Historical fiction, American; New England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
And who was the Gray Champion? Perhaps his name might be found in the
records of that stern court of justice which passed a sentence too
mighty for the age, but glorious in all after-times for its humbling
lesson to the monarch and its high example to the subject. I have heard
that whenever the descendants of the Puritans are to show the spirit of
their sires the old man appears again. When eighty years had passed, he
walked once more in King street. Five years later, in the twilight of
an April morning, he stood on the green beside the meeting-house at
Lexington where now the obelisk of granite with a slab of slate inlaid
commemorates the first-fallen of the Revolution. And when our fathers
were toiling at the breastwork on Bunker’s Hill, all through that night
the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long may it be ere he comes
again! His hour is one of darkness and adversity and peril. But should
domestic tyranny oppress us or the invader’s step pollute our soil,
still may the Gray Champion come! for he is the type of New England’s
hereditary spirit, and his shadowy march on the eve of danger must ever
be the pledge that New England’s sons will vindicate their ancestry.
SUNDAY AT HOME
Every Sabbath morning in the summer-time I thrust back the curtain to
watch the sunrise stealing down a steeple which stands opposite my
chamber window. First the weathercock begins to flash; then a fainter
lustre gives the spire an airy aspect; next it encroaches on the tower
and causes the index of the dial to glisten like gold as it points to
the gilded figure of the hour. Now the loftiest window gleams, and now
the lower. The carved framework of the portal is marked strongly out.
At length the morning glory in its descent from heaven comes down the
stone steps one by one, and there stands the steeple glowing with fresh
radiance, while the shades of twilight still hide themselves among the
nooks of the adjacent buildings. Methinks though the same sun brightens
it every fair morning, yet the steeple has a peculiar robe of
brightness for the Sabbath.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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