Free American Fun by John Beckman Page B

crowd actions, took a subtler, even safer tack: he published “A Dissertation on the Canon and Feudal Law” in the
Boston Gazette
. This longand carefully measured screed, which only hints at the crisis of the day, “dare[s]” the people “to read, think, speak, and write.” Its wildest move is to encourage deep reflection—particularly at “the pulpit” and at “the bar.” As if in defiance of the noise in the streets, the “Dissertation” posits a defanged revolution that better suited his retiring nature—a thoughtful and calm revolution, apparently involving only the literate classes. In this utopian upheaval, “Colleges join their harmony in the same delightful concert,” “Public disputations become researches into the … ends of government,” and “Every sluice of knowledge [is] opened and set aflowing.” His argument was praised by Boston’s senior pastor, who applauded Adams for being old beyond his years (“The author is a young man, not above 33 or 34, but of incomparable sense”), but it was awkwardly out of step with his volatile, rebellious,
youthful
times.
    NINE YEARS LATER , John Adams attended a plein-air dinner in a hummocky field outside Dorchester’sSign of the Liberty Tree Tavern. The event commemorated theStamp Act repeal. Three hundred fifty Sons of Liberty were present, and the lot of them dined under a sailcloth awning hoisted to keep out the pattering rain. John looked rather twitchily around, privately concerned by his place in the crowd. It pleased him that the lawyers were seated at the “Head,” but his eye was distracted by the secretary of New Jersey, who had been “cool, reserved, and guarded all day.” He joined the throng in a series of toasts and noted, archly, “to the Honour of the Sons,” that he “did not see one Person intoxicated, or near it.”
    It isn’t clear how much fun John Adams had. Their host, a farmer, started the“LibertySong,” and everyone present joined in for the chorus. Adams, too, may have raised his voice, singing, to the tune of “Heart of Oak”:
    Our worthy forefathers, let’s give them a cheer,
    To climates unknown did courageously steer;
    Thro’ oceans to deserts for Freedom they came,
    And dying, bequeath’d us their freedom and fame.
    He may have been feeling it that wet summer’s eve as hundreds of voices rang out to the clouds, but he kept enough distance, between huzzahs, to admire such songs for “Cultivating,” as he put it, “Sensations of Freedom.” For John such sensations weren’t a good in themselves, not playful romps inThayer’s tavern. For him, they represented a political resource that had to be harnessed and properly packaged: “[James] Otis and [Samuel] Adams are politick in promoting these festivals, for they tinge the minds of the people, they impregnate them with sentiments of Liberty. They render people fond of their leaders in the Cause, and averse and bitter against all opposers.”
    Clearly he missed his cousin’s point. “Politick” thoughSamuel Adams may have been—organizing “parades, festivals, and shows of fireworks to celebrate such happy anniversaries”—he knew that power had to rise from the people. The people had to be “fond”
of themselves,
and their leaders could only urge this along. Such sensations didn’t advertise an upcoming republic. In the spirit of radicalpatriotism, they kept “fellow citizens awake to their grievances” while letting them experience their democracy firsthand. During this tempestuous period, patriotism itself was cause for celebration—rude, native, exuberant enjoyment—but enjoyment that still made John Adams suspicious.
    The law was his refuge from the tumult of the streets. As early as 1758, returning to Boston from sleepy Braintree, he resented how his “Ears [were] ravished with every actual or imaginable sound.” The country lawyer shuddered at “the Hurley burley upon Change,” shrank from the “Rattling and Grumbling of