Sir Edmund Andros arrived in Boston in December to assume the governorship of the Dominion of New England, a vast territory that would shortly embrace all the land from the St. Lawrence in the north and the St. Croix in the east to the Delaware in the west. Consolidated into one royal province, the all-too-independent colonies could be better defended from Indians and—of chief interest to James II—more easily made subject to taxes, tariffs, and assessments.
Remarkably, Andros met no resistance in establishing his government. He was accompanied by one hundred Grenadiers —”a crew that began to teach New England to … drink, blaspheme, curse, and damn,” a colonist complained—but that was hardly a sufficient number to put down any serious unrest. In fact, Andros’s task was eased by the support of merchants and landowners who anticipated that the new governor would usher in a pro-business regime.
But Andros didn’t enjoy the businessmen’s favor for long. Raised a feudal aristocrat on the island of Guernsey, the governor had no comprehension of or patience with the democratic institutions of New England. Within a year of his arrival, he had dispensed with representative government, outlawed all but one town meeting per year, and denied towns the right to gather moneys for the support of ministers. Taxes were increased, and those who protested against taxation without representation were clapped in jail, tried, and heavily fined. When Andros requested that he and other Anglicans be allowed to use a Boston meetinghouse for their worship, he was refused, whereupon he forced his way into one and held services. Bostonians were outraged that their meetinghouse was being polluted by “Common-Prayer worship” rank with “leeks, garlic, and trash.”
Had Andros’s express purpose been to alienate the colonists, he could hardly have done it better. His last ruling cost him all popular support. The Indian deeds that colonists claimed granted them ownership of land were suddenly declared by Andros to be of “no more worth than a scratch with a bear’s paw.” The governor announced that all land titles were to be reviewed and made subject to whatever payment he deemed fitting, and new grants of land could be had only after the payment of harsh quitrents.
Andros’s term as governor and the Dominion of New England itself were quickly brought to a close in April 1689. Two weeks after the news arrived from England that James II had been overthrown by William and Mary, crowds gathered in Boston’s streets. Drums were beat and angry speeches made, and before noon, in a bloodless coup, Andros and his followers found themselves in jail. A “Council for Safety of the People and Conservation of the Peace” was formed, and representatives from throughout Massachusetts happily convened to discuss affairs. After ten months’ imprisonment, Andros was sent to England to be tried, where he was at once acquitted of all charges.
1936 Fifty Years Ago
Mrs. Wallis Warfield Simpson was regarded as an entirely inappropriate consort for Edward VIII. She was a commoner, an American, and a once-divorced woman still married to her second husband.
Any sort of liaison with such a person was opposed by the royal family, the prime minister, the archbishop of Canterbury, and all the governments of the Dominions. But the king was determined to marry Mrs. Simpson, even if it meant the loss of his throne. To the astonishment of the world, it came to that. On December 10, Edward VIII signed an instrument of abdication, and the next day he gave a farewell address that was broadcast around the globe. “You must believe me,” he told his listeners, “when I tell you that I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as King … without the help and support of the woman I love.” The former king then followed Mrs. Simpson to the Continent, where they would live in exile for most of the remainder of their lives.
“People were very mean in the beginning,” recalled the Duchess of Windsor, the title Mrs. Simpson acquired upon marrying Edward. “We felt the world was praying we wouldn’t be happy.” Officially, England seemed determined to make the couple suffer. The archbishop of Canterbury refused to authorize an Anglican wedding, and a decree was issued denying the duchess any right to the title “Royal Highness.” The royal family shunned them until 1965, when the duke was invited to a memorial service for his sister. Even that event, however, did not signal any relaxation of the official coolness directed toward the Windsors.
After the duke died, in 1972, the duchess’s health quickly failed, leaving her housebound for the last eight years of her life. When she died this past April, she was buried by the royal family in a plot beside her husband in the land she had said, in a bitter moment, “I shall hate to my grave.”
December 26: Ninety-six American volunteers set sail from New York en route to Spain, where they will join the International Brigades fighting in the Spanish Civil War.
