By October, that most beautiful month of all the year in Maryland, we were again in Annapolis:  One balmy day ’twas a Friday, I believe, and a gold and blue haze hung over the Severn—­Mr. Chase called in Gloucester Street to give the barrister news of the Congress, which he had lately left.  As he came down the stairs he paused for a word with me in the library, and remarked sadly upon Mr. Swain’s condition.  “He looks like a dying man, Richard,” said he, “and we can ill afford to lose him.”

Even as we sat talking in subdued tones, the noise of a distant commotion arose.  We had scarce started to our feet, Mr. Chase and I, when the brass knocker resounded, and Mr. Hammond was let in.  His wig was awry, and his face was flushed.

“I thought to find you here,” he said to Mr. Chase.  “The Anne Arundel Committee is to meet at once, and we desire to have you with us.”  Perceiving our blank faces, he added:  “The ‘Peggy Stewart’ is in this morning with over a ton of tea aboard, consigned to the Williams’s.”

The two jumped into a chaise, and I followed afoot, stopped at every corner by some excited acquaintance; so that I had the whole story, and more, ere I reached Church Street.  The way was blocked before the committee rooms, and ’twas said that the merchants, Messrs. Williams, and Captain Jackson of the brig, were within, pleading their cause.

Presently the news leaked abroad that Mr. Anthony Stewart, the brig’s owner, had himself paid the duty on the detested plant.  Some hundreds of people were elbowing each other in the street, for the most part quiet and anxious, until Mr. Hammond appeared and whispered to a man at the door.  In all my life before I had never heard the hum of an angry crowd.  The sound had something ominous in it, like the first meanings of a wind that is to break off great trees at their trunks.  Then some one shouted:  “To Hanover Street!  To Hanover Street!  We’ll have him tarred and feathered before the sun is down!” The voice sounded strangely like Weld’s.  They charged at this cry like a herd of mad buffalo, the weaker ones trampled under foot or thrust against the wall.  The windows of Mr. Aikman’s shop were shattered.  I ran with the leaders, my stature and strength standing me in good stead more than once, and as we twisted into Northwest Street I took a glance at the mob behind me, and great was my anxiety at not being able to descry one responsible person.

Mr. Stewart’s house stood, and stands to-day, amid trim gardens, in plain sight of the Severn.  Arriving there, the crowd massed in front of it, some of the boldest pressing in at the gate and spreading over the circle of lawn enclosed by the driveway.  They began to shout hoarsely, with what voices they had left, for Mr. Stewart to come out, calling him names not to be spoken, and swearing they would show him how traitors were to be served.  I understood then the terror of numbers, and shuddered.  A chandler, a bold and violent man, whose leather was covered with grease, already had his foot on the steps, when the frightened servants slammed the door in his face, and closed the lower windows.  In vain I strained my eyes for some one who might have authority with them.  They began to pick up stones, though none were thrown.