General Lee died in an obscure inn in Philadelphia, October 2, 1782. His will was characteristic: "I desire most earnestly that I may not be buried in any church or churchyard, or within a mile of any Presbyterian or Baptist meeting-house; for since I have resided in this country I have kept so much bad company that I do not choose to continue it when dead." In this will, our singular hero paid a tribute of affectionate remembrance to several of his intimate friends, and of grateful generosity to the humble dependents who had adhered to him and ministered to his wants in his retirement. The bulk of his property--for he was a man of no small means--was bequeathed to his only sister, Sydney Lee, to whom he was ever devotedly attached.
[Footnote 2: Drake's "Historic Fields and Mansions of Middlesex." Little, Brown & Co., publishers.]
[Footnote 3: Drake's "Historic Fields and Mansions of Middlesex."]
[Footnote 4: Sparks's "Life of Charles Lee." Little, Brown & Co.]
[Illustration: CHRIST CHURCH--PAUL REVERE HOUSE, BOSTON, MASS.]
There are many points of view from which this tale of Paul Revere may be told, but to the generality of people the interest of the poem, and of the historical event itself, will always centre around Christ Church, on Salem Street, in the North End of Boston--the church where the lanterns were hung out on the night before the battles of Lexington and Concord. At nearly every hour of the day some one may be seen in the now unfrequented street looking up at the edifice's lofty spire with an expression full of reverence and satisfaction. There upon the venerable structure, imbedded in the solid masonry of the tower front, one reads upon a tablet:
If the pilgrim wishes to get into the very spirit of old Christ Church and its historical associations, he can even climb the tower----
"By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry chamber overhead, And startle the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him make Masses and moving shapes of shade"----
to look down as sexton Robert Newman did that eventful night on----
"The graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still."
The first time I ever climbed the tower I confess that I was seized with an overpowering sense of the weirdness and mystery of those same spectral graves, seen thus from above. It was dark and gloomy going up the stairs, and if Robert Newman had thought of the prospect, rather than of his errand, I venture to say he must have been frightened for all his bravery, in that gloomy tower at midnight.