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.