The patriots, those who could afford to do so, had mostly left. Those who remained were of the humbler class, with a sprinkling of physicians, lawyers, and clergymen, who stood by their posts. Among the clergymen was one with whose name I have a pleasant association: the Reverend Mather Byles, pastor of Hollis Street Church. This gentleman was a merry, as well as a devout person; full of quips and cranks, and not always lacking in wanton wiles. John Adams quotes him as saying, when first the British troops occupied Boston, that "our grievances would now be red-dressed!" But my own thought of Mr. Byles recalls a story often told by my mother, which she may have heard in childhood from her grandfather, the old Revolutionary Colonel. It tells how one night the Reverend Mather, returning home very late, passed by the house of a man whom he greatly disliked. A sudden thought struck him; he went up the steps and began to beat and bang on the door and halloo at the top of his lungs. After some delay, the night-capped head of his neighbor was thrust out of the window, demanding what was to do at this time o' night. "Have you lost a penknife?" asked Mr. Byles. "No! Have you found one?" "No, but I feel as if I should any minute!" _Exeunt_ both parties, one chuckling, the other swearing. The Tories, rich, prosperous, and loyal to King George, were ready enough to help the officers in making merry. There were sleighing parties, riding parties, parties of every description: no doubt the Tory maidens found the winter a very gay one. Faneuil Hall was turned into a theatre, and General Burgoyne wrote plays for it. A performance of "Zara" was a brilliant success. After another performance, a farce called "Boston Blockade," a "Vaudevil" was to be sung by the characters, of which the following is a part: Ye Critics, who wait for an End of the Scene, T' accept it with Praise or dismiss it with Spleen; Your Candor we ask and demand your Applause, If not for our Action, at least for our Cause. 'Tis our Aim by Amusement thus chearful and gay, To wile a few Hours of Winter away: While we rest on our arms, call the Arts to our Aid, And be merry in spite of the BOSTON BLOCKADE. Ye tarbarrel'd Lawgivers, yankified Prigs, Who are Tyrants in Custom, yet call yourselves Whigs; In return for the Favors you've lavish'd on me, May I see you all hanged upon _Liberty Tree_. Meantime take Example; decease from Attack; You're as weak under Arms as I'm weak in my Back, In War and in Love we alike are betrayed, And alike are the laughter of BOSTON BLOCKADE.