Though more than sixty years had elapsed since the Pilgrims came, this crowd of their descendants still showed the strong and sombre features of their character perhaps more strikingly in such a stern emergency than on happier occasions.  There was the sober garb, the general severity of mien, the gloomy but undismayed expression, the scriptural forms of speech and the confidence in Heaven’s blessing on a righteous cause which would have marked a band of the original Puritans when threatened by some peril of the wilderness.  Indeed, it was not yet time for the old spirit to be extinct, since there were men in the street that day who had worshipped there beneath the trees before a house was reared to the God for whom they had become exiles.  Old soldiers of the Parliament were here, too, smiling grimly at the thought that their aged arms might strike another blow against the house of Stuart.  Here, also, were the veterans of King Philip’s war, who had burned villages and slaughtered young and old with pious fierceness while the godly souls throughout the land were helping them with prayer.  Several ministers were scattered among the crowd, which, unlike all other mobs, regarded them with such reverence as if there were sanctity in their very garments.  These holy men exerted their influence to quiet the people, but not to disperse them.

Meantime, the purpose of the governor in disturbing the peace of the town at a period when the slightest commotion might throw the country into a ferment was almost the Universal subject of inquiry, and variously explained.

“Satan will strike his master-stroke presently,” cried some, “because he knoweth that his time is short.  All our godly pastors are to be dragged to prison.  We shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King street.”

Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round their minister, who looked calmly upward and assumed a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a candidate for the highest honor of his profession—­a crown of martyrdom.  It was actually fancied at that period that New England might have a John Rogers of her own to take the place of that worthy in the Primer.

“The pope of Rome has given orders for a new St. Bartholomew,” cried others.  “We are to be massacred, man and male-child.”

Neither was this rumor wholly discredited; although the wiser class believed the governor’s object somewhat less atrocious.  His predecessor under the old charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first settlers, was known to be in town.  There were grounds for conjecturing that Sir Edmund Andros intended at once to strike terror by a parade of military force and to confound the opposite faction by possessing himself of their chief.

“Stand firm for the old charter-governor!” shouted the crowd, seizing upon the idea—­“the good old Governor Bradstreet!”

While this cry was at the loudest the people were surprised by the well-known figure of Governor Bradstreet himself, a patriarch of nearly ninety, who appeared on the elevated steps of a door and with characteristic mildness besought them to submit to the constituted authorities.