THE BOSTON TEA PARTY. 115
THE BOSTON TEA PARTY.
BY C. L. MORRISON.
How many of the young people of the present, as they quaff their fragrant tea, the beverage which is said to cheer but not inebriate, can tell about the famous tea party, unless, perchance, they have picked up some rare old history, or book, where, with its quaint engraving, in old time fashion, is depicted the scenes of the heroes, disguised as Indians, throwing overboard the ship load of tea that had been sent from England to the Colonies, thereby showing their detestation of the odious Stamp Act, which was being enforced upon them; or, may be, from the lips of some aged person have they heard the story, as they sipped together their favorite tea, and gossiped of Ye Olden Times. In childhood's day, with childish curiosity did we read and ponder over the pictures, and think of the patriots — for they were such. In these days it would be called a mob, men taking action like that; but even mobs are justifiable sometimes, and its members heroes. I have wondered how many; and who they were, but that will never be known; or who was the brave spirit that marshaled his forces that eventful eve of December 16, 1773, under whose orders the artificial redskins acted while making tea. However hastily the plot to seize and throw overboard the cargo may have been concocted, for which we have conjecture only, we can but admit that the act was heroism, and the motive true patriotism. In all demonstrations for the public weal, there is and has been a master mind, both to conceive and execute the move, which in after time the grateful people delight to honor in some way, to commemorate their appreciation of their service. That act showed Old England that the Colonists were in earnest, and was one of the first acts in the drama of Independence which followed. For less than this have arisen over the graves of men
"Costly monuments and storied urn;"
while the roster of the names of that fearless few may be unknown, that of the leader is; and the fact that, buried in a pauper's grave, and no stone marks the spot where, for over seventy years, brave Mcintosh has slept, in a little grave-yard in New Hampshire, unhonored and unknown, save to a few. It was the writer's privilege, a short time since, to converse with an aged gentleman who distinctly remembers Captain Mcintosh and the funereal day. That he was the leader of that party there is undoubted proof, and the fact that this proof and knowledge is confined to but a few aged people, should hasten the movement to erect, at an early date, a suitable monument in the quiet church-yard which contains his remains. Let it be of a national character. Let East, West, North and South, respond. Let all that love a brave act give their mite; and we call upon the press to head and set the ball rolling.
Captain Mcintosh died an aged man, in Haverhill, Grafton county, New Hampshire, in the vicinity of 1810 or 1811, upon what is now known as the poor-farm, an inmate of the family of a Mrs. Hurlburt, to whose care he was bid off as a pauper, by auction, according to the usage of that day. In passing along the highway, a mile or so above the pretty little village of North Haverhill, the traveler will come to a little cemetery, or ancient burial-place, where rest the dead of ye settlers of the Horse Meadows settlement, as formerly called.
