fearful none ever would be.
Mary was not much for politics. And John was fast becoming known as a firebrand Patriot preacher.
Mrs. Wheatley bade Prince stop the carriage at a small shoppe next door to the Old Colony House.
"Come, girls, I want you both to see something," she said.
Inside, before a large multipaned window, sat a young nigra man at an easel. "Mrs. Wheatley, how good to see you!" He put down his paints and stepped forward to draw up chairs.
"This is my daughter, Mary, Scipio. And my young ward, Phillis. Girls, this is Scipio, an African painter."
The young man smiled, showing gleaming white teeth. When he bent to kiss our hands, I saw Mary draw back in badly concealed revulsion. Scipio winked at me. And we became immediate friends.
"I'm thinking of asking Scipio to draw both your likenesses," Mrs. Wheatley told us as he showed us around. "What think you, Mary?"
Mary did not think much of it. Not at all. She sniffed. "Where did you learn to draw?" she asked.
"In London, Miss Mary. And my good wife, Sarah, also instructed me. She does work in the Japanese style. She paints in lacquer on glass."
Mary flushed. She had not been to London.
"And you earn your keep this way, then?"
"No, Miss Mary. I am servant to the Reverend and Mrs. John Moorhead of Long Lane Presbyterian Church."
Mary smiled. This pleasured her. "I think that at some future time I may allow you to draw my likeness," she told him.
"Of course," Scipio said, bowing again. And he winked at me as we went out the door.
Mary was a snob, I decided. She didn't deserve John Lathrop.
We went home by way of Boylston Market. A new shipment of coffee had come in this morning from the islands. Mrs. Wheatley wanted to sample some.
Of a sudden, Prince drew the horse up sharp. We bolted forward and near fell.
"What is it?" Mrs. Wheatley rapped on the window.
"A crowd, ma'am."
"Crowd?"
"More like a mob."
"To what aim?" my mistress asked.
Prince opened the small window between the driver's seat and us. "They've hung Andrew Oliver in effigy."
Oliver was secretary of the province. All around the straw figure a crowd had amassed, jeering at it.
"How distasteful," Mrs. Wheatley said. "Drive on, Prince. Take us home. I have just lost my taste for coffee."
Prince clicked to the horse and we swerved down an alley, away from the crowd. But I found myself looking back.
White people say
we
have strange practices. But what could be more sinister than stuffing a figure with straw, painting its face, giving it a name, and screaming at it? Does this not bring bad medicine down on the person it represents?
As if she could read my thoughts, Mrs. Wheatley began to fan her face and look distressed. "I fear for Mr. Oliver. Boston crowds get so ugly."
"Then he never should have taken the position of stamp master," Mary said. She sighed. "John is likely home this minute writing another seditious sermon."
"The man must preach what he believes, Mary," her mother said. "Have you two been quarreling again?"
"We did have high words, Mother. I just don't see why he can't be content to preach the Word of the Lord. And not be so influenced by the Sons of Liberty."
"Don't question his judgments, Mary."
"Oh," Mary complained bitterly, "those pernicious stamps!"
Those pernicious stamps were all we'd heard about since May, when a coastal vessel had brought the news that Parliament would soon demand a stamp duty, from half a penny to twenty-five shillings on any skin or vellum or parchment or sheet of paper on which anything should be engraved, written, or printed.
I thought of all the papers in my drawer. How priceless words seemed now. How precious!
The Boston summer had been restless. People gathered in small groups on street corners in the sweet dusk. And you could see them raising their fists in anger. Small boys ran waving copies of the
Gazette
and yelling about the latest published letter by John Adams. Ships anchored in the harbor would all fly their flags at
Mary was not much for politics. And John was fast becoming known as a firebrand Patriot preacher.
Mrs. Wheatley bade Prince stop the carriage at a small shoppe next door to the Old Colony House.
"Come, girls, I want you both to see something," she said.
Inside, before a large multipaned window, sat a young nigra man at an easel. "Mrs. Wheatley, how good to see you!" He put down his paints and stepped forward to draw up chairs.
"This is my daughter, Mary, Scipio. And my young ward, Phillis. Girls, this is Scipio, an African painter."
The young man smiled, showing gleaming white teeth. When he bent to kiss our hands, I saw Mary draw back in badly concealed revulsion. Scipio winked at me. And we became immediate friends.
"I'm thinking of asking Scipio to draw both your likenesses," Mrs. Wheatley told us as he showed us around. "What think you, Mary?"
Mary did not think much of it. Not at all. She sniffed. "Where did you learn to draw?" she asked.
"In London, Miss Mary. And my good wife, Sarah, also instructed me. She does work in the Japanese style. She paints in lacquer on glass."
Mary flushed. She had not been to London.
"And you earn your keep this way, then?"
"No, Miss Mary. I am servant to the Reverend and Mrs. John Moorhead of Long Lane Presbyterian Church."
Mary smiled. This pleasured her. "I think that at some future time I may allow you to draw my likeness," she told him.
"Of course," Scipio said, bowing again. And he winked at me as we went out the door.
Mary was a snob, I decided. She didn't deserve John Lathrop.
We went home by way of Boylston Market. A new shipment of coffee had come in this morning from the islands. Mrs. Wheatley wanted to sample some.
Of a sudden, Prince drew the horse up sharp. We bolted forward and near fell.
"What is it?" Mrs. Wheatley rapped on the window.
"A crowd, ma'am."
"Crowd?"
"More like a mob."
"To what aim?" my mistress asked.
Prince opened the small window between the driver's seat and us. "They've hung Andrew Oliver in effigy."
Oliver was secretary of the province. All around the straw figure a crowd had amassed, jeering at it.
"How distasteful," Mrs. Wheatley said. "Drive on, Prince. Take us home. I have just lost my taste for coffee."
Prince clicked to the horse and we swerved down an alley, away from the crowd. But I found myself looking back.
White people say
we
have strange practices. But what could be more sinister than stuffing a figure with straw, painting its face, giving it a name, and screaming at it? Does this not bring bad medicine down on the person it represents?
As if she could read my thoughts, Mrs. Wheatley began to fan her face and look distressed. "I fear for Mr. Oliver. Boston crowds get so ugly."
"Then he never should have taken the position of stamp master," Mary said. She sighed. "John is likely home this minute writing another seditious sermon."
"The man must preach what he believes, Mary," her mother said. "Have you two been quarreling again?"
"We did have high words, Mother. I just don't see why he can't be content to preach the Word of the Lord. And not be so influenced by the Sons of Liberty."
"Don't question his judgments, Mary."
"Oh," Mary complained bitterly, "those pernicious stamps!"
Those pernicious stamps were all we'd heard about since May, when a coastal vessel had brought the news that Parliament would soon demand a stamp duty, from half a penny to twenty-five shillings on any skin or vellum or parchment or sheet of paper on which anything should be engraved, written, or printed.
I thought of all the papers in my drawer. How priceless words seemed now. How precious!
The Boston summer had been restless. People gathered in small groups on street corners in the sweet dusk. And you could see them raising their fists in anger. Small boys ran waving copies of the
Gazette
and yelling about the latest published letter by John Adams. Ships anchored in the harbor would all fly their flags at
Similar Books
