courts, the
Admiralty included. The merchant-prince breathed easier, and that was the
last of the Crown versus John Hancock.
Throughout the months that had gone before, when the Hancock mansion
was gay with floral decorations, and servants in livery stood at the door
with silver trays, and the dancing-hall was bright with mirth and music,
Samuel Adams had quietly been working his Bureau of Correspondence to the
end that the thirteen Colonies of America should come together in
convention. Chief mover of the plan, and the one man in Massachusetts who
was giving all his time to it, he dictated whom Massachusetts should send
as delegates. This delegation, as we know, included John Hancock, John
Adams and Samuel Adams himself.
From the danger of Lexington, Hancock and Adams made their way to
Philadelphia to attend the Second Congress.
At that time the rich men of New England were hurriedly making their
way into the English fold. Some thought that the mother country had been
harsh, but still, England had only acted within her right, and she was
well able to back up this authority. She had regiment upon regiment of
trained fighting men, warships, and money to build more. The Colonies had
no army, no ships, no capital.
Only those who have nothing to lose can afford to resist lawful
authority—back into the fold they went, penitent and under their breath
cursing the bull-headed men who insisted on plunging the country into red
war.
Out in the cold world stood John Hancock, alone, save for Bowdoin,
among the aristocrats of New England. The British would confiscate his
property, his splendid house—all would be gone!
"It will all be gone, anyway," calmly suggested Samuel Adams.
"You know those suits against you in the Admiralty Court?"
"Yes, yes!"
"And if we can unite these thirteen Colonies an army can be
raised, and we can separate ourselves entire, in which case there will be
glory for somebody."
John Hancock, the rich, the ambitious, the pleasure-loving, had burned
his bridges. He was in the hands of Samuel Adams, and his infamy was one
with this man who was a professional agitator, and who had nothing to
lose.
General Gage had made an offer of pardon to all—all, save two men:
Samuel Adams and John Hancock. Back into the fold tumbled the Tories, but
against John Hancock the gates were barred. John Adams, Attorney of the
Hancock estate, rubbed his chin, and decided to stand by the ship—sink
or swim, survive or perish.
Down in his heart Samuel Adams grimly smiled, but on his cold, pale
face there was no sign.
The British held Boston secure, and in the splendid mansion of Hancock
lived the rebel, Lord Percy, England's pet. The furniture, plate and
keeping of the place were quite to his liking.
Hancock's ambitions grew as the days went by. The fight was on. His
property was in the hands of the British, and a price was upon his head.
He, too, now had nothing to lose. If England could be whipped he would get
his property back, and the honors of victory would be his, beside.
Ambition grew apace; he studied the Manual of Arms as never before, and
made himself familiar with the lives of Cæsar and Alexander. At Harvard,
he had read the Anabasis on compulsion, but now he read it with zest.
The Second Congress was a Congress of action; the first had been one
merely of conference. A presiding officer was required, and Samuel Adams
quietly pushed his man to the front. He let it be known that Hancock was
the richest man in New England, perhaps in America, and a power in every
emergency.
John Hancock was given the office of presiding officer, the place of
honor.
The thought never occurred to him that the man on the floor is the man
who acts, and the individual in the chair is only a referee, an onlooker
of the contest. When a man is chosen to preside he is safely out of the
way, and no one knew this better than that clear-headed man, wise as a
serpent, Samuel Adams.
Hancock was intent on being chosen Commander of the Continental Army.
The war was in Massachusetts, her principal port closed, all business at a
standstill. Hancock was a soldier, and was, moreover, the chief citizen
of Massachusetts—the command should go to him. Samuel Adams knew this
could never be.
To hold the Southern Colonies and give the cause a show of reason
before the world, an aristocrat with something to lose, and without a
personal grievance, must be chosen, and the man must be from the South. To
get Hancock in a position where his mouth would be stopped, he was placed
in the chair. It was a master move.
Colonel George Washington was already a hero; he had fought valiantly
for England. His hands were clean; while Hancock was openly called a
smuggler. Washington was nominated by John Adams. The motion was seconded
by Samuel Adams. Hancock turned first red and then deathly pale. He
grasped the arms of his chair with both hands, and—put the question.
It was unanimous.
Hancock's fame seems to rest on the fact that he was presiding officer
of the Congress that passed the Declaration of Independence, and therefore
its first signer, and, without consideration for cost of ink and paper,
wrote his name in poster letters. When you look upon the Declaration the
first thing you see is the signature of John Hancock, and you recall his
remark, "I guess King George can read that without spectacles."
The whole action was melodramatic, and although a bold signature has ever
been said to betoken a bold heart, it has yet to be demonstrated that boys
who whistle going through the woods are
indifferent to danger. "Conscious weakness takes strong
attitudes," says Delsarte. The strength of Hancock's signature was an
affectation quite in keeping with his habit of riding about Boston in a
coach-and-six, with outriders in uniform, and servants in livery.
When Hancock wrote to Washington asking for an appointment in the army,
the wise and farseeing chief replied with gentle words of praise
concerning Colonel Hancock's record, and wound up by saying that he
regretted there was no place at his disposal worthy of Colonel Hancock's
qualifications. Well did he know that Hancock was not quite patriot enough
to fill a lowly rank.
The part that Hancock played in the eight years of war was
inconspicuous. However, there was little spirit of revenge in his
character: he sometimes scolded, but he did not hate. He never allowed
personal animosities to make him waver in his loyalty to independence. In
fact, with a price upon his head, but one course was open for him.
Just before Washington was inaugurated President, he visited Boston,
and a curious struggle took place between him and Hancock, who was
Governor. It was all a question of etiquette—which should make the first
call. Each side played a waiting game, and at last Hancock's gout came in
as an excellent excuse and the country was saved.
In one of his letters, Hancock says, "The entire Genteel portion
of the town was invited to my House, while on the sidewalk I had a cask of
Madeira for the Common People." His repeated re-election as Governor
proves his popularity. Through lavish expenditure, his fortune was much
reduced, and for many years he was sorely pressed for funds, his means
being tied up in unproductive ways.
His last triumph, as Governor, was to send a special message to the
Legislature, informing that body that "a company of Aliens and
Foreigners have entered the State, and the Metropolis of Government, and
under advertisements insulting to all Good Men and Ladies have been
pleased to invite them to attend certain Stage-Plays, Interludes and
Theatrical Entertainments under the Style and Appellation of Moral
Lectures.... All of which must be put a stop to to once and the Rogues and
Varlots punished."
A few days after this, "the Aliens and Foreigners" gave a
presentation of Sheridan's "School for Scandal." In the midst of
the performance the sheriff and a posse made a rush upon the stage and
bagged all the offenders.
When their trial came on, the next day, the "varlots and vagroms"
had secured high legal talent to defend them, one of which counsel was
Harrison Gray Otis. The actors were discharged on the slim technicality
that the warrants of arrest had not been properly verified.
However, the theater was closed, but the "Common
People" made such an unseemly howl about "rights" and all
that, that the Legislature made haste to repeal the law which provided
that play-actors should be flogged.
Hancock defaulted in his stewardship as Treasurer of Harvard College,
and only escaped arrest for embezzlement through the fact that he was
Governor of the State, and no process could be served upon him. After his
death his estate paid nine years' simple interest on his deficit, and ten
years thereafter, the principal was paid.
His widow married Captain Scott, who was long in Hancock's employ as
master of a brig; and we find the worthy captain proudly exclaiming,
"I have embarked on the sea of Matrimony, and am now at the helm of
the Hancock mansion!"
No biography of Governor Hancock has ever been written. The record of
his life flutters only in newspaper paragraphs, letters, and chance
mention in various diaries.
Hancock did not live to see John Adams President. Worn by worry, and
grown old before his time, he died at the early age of fifty-six, of a
combination of gout and that unplebeian complaint we now term Bright's
Disease.
Thirty-three years after, hale old John Adams down at Quincy spoke of
him as "a clever fellow, a bit spoiled by a legacy, whom I used to
know in my younger days."
He left no descendants, and his heirs were too intent on being in at
the death to care for his memory. They neither preserved the data of his
life, nor over his grave placed a headstone. The monument that now marks
his resting-place was recently erected by the State of Massachusetts. He
was buried in the Old Granary Burying-Ground, on Tremont Street, and only
a step from his grave sleeps his friend Samuel Adams.
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