Note to the Reader + Chapter 1: King's College

            Note to the reader:

This odd text was anonymously published in three volumes by Ticknor and Fields, Boston, in 1890, by ‘a Gentleman’, and featured this note from the redactor of what were presumably private papers held by him in the year 1888. We offer the text, only slightly edited, for the benefit and pleasure of the modern reader interested in the American Revolution, complete with the original footnotes of the anonymous 19th century redactor. The introductory note of the 1890 first edition seems likely to have been penned for family members or a close circle of acquaintances, for the book never had a second edition and was little in circulation. We resurrect it now, offering it in full along with an unabridged copy of the text.

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Friends,

It is about time that I did something about these loose strands of history. I have had them in my keeping for far too long, and so I offer them combined into a single account, done up in a literary style befitting the drama of the era, having investigated everything from the beginning, in accordance with the original eyewitnesses, if they be living, or their descendants; I myself having been a student of the War of Independence, have likewise supplied to the original sources the material from my own researches. The reader who stumbles upon this cacophonous beast of a tale may do what they will with it, read it, spare it, ignore it, as it little bears witness to the general triumph of America in the war with England, but rather is quite tragic in its relation and sketch of the three principle characters who upon the whole, did not live to see the end of it. I would have let the story fall into the cracks of history if not for the assiduous prodding you gave me year after year, and so make use of it, years of my toil for little profit, and remember those long lost from whom we come.

                                                Given at Gravesend, New York, in the year of Our Lord, 1888.

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I

King’s College

An INTRODUCTION

The City of New York. Nov 1^st, 1765

1.1

            “The members of this congress[1]…” began Robert, reading from a lengthy broadside by a glowing hearth, entitled A Declaration of Rights and Grievances. “Must we read it again?” groaned his dear friend John, sighing as he walked across the room. He pulled the paper from his fingers, stood straight up, and read on at random in an oracular voice, “'The people of these colonies are not, and from their local circumstances, cannot be represented in the House of Commons in Great Britain,' though that's obvious, isn't it?” “It certainly isn't to Parliament,” Robert retorted and then asked rhetorically, “how can a people so far removed, by an ocean mind you, no small firth or gully, how can they be represented? Would it be representative? Of what then?” John cautioned, “I doubt it would truly, yet have hope Rob, for Parliament cannot be wholly misled. At the very least, his Majesty will read this declaration of our Congress and likely be persuaded, as the law itself should sway him, no matter the whim of yon dandy lords.” John sat back down in the wooden chair by the fire and filled his glass with Madeira. Robert, sitting in the chair opposite him, held out his for John to fill, and together they toasted their cups, the crackling hearth-light dancing on. “To the triumph of our dearest liberty! Let’s march the Stamp Act to Tyburn!” “Aye to the Tower she goes!”

            At that very moment a third rather humdrum fellow gave his piece, nearly speaking in a whisper, “The right of Englishmen to consent to levied taxes is a legal precept conceived in antiquity by our pagan ancestors, enshrined by Lord Coke, and blossomed in our constitution under our dutiful monarch. I have no doubts at all; it will be inevitably discovered that this act is nothing more than the midnight machinations of some wicked minister, indeed whether it be Bute or Grenville, it matters little whom.” At this prosaic utterance, they both looked to the opposite corner where another soul sat, engrossed in some work of literature. That work was a pondering folio, bound in red Moroccan leather, entitled “The First Part of the Institutes of the Lawes of England” by Sir Edward Coke the famed English jurist, and the man reading it was George Van Den Bos, a youthful yet gaunt lad, of some mere 17 years, wholly freckled and ruddy. He said this whilst he hid behind the book, behind which parapet he was carefully imbibing every word by the fluttering glow of a candle, for it was a late night at King's College, far past curfew.

Robert raised his glass at his friend shrouded in the corner, and said, “May our good George march down to Governor Colden and proclaim this revelation to all men!” “And all uneared ladies, deprive them not of thy husbandry my friend!” added John with a saucy laugh, taking a swig of the sweet wine. After a moment’s silence (George had failed to commend his friend’s jest with the seal of laughter), Robert said soberly, “Though indeed, they do abuse this favorable juncture…” By they, he meant those ministers responsible for the tax.

⸺ This topic, that of the stamp tax and post-war politics, had gone round and round every night for nigh a year, yet they tired little of it, for the topic was pressing and the consequences dire. ⸺

 “Favorable and peaceful. Many prefer the spoils of war[2], Rob, to the tranquility of peace, and this upheaval is but one in a long litany of political usurpations. Though yes, I suppose the recent peace is a favorable juncture for many…,” echoed George, his voice trailing off. His deep hazel eyes shining like lamps in the firelight and glaring over the cover of his book, he continued, “Indeed, I couldn’t agree more, men would use dark junctures to dominate and scourge the earth with fire, si qua fata sinant, yet the more I think of it, these times seem hardly favorable to most, no not at all.” Robert added, “Well, I suppose there is plunder to gain in the wake of our drama, this ancient sibling rivalry between France and England; one wonders how much European blood has been shed on account of it! And now American blood too; God only knows if it’s possible to escape Europe here in America…” “Oh yes, but about this juncture and this tax, let us remember the King’s view, for the war was a costly affair…” “Costly for whom?” interrupted Robert. George quickly answered, “Costly for us, profitable for others. Imagine friends, there sits a rock guarding the Mediterranean, they call it Gibraltar, which is now a coveted British jewel. It is eminently strategic; it’s providential for the ministry, they consider it chief among their wartime-plunder…” Robert interjected, “what matter rocks to us? This is not Europe, what boon is Gibraltar to the Narrows or the Sound? Surely our kin bled not for some far-off geological acquisition.”

George lowered the book into his lap, keeping his page with a finger, and said, “My exact point dear Rob. It seems that here we must draw our line in the sand. No war and no rock can justify the wholesale destruction of our constitution, for surely that is the true end of all these machinations, and this very tax. –– If one could even say that the war was just, mind you. I would trade a thousand Gibraltars for our commerce fully restored. Many continental merchants were much abused in England I heard.” Robert, seeing an opportunity of showing his superior learning in the law, said, “well you are still on this first part of Coke, Georgie, yet read later in Magna Charta where it begins omnes mercatores habeant salvum et securum conductum ––, Coke glosses it plainly, the merchant stranger who arrives late at war shall be considered an open enemy.” George pondered a moment and said, “I suppose it is necessary in a republic to cherish the rights of war and the law of nations, nor can careless merchants ignore the fact. No matter, our commerce suffers more from market constriction than from anything else, the river of prosperity cannot properly flow in abundance dammed up as it is by preference of the King and the oceans clogged with the lingering smoke of warships.” They had forgotten for a moment their friend John, who was listening attentively and sipping at his wine, when he dug in his heels, he the demon’s advocate, and said in a plaintive tone, “Yet the war was costly.” With a wry smile, Robert said in Latin, “Post hoc ergo propter hoc!”

            The room was silent once more, until John asked, “Are you saying that…” and with a grin, George repeated once more Robert’s original point, “He thinks that this is but a favorable juncture…” Robert nodded and finished, “As I said to begin with, and I say again, there are men who would make use of a favorable juncture, be the times darkened by war or not, and might I add, is it hardly surprising that the Crown at this very moment seeks to tighten its grasp? Our Atlantic trade has gone on unmolested this entire century, with but the burden of a minute levy on molasses, salutarily neglected, of course. The Crown, and thus Parliament, be the ministers misled in their machinations…” He signaled his hand to George who finished for him, “…are using the fiscal need after the war to justify strengthening their stance in the colonies.” “Yes, at least that’s how I see it.” “Well, damn,” John said as he drank the last draught of the fortified wine.

1.2

George said after a moment, shifting gears, “He who lives by the sword shall die by it,” and John retorted, “Rather for our ministers it is he who lives by the pen shall die by it, a much better fate in my reckoning,” at which Robert chimed, “calumny cuts as deep as any sword, with which every politician dead or alive is eulogized.” George laughed and said, “I mean to say that Jesus was a pacifist was he not? I wonder how Grotius squares this circle. Perhaps the Quakers have it right in the end.” Robert thought a moment, “well Grotius can hardly be considered the first to think of war, for that we can thank the ancient bishop of Hippo especially as digested by the scholastic, Thomas of Aquino; yes, informed by the gospel of Christ they formed our theory of just war. One must not interpret the words of our Lord in such a way as to always render the meaning teased out prima facie to be exhaustive of his glorious crown of doctrine.” George nodded in agreement to this most practical of exegetical hermeneutics.

  “Well,” John added, “speaking of those who misinterpret the Lord, it isn’t altogether surprising that the current cabinet is progressing their conspiracy here, as you say, given the state of things in Quebec. There they have so far altered the nature of British government and custom as to totally enshrine a junto of Papists! The French Civil code to dominate our Common Law? It seems London seeks to make us King Louis’ subjects, or worse, slaves to the Pope! Grenville would pact with Satan himself if it meant he could squeeze as much as he could out of the colonies for the exchequer.”

Robert nodded solemnly saying, “Well spotted, indeed the current affairs there are the future for us, if things should proceed naturally, barring any sort of…how shall I say it, civil hindrance.” George, who never felt it worth hiding his feelings even for prudence’s sake, for truly, even if he had tried, his face would show them out plainly enough, spoke up, “but honestly, we ought to tolerate the Papists, that we do not is a stain on our polity. Was it not a year ago when that titular Bishop of some odd place, Challoner, the recusant scholar, died of fright by a heart attack when rioters came bustling upon his door in Southwark? He was but a poor inoffensive man in his last days!”  “Such barbarity is common to our people, I’m afraid. Who else can band together so naturally under Wilkes and Liberty, then go and rage against Rome and Popery, and Jews, and others?” Robert said with a sigh, not merely tolerating George’s liberality.

John added, “Though the Papists tar the purest Gospel with their own horrid accretions, I agree, at least in theory. Such a character darkens our people; just think of 1692, what Voltaire would think of it I’d like to know, as he treated the death of Jean Calas quite nicely in his treatise. Indeed, as he says, some think to tolerate opposing sides is to put arms in their hands, as if their very speech were violence, and yet I cannot help but think how the entirety of our good English society was built up by those Papists after all, and it has been a long time since some Fawkes came to nibble at the monarchy.” At this figure of speech he chuckled, as if reveling in his own wit, then he added, “Aye Georgie, let them speak freely I say; it has been 20 years since Culloden, and I daren’t think the Pretender has any Papist friends after that.”

George cherished the fact that he could speak so candidly and gain the approbation of his friends, and said, “Indeed, if speech is violence then I’m the king! The problem is not whether or not speech can cause damage on account of it being uttered, but whether there is any governing apparatus with authority enough to determine when and where and how. It seems to me, that once we begin to trot down this path, well then only God knows where it might lead, perhaps to actual violence against speech! Those who seek to control the Papists would control all good Christians, given a change of government [or the Confession of Westminster, added John quietly], which as you mentioned regarding Quebec…” “God only knows…,” concurred John.

“This all reminds me of a curiosity I recently came across, when I was speaking to a friend of Justice Horsmanden[3]. Do you recall the fire at the fort, the slave conspiracy?” George replied, “This was well before our time, friend,” “verily, yet he had in his possession a letter to the Justice, and I mention this solely in regard to tolerance…” John interjected “I think it must be said that tolerance isn’t truly love but a dull shadow and mere imitation”, “aye indeed well spoke, but as for the letter. If I recall aright, it, speaking of those days, the 40s or sometime thereabouts- there was a fire at Fort George, which prefaced another fire, and another, and these disasters confounded the city and tossed it into a general tumult. They of course blamed the Negros as a whole, seeing examples in the gazettes regarding slave insurrections in the Indies, and began to hang and burn them beyond the walls. I daren’t speculate as to the veracity, but no matter, this letter said something along the following lines, ‘the horrible executions of these negroes puts me into a mind of our New England Witchcraft, which if I don’t mistake New York justly reproached us for and mocked at our credulity about it!’ Ha! Credulity indeed, and with that he added smartly, ‘but may it not now be justly recorded, mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur!’” George added, “So it is often, those who have so much to say of others, fail to recognize the same in themselves. It is as always the mote and the beam.”. “Hypocrisy!” cried John, “Pure rank hypocrisy, such as our Lord condemned,” “yet to escape so very human an emotion?” Robert wondered aloud.

“Hypocrisy indeed, we ought to tolerate in some sense these sorts, we ought to think humbly, we ought to tolerate opposing views and not so readily silence those who disagree with us,” echoed George slowly. “Yet what of truth?” asked Robert, to which John remarked, smirking, “what is truth?” George eyed him with a look that clearly said something in the following spirit, do not quote Pilate to me. He merely said, “There must be a balance, between honoring sacred truth and allowing people to come to it without force and by their own conscience.”

1.3

 There was a moment of silence, as this comment seemed to resolve the present talk with a general approbation, when Robert inquired, “Yet what are we to do with the rabble these days, they royally walk about demanding all things; recall how they rioted in Boston[4], and since a day ago, patrolling here as if it were carnival, crying liberty and breaking windows and making a general mess of things, must we tolerate their violence for the sake of their ends?” John seconded this motion with the strange exclamation “They’re moonstruck!” George sought the opportunity for jest, “there must be some odd music deep in the firmament these cold months, which is distilled into the lunar light. That explains it!” Robert laughed and said, “You deeply imbibe your Cicero, friend,” by this he meant to say that perhaps George was too deeply drinking from the Platonism of Cicero, who professed that odd doctrine wherein the heavenly spheres revolve and through friction create a harmony of sound that resounds throughout the cosmos. “I am drunk by it!” George admitted playfully.

As seriously as he could muster, John asked with a schoolmaster tone, “How does one, then, explain the Saturnalia? Did the Romans just wake up one frosty morning and declare the slave the master and the master the slave? Nay, George and Cicero are right, there must be some strange yuletide metaphysics, mysterious as the world is, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least. The Christmas King and Fool are no mere figments of a European imagination, nay sirs be not so disturbed by this crass inversion of orders, for the metaphysics of frost demand it!” John concluded in his dramatic tone, a large smile brimming from ear to ear. “Perhaps strange polar winds pass by way of Saturn to our own watery moon?” George said, playing the game.

⸺ It was not altogether rare in the slightest that these three found themselves going round and round in strange speculation, half-inspired by copious drink, half by their well-read wit. ⸺

  Robert chimed in, “Sigillaria, aye, they surely channel and direct this lunar force onto each individual; that explains well enough Saturnalia!”

John jumped on the idea, “What of these days? I see no statuettes of Herakles about friend, nor bust of Pallas. Where have the small Apollos gone? What channels now the madness?” George knew immediately, “gifts, our modern sigillaria, though much devoid of any depth or meaning, aye men spurn God with their Christmas gifts. They become mad by them, channeling the demonic material…” Robert cut him off, “Georgie, my dear, when did you become a Calvinist? You didn’t tell us!” That made them all laugh.

Seriously, however, George added, “Well, I certainly feel there is an emptiness to it. Material can only remain mere material; it cannot convey the Spirit, save a sacrament, a physical sign or token, like the Eucharist itself.” More soberly, he added, “In truth, what to make of this madness of late has been long on my mind, and I cannot decide what to think of it. When the Edward arrived with that tempest in her hull, I was sure the city was going to implode, but then was only silence, eerie silence; By God, I fear what may be next. I mean to say, of course, that I support the congress and their aims, but the rabble, they transfigure our cause into the Whore of Babylon.”

John sighed and said, “Ignorance and passion are always mixed my friend. What many unite to in ignorance cannot be said to be false by way of their having united to it ignorantly but having no other reason to unite to it save passion, they are nevertheless culpable of the gravest of intellectual and spiritual faults. I say the mob is ignorant of what the congress really says, or of what they protest, indeed, and they are ignorant of their very ignorance!” Rob added, “This is to be expected, for truly, what can you expect from the unlearned? One’s knowledge of his own ignorance is only gained through learning.” George frowned, and asked, “What do you mean to say by this?” “Only that recognition of our natural ignorance is the main result of learning, for you subsequently learn what you didn’t before know, and suddenly have an idea of how very much there is to know, and become humbled then by your ignorance, which prods you further to seek causes and reasons to action. Hence it is, the truly ignorant, those ignorant willfully, like the mob, they seek not the cause of their action, but act like a beast in heat. ‘Tis passion at the gales, my friends, but let us keep reason well-fortified at the tiller.”

“Puppeteers will use any medium to achieve their ends; let’s hope the pact with such lowly means sully not the endeavors of our friends in Boston,” George said. John, picking up the broadside, said “The mob may be unlettered in the principles but not of the spirit of the British constitution. It is so sufficiently diffused among the people by our venerable ancestors, could we think otherwise?” Finally placing his empty glass on the table, Robert added, “I hope so; let us still pray that his majesty King George will read this declaration and take it true to heart. That, in the end, perhaps we can avoid such Bostonian tactics...” smirking he added, “regardless of lunar concurrences.” “I do believe that he will, though whether it should sway him or the Marquess of Rockingham, or the Sons of Liberty…” George said quietly, artfully hiding the lack of confidence that he felt in the king’s benevolence and in that of mankind. “Well, my father, who I remind you, was at the congress, and my Uncle Philip too, both are hopeful, so we should be as well,” Robert concluded.

After looking at the grandfather clock standing in the room, John interjected, “Egad, it’s getting late! If we prolong our study, Professor Cooper himself will riot. He’ll write you in the black book, I dare say.”

⸺ By black book he meant a muster roll of every disobedient student at King's College, penalized with odious Latin translations in proportion to the transgression committed (often of Tacitus, master of ellipsis!), and by you, he meant George, as George was truly the only person in that room bound by such a curfew. His two elder companions, Robert Livingston and John Jay were both from the class of '64, and though already apprenticed to lawyers at the bar, while they were leaving King's College as graduates, they had quickly attached themselves to George in friendship, discovering in each other a comforting mutual temperament. Almost every evening since, they had sat congregated on the third floor of King's College, and discussed politics, Latin, law, and, most importantly, women. Alongside these genteel discussions, for surely, as Robert was kind to point out, better to spend time in a club of friends, then to go wasting oneself at the toper’s tavern, was a grand supply of Madeira, sweet wine from the romantic island off Portugal. ⸺

             “Nox tibi venit longa, nec reditura dies,” replied George sardonically, as he stood up, cramped from his sitting in that chair for an hour reading the finest points of law, for his mind was aflame with passion for the law and for Old England. Robert smiled and said, “Well said, George. Let’s not give the tea-voider the satisfaction though.” Profanity crowning the evening colloquium, they began preparing to leave, and not wanting to waste their expensive wine, the three men, in that well-lit room in King’s College, refilled their wineglasses and toasted to life, literature, and to the King's health. “God save the King,” chanted George, uttering that most sacred of civic prayers.

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[1] N.B. The thoughtful reader, who perchance has endured my preface, is now embarking upon a rather lengthy introduction, for the lengthy history that follows needs to be introduced at length. The Congress here described is clearly not that of 1776, or even that of 1775, that being the Continental Congress, but rather it is a reference to the Stamp Act Congress, held at New York, in 1765. I pray that the humble, indefatigable, and adventurous reader may be patient with the length needed to unpack the politics of the age, for what follows this is well worth the patience, in this author’s estimation. CAVEAT LECTOR.

P.S - mos antiqua scriptorum colloquiis in sympoticis scribentium.

[P.P.S – This author loves Latin and pedantry, I beg of you, to forgive him on this point]

[2] Let me be thy intellectual crutch, gentle reader, for these gentlemen here are speaking of the Seven Years’ War, c. 1756-1763.  

[3] N.B. In truth, a most despicable man, and worth looking into, for he had his sticky hands in many of the fascinating legal affairs of the era, from Zenger to the Gaspee.

[4] August 14-26, 1765. 

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Warning: The Yellow Cardinal contains adult themes that may not be suitable for all audiences under the age of 18. Some chapters may contain descriptions of graphic scenarios including but not limited to: suggestive materials, violence, 18th century racism and slavery, sexism, etc.  Read with caution and/or parental permission.

Nassau Hall, c. 1765. King's College would have looked remarkably similar in the mid 18th century.