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He reaches Wall street, and the sun is at its going down. Up from the East river come the sounds of orderly drummers drumming, of regimental fifers fifing. He stays his steps, and stands listening: he sees a brigade marching the “grand parade” at sunset.

Up it comes from Wall street to Smith street; (I am sure I do not know what Smith street is lost into now, but the orderly-book of Major Phineas Porter of Waterbury, one hundred years old to-morrow morning, has it “Smith street”); from the upper end of Smith street back to Wall street, and the young Philadelphian follows it, marching to sound of fife and drum.

As it turns towards the East river, he remembers whither he was bound and starts off with speed for the Grand Battery.

As he goes, glancing backward, he sees that all the town is at his heels.

He begins to run. All the town begins to run. He runs faster: the crowd runs faster. It is shouting now. He tries to listen; but his feet are flying, his head is bobbing, his hat is falling, and this is what he thinks he hears in the midst of all: “Down with him! Down with the Tory!” It is “tyrant” that they cry, but he hears it as “tory,” and he knows full well how Governor Franklin of New Jersey and Mayor Matthews of New York have just been sent off to Connecticut for safer keeping, and he does not care to go into New England just now, so he flies faster than ever, fully believing that the crowd pursues him, as a Royalist.

Just before him opens the Bowling Green. Into it he darts, hoping to find covert, but there is none at hand.

Right in the midst of the enclosure stands an equestrian statue of King George the Third.

It is high; it looks safe. Blue-Eyed Boy makes for it, utterly ignorant of what it is.

The crowd surges on. It is now at the gate. The young martyr makes a spring at the leg and tail of the horse; he swings himself aloft, he catches and clutches and climbs, and in the midst of ringing shouts of “Down with him! Down with horse and king!” Blue-Eyed Boy gets over King George and clings to the up-reared neck of the leaden horse; thence he turns his wild-eyed face to the throng below. “Down with him! He don’t hear! He won’t hear!” cry the populace.

“I do hear!” in wild afright, shrieks Blue-Eyed Boy, “and I’m not a Tory.”

Shut your eyes again, and see the picture as it stands there in the waning light of the ninth of July, 1776.

Four years ago, over the ocean, borne by loyal subjects to a loyal colony, it came, this statue, that you shall see. It is a noble horse, though made of lead, that stands there, poised on its hinder legs, its neck in air. King George sits erect, the crown of Great Britain on his head, a sword in his left hand, his right grasping the bridle-lines, and over all, a sheen of gold, for horse and king were gilded.

King George faces the bay, and looks vainly down. All his brave ships and eight thousand Red Coats, yesterday landed on yonder island, cannot save him now. Had he listened to the petitions of his children it might have been, but he would not hear their just plaints, and now his statue, standing so firm against storm, wind and time, trembles before the sea of wrath surging at its base.

“Come down, come down, you young rascal!” cries a strong voice to Blue-Eyed Boy, but his hands grasped at either ear of the horse, and he clings with all his strength to resist the pull of a dozen hands at his feet.

“Come down, you rogue, or we’ll topple you over with his majesty, King George,” greets the lad’s ears, and opens them to his situation.