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It was on this spot that his prophecy came true. It's the site of the so-called Boston Massacre, a massacre of Bostonians by British soldiers. This is their only memorial.

Every day, from dawn to midnight, traffic roars over this circle of cobblestones which is where the first blood was spilt. Nearby, you see, still stands the Old State House which was then the seat of the colonial government. In 1770, it's hard to believe now; it dominated the scene and stood near the Custom House, which, as we can well understand, had become a detested symbol--the port of entry for British indignities.

Well, the massacre was soon publicized in inflammatory broadsides. This was done by Paul Revere, the most famous silversmith in the colonies. It was pictures like these that made sure that the echo of those shots would ring all the way down to the Carolinas. Let's retreat from the traffic, as the angry crowd did from the shooting, into Boston's Old South Meeting House.

They brought the wounded into this place, this church; this Old Meeting House which is a name that reminds us of one of the most durable of colonial institutions, which is the church considered, not only as a place of worship, but a court of law and a social center, the very nub of political life.

Now, what actually happened at the Boston Massacre? Well, as always, there are a great variety of versions; some toughs attacked a British soldier, or he was showing off his swordsmanship and attacked somebody else; somebody was beaten up. What they do agree about is that it was a very snowy March day and that a small crowd gathered around the Custom House, which was being guarded that day by a single sentry. He was a young man and they started to throw stones and slivers of ice at him, and he shouted for help, and some more soldiers came running and lined up in formation to guard him. Now, this scared the crowd, and one young redcoat was clubbed and kicked to the ground. And as he got up, he slipped on the ice and his musket went off. I suppose at the time that was the establishment story and it was despised as such. At any rate, after the first shot, the crowd charged forward and some of the soldiers panicked and fired. And what happened next? As in the Los Angeles suburb of Watts, in 1965, and five years later, at Kent State University, what happened next has been decided ever since by the passion and the prejudice of whichever side you were on when you first heard about it. I'm afraid that part is true, because that's history. Not what happened, but what people convince themselves must have happened.

Well, three civilians were killed, two wounded, they died later, one of them, a black man, Crispus Attucks, who today is resurrected as the first black American hero. Such drawings as these were done by bystanders as illustrations to depositions dictated to lawyers the next day by every sort of man who was sure he knew what happened.