a man are to sacrifice estate, ease, health, and applause, and even life
itself, to the sacred calls of his country. The glowing and oft-quoted
eulogy of John Adams on this great argument, which is said to have
lasted nearly five hours, is a commonplace of history, but we cannot
forbear repeating it. Otis was a flame of fire; with a promptitude of
classical allusions, a depth of research, a rapid summary of historical
events and dates, a profusion of legal authorities, a prophetic glance
of his eyes into futurity, and a rapid torrent of impetuous eloquence,
he hurried away all before him. American independence was then and there
born. Every man of an immense crowded audience appeared to me to go away
as I did, ready to take up arms against the "writs of assistance." The
speech, says Bowen, "gave vitality and shape to the dim sense of
oppression and wrong from the mother country, which already rested
indistinctly on the minds of the colonists." "It breathed," says Adams,
"into this nation the breath of life."
The effect, however, which John Adams and other admirers of Otis have
ascribed to his great legal triumph was obviously not the one Otis
himself intended it to produce. There was, after all, something
exceedingly vague and uncertain about his attitude and principles as a
politician and a statesman. His contemporaries felt this, and somewhat
unfeelingly accused him of inconsistency. At one time he was equally
censured by his friends and by foes. In his "_Vindication of the Conduct
of the House of Representatives of the Province of Massachusetts Bay_,"
published in 1762, occurs the following: "The British Constitution of
government, as now established in His Majesty's person and family, is
the wisest and best in the world. The King of Great Britain is the best
and most glorious monarch upon the globe, and his subjects the happiest
in the universe." And yet Lord Mansfield, whose marble figure stands
proudly among those of other distinguished Englishmen in the corridor of
the British House of Commons, defended him in Parliament, not as a
loyalist, but as a revolutionist. "Otis" said he, "is a man of
consequence among the people over there. It was said the man is mad.
What then? One madman often makes many. Massaniello was mad, nobody
doubts; yet for all that he overturned the government of Naples."
Friends of the government on both sides of the water suggested that Otis
should be proceeded against for treason, but the British
Attorney-General declared the "writs of assistance" illegal, and there,
for a time, the matter ended.
When, in January, 1763, preliminaries of peace between France and
England were signed, the people of Boston rejoiced, and Otis, as their
spokesman, said: "The true interests of Great Britain and her
plantations are mutual, and what God in His providence has united, let
no man dare attempt to pull asunder." Governor Bernard, however, who
inferred from this strain of remark that the province would soon recover
its reputation for loyalty, seriously overrated its significance. When
the General Assembly of Massachusetts met in 1764, Otis, as chairman of
the Committee of Correspondence, drew up the draft of an address to
Parliament, to prevent the passage of the Stamp Act; but it was not
presented. The act passed into law, and Boston was immediately caught in
a whirlwind of popular indignation and excitement. The mob burnt the
effigy of Oliver, who, in an evil moment, had accepted the office of
Distributor of Stamps, and he, deeming discretion the better part of
valor, resigned his post immediately thereafter, under Liberty-tree. The
house of Hutchinson, Lieutenant Governor, was demolished, while Bernard,
the chief offender, was left undisturbed. Mobocracy, however, was not a
pleasant contemplation to the sober and law-abiding people of Boston,
and next day the inhabitants of the town assembled in Faneuil Hall and
denounced the authors of outrage and violence.
The Stamp Act Congress, originally proposed by Otis, met in New York,
October 19, 1765. He, together with Timothy Ruggles and Colonel
Partridge, were delegated to attend as the representatives of
Massachusetts. Otis took a prominent and influential part in the
deliberations of the Congress, and was one of the committee chosen to
draft an address to Parliament praying for the repeal of the obnoxious
law, which had nearly brought business to a stand-still in many of the
colonies, for, as Hutchinson remarks, "No wills were proved, no
administrations granted, no deeds nor bonds executed." Agitation and
appeal were successful. Parliament beat a retreat and dropped the
attempt to tax the American colonies, like a red-hot poker.[H] But the
breach between the popular party and the friends and representatives of
the government was destined never to be healed. Between Hutchinson and
Otis especially relations were of a very unfriendly character, and it
must have been exceedingly difficult for the partisans on either side to
keep cool when the leaders were so apt to catch fire. Still, when the
Revenue Act of 1767 fell like a firebrand among the colonists, Otis,
singularly enough, was almost alone in advising moderation and caution.
In the following year his action and attitude were more consistent; he
was once more the advocate of resistance, and was appointed to draft
letters to the King, to De Berdt, the agent of the Province in London,
and a circular-letter, addressed to the colonial assemblies, requesting
them "to unite in some suitable measures of redress."[I] Governor
Bernard demanded the rescinding of the letters; and Otis replied in a
speech which the Governor described as "the most violent, abusive, and
treasonable declaration that perhaps ever was delivered." It is a very
significant indication of the state of popular feeling in Massachusetts
at the time that, while only seventeen members of the House were ready
to say "Yes" to the Governor's demand, nintey-two were resolved to say
"No." In the summer of 1769 a violent and disgraceful affray took place
between Otis and Robinson, the Commissioner of Customs, in a
coffee-house, in which Otis received a severe blow on the head. From
that moment his public career was practically at an end. He became the
victim of insanity. From 1771 to 1783 he lived aloof from the excitement
of public affairs. His death was singularly tragic and fearfully sudden.
As he stood at the door of his home in Andover, during a storm, a flash
of lightning struck him lifeless to the ground; so that he may almost be
said to have been carried to his rest in a chariot of fire.
[H] Edmund Burke had previously warned the British Parliament
against the futile attempt to tax the American colonies, and had
said, "You will never get a shilling from them."
[I] Tudor and Bowen hold that these letters, which are found in the
Massachusetts State Paper Collection, are from the pen of Otis.
Bancroft gives strong reasons for believing Samuel Adams to be their
author.
As to the place of Otis in the early colonial history of America it is
somewhat difficult to state it. His influence as the leader and exponent
of popular opinion was undoubtedly very great so long as it lasted, and
in the main it was beneficial. If, like many another great moral and
political force, he accomplished something entirely different from what
he intended, both what he intended and what he actually accomplished
were equally a credit to him. Some of his contemporaries thought that
his courage, his eloquence, his pure and undiluted patriotism, had a
serious drawback in the irrepressible fire and vehemence of his nature;
but passion enters largely into the composition of all noble natures,
and is, in no inconsiderable degree, the secret of their success. Otis
was certainly wanting in some of the elements of greatness displayed by
the most distinguished of his contemporaries and compatriots. His style
of statemanship was not so far-seeing, comprehensive, and solid as that
of a Samuel Adams, a Thomas Jefferson, a John Dickenson, or a Benjamin
Franklin, and it certainly lacked the Machiavellian coolness and
argumentativeness of a Hutchinson. But what Otis accomplished was
impossible to any of them. His work was quite unique in its way, and his
public life and action have produced results as valuable and lasting as
the public labors of any of the noble men who devoted without stint
their best thought and energies to laying down, deep, strong, and
enduring, the foundation-stones of the American Republic.
A ROMANCE OF KING PHILIP'S WAR.
BY FANNY BULLOCK WORKMAN.
CHAPTER I.
One bright afternoon early in the month of June, 1676, a young girl
stood leaning against the trunk of a tree, gazing into the waters of the
beautiful Lake Quinsigamond. Her head rested heavily on her hand, as if
weighed down by the burden of despair. Suddenly she started, uttering a
slight cry, then sank back against the tree with a sigh of relief as she
recognized a tall young Indian who approached her.
"Ah! is it you, Ninigret?"
"Yes, Millicent; fear not, there is no foe near; and if there were I
would protect you. Why do you tremble so?"
"Is it strange I tremble at the least noise, when the sound of a
footstep or the rustling of a leaf may mean instant death to me? The
forest is full of enemies. They lurk in every by-path. Behind every bush
or fair spreading tree may be seen their leering faces. What, then, has
a poor captive girl to expect of their mercy?"
"Do not I and those of my tribe here protect you? Have I not already
saved you from death at the hands of a roving Indian?"
"You have; perhaps only for a worse fate. Death, indeed, would be no
worse than a future of such captivity; for though you will save me from
the violence of the red men, neither you nor your associates will
liberate me. Ah, Ninigret! why are you so in the power of that tyrant,
Philip? Why will you not brave him, he is so far from here now, and take
me to a white settlement? I promise you no harm shall come to you. You
shall return unhurt to your people."
"Do you not remember that Wattasacompanum has promised to keep you in
safety until Philip is ready to have you ransomed? Have you forgotten
the solemn rites by which he bound himself the day they brought you to
us? Wattasacompanum is a good chief, a true Indian, who will not break
his promise."
"Then, Ninigret, I appeal to you, who have made no promise for me, to
help me to escape to my countrymen."
"I cannot do that; but I will take you to a place of safety, though it
may be a long, long journey from here. Say, Millicent, will you come
with me?"
"Go with you, Ninigret, in any direction other than to a white
settlement?" replied Millicent, turning her wondering blue eyes full
upon him. "Even if such a thing were possible, where would you take me?
Where and how in this time of war?"
"Beyond the reach of the present strife, until Philip has driven the
white men from our country. I cannot take you to the whites, for they
will soon be swept from the land. They are much broken up already.
Philip is a mighty chief, and has powerful friends among the Indians."
"Can it be so? No, no; the Indian may do harm and cause suffering, but
surely the white race cannot be exterminated."
"Yes, it can, Millicent; as when, in the spring, the warm sun melts the
snow, causing it to disappear from the dark earth, so will the white men
vanish from this country, leaving the red men in possession."
"I cannot believe it. Yet how can a poor creature like me, a captive in
the forest, cut off from all communication with her friends, know what
is the real state of affairs outside? In the long months since I was
taken captive rumors have come to me of one town after another being
destroyed or abandoned. Alas! what else may not have happened? Yes, it
is doubtless true. O my God! is it then to be my fate to be held in
life-long bondage, without a friend to whom I can turn?"
"I will be your friend; come with me. I will take you away from here,
where you are so unhappy, I will make a home for you. We will live
together. You shall be my wife."
"Your wife!" and Millicent, deadly pale, clung closer to the tree.
"Yes, why not? I am brave and strong; I would guard you from all evil,
and would make you happy. What better have you to hope? Why await
Philip's pleasure? You say you have no rich friends to ransom you. If
not, he will marry you himself, and he would not be as kind as I. He is
a hard master."
"I marry you, or Philip?" the young girl murmured, with a look of
dreary terror on her face; then, as if to herself, "In fairy tales, as a
child, I read of maidens marrying kings, and wished I were the heroine
of such a tale; but little did I dream that such a king might some time
be offered me for a husband." And she dropped her head upon her arm.
"Do not look so unhappy. Philip is, in truth, no husband for you; but I
am different, and do not hate the white race as he does. He is a fierce
warrior, while I wish but to live in peace, to have you for my wife."
The Indian drew nearer to Millicent. His dark hand stretched forth to
grasp her slender white wrist, his black eyes flashing with entreaty. "I
am not like the others of my tribe you see about here; I am more
civilized; I speak your language; I have the last year embraced your
religion. I vowed to you I would not lay hands upon one of your race to
hurt them while you were amongst us. That I have sacredly kept this vow
you well know; but you do not know what it has cost me at times, when I
have seen the bitter cruelty shown by your race toward mine. All this I
would do willingly for you; will you not then be my wife and love me a
little?"
The young Indian spoke with a modesty and manliness so remarkable in a
son of the forest that Millicent was impressed with his manner, and in
her reply tried to show consideration.
"You are an exception to your race, Ninigret, and have always acted
honorably toward me. I thank you for all you have done; and, if God ever
restore me to my countrymen, I will show my gratitude in more
substantial form than mere words. Marry you I never can; think of it
calmly, and you will see that it is impossible; such a marriage would
only bring misery to us both."
"You scorn me I see," Ninigret said, quickly, growing angry. "I tell you
we should be happy."
"Indeed, we should not; from this on you must never mention this subject
to me."
"You cannot put me off so easily. What do I care for the kindness you
may show me after you leave here? But you will not leave here very soon,
let me tell you, unless you marry me. In that case you shall escape in a
few days."
"Then I shall never escape," replied Millicent, a bright flash of
determination suffusing her fair face.
"Your only answer then is No?"
"No; I will never be your wife."
"And I say you shall. Farewell! We will meet again." And all the latent
savage nature gleamed forth from his face as he swiftly and noiselessly
disappeared into the forest.
Millicent, overcome with emotion, sank listlessly on the ground, where
she remained for some time with her head bowed upon her knees,
regardless of the beauty of the scene about her. Above, the sky was
cloudless, a deep impenetrable blue, as seen through the heavy foliage
of the grand primeval forest. At her feet stretched the calm, smooth
lake, dotted here and there with tiny islands, so thickly wooded that
they looked like escaped bits of the forest floating on the glassy
surface of the water. For miles stretched the line of the shore, here
straight, there gracefully curving, and everywhere heavily overhung by
majestic trees. After a time she raised her eyes, and, stretching her
hand with a hopeless gesture toward the lake, said, "Better to drown in
that quiet water than to remain longer with these savages, now that
Ninigret has turned foe also, and I have no friend to help me."
"Let me be a friend to help you," replied a manly voice close by.
Surprised and astonished Millicent sprang to her feet, and saw standing
before her a tall, handsome man of perhaps five and thirty years,
dressed in uniform.
"O sir! can I really hope that you will help a poor, distressed captive
girl?"
"Of course I will," he answered, moving near to her. "First tell me the
circumstances of your captivity and"--
"Hush! do not speak so loud, or they will hear us and take you prisoner
also. Come this way," said Millicent, as she led him to a thick clump of
trees near at hand. "A short distance from here, on yonder hill, is an
Indian camp, which has been my home for many months."
"How large is the encampment?" asked the young man, looking with
interest and admiration at the poorly clad but refined and beautiful
girl by his side.
"When all are there they number about one hundred; but at present most
of the warriors are away."
"Where is your home?"
"I have no home. I am an orphan, and with my sister was visiting friends
in Taunton, at the time the Indians attacked that place."
"Ah! Tell me the story of your capture."
"I will if you care to hear it. Upon the breaking out of the war, my
friends, like others, became alarmed, and adopted such means of defence
as they could command; still, when Philip really appeared with his
Indians, they were surprised. Ah, sir, even you, who I see are an
officer, and probably used to such sights, would have been touched by
the misery and desolation those wretches caused on that day. They fired
the house we were in, and when we were driven by the flames to the open
air, they assailed us; and then I saw my friends struck down about me.
An old woman, a mother, three daughters and a son, all brutally killed.
Then they seized me, more dead than alive. A fierce Indian, with a yell,
raised some weapon in the air, while holding me fast with the other
hand; but his uplifted arm was suddenly grasped by a stalwart and gayly
dressed chief, whom I soon learned was King Philip. Although nearly
overcome with terror, I heard him say, 'She is too'"--
"Beautiful to be killed," added the officer.
"Well, yes, I suppose that was the idea. 'Take her captive.' They bound
my arms to my sides and carried me away. I fainted at that point, and
when I came to myself was on horseback, supported by a horrible old
squaw."
"Poor girl! how did you survive such a shock?"
"I do not know, for I was ill with fever throughout the journey; but am
I not wearying you with the history of a girl who has surely no claim
upon you?"
"You have a claim, dear lady; the unfortunate have always a claim upon
any honorable man; besides, I am deeply interested in your story. Please
proceed."
"We travelled slowly on for several days, resting at night. The shock,
the mode of life, and, above all, the anxiety about my sister, of whose
fate I knew nothing, made me ill and unfit for the rough journey. When I
failed and fainted, as I did several times, they beat me and knocked me
about, making me walk when utterly unable, as a punishment for my
laziness, they said. At last, when they saw I could go no farther on my
feet, they strapped me on a horse's back, where I lay, half delirious
and without food, until we reached this place."
"What an experience for one so delicate!" remarked the officer, looking
at Millicent with increasing interest.
"We arrived here late one night, and then an old squaw, who has ever
since been kind to me, took me to her wigwam and made me as comfortable
as she could. I shall never forget the relief it was to lie quiet, if
only on a bed of pine-boughs."
"You must have had fortitude to have lived through such a mental and
physical strain. How did they happen to bring you here?"
"That night, when they thought I slept, I overheard the leader of the
band that brought me talking with Wattasacompanum, the chief of the
Nipmucks. He said Philip had ordered them to bring me here, and sent a
message that I should be kept and well treated until he should see fit
to have me ransomed. Wattasacompanum, who is a good chief and a praying
Indian, promised that I should be faithfully guarded. The next day,
before Philip's messengers departed, I was carried outside the wigwam,
where the Indians danced a wild, fantastic war-dance about me, to the
music of their own strange screaming. I lay trembling with fright, until
the old squaw came out and sat by me, somewhat quieting my fears by
repeating, 'They no kill you; they no kill.' They wished to paint my
face and decorate my head with branches, but Wattasacompanum said no,
that being ill I should not be disturbed. He laid his hand on my head,
and solemnly promised to safely keep me; and after that the strange
Indians departed."
"What did they do for you to bring back your health?"
"Very little. I was allowed to rest for a time, was not treated very
harshly, and nature did the rest."
"What food did you have?"
"Ah, that was the worst trial; for days I ate almost nothing. I could
not touch the meat they kept constantly boiling in a great common
kettle, which all could go to, but I soon learned to eat a sort of cake
they make of Indian corn, and when stronger I wandered about and found
berries and dried nuts for myself; but I have never been strong since I
came here."
"That does not surprise me. Such a life for one like you! Have they
always treated you well?"
"No, they are often very rough; but the women are kinder than the men,
who, fortunately for me, are away upon the war-path the greater part of
the time, returning only occasionally for a night."
"What work do they require of you?"
"I first bring up water from the lake in the morning,--that tires me
most,--then I help cook their food, and do whatever is necessary in an
Indian household,"--and Millicent smiled,--"and I sew for the women and
children."
"The wretches! why don't they bring their own water from the lake, and
make their own clothes?"
"I would willingly do all they ask could I but know that I may soon be
free to look for my sister, and be among my own race again."
"We will see about that. You must not do drudgery for these savages much
longer. Have you no relatives with whom it may be possible your sister
is now?"
"None; the family whom we were visiting when I was captured were our
only relatives. My sister was out at the time on an errand in the town;
so you see I do not know whether she was killed or captured, undoubtedly
one or the other. My name is Millicent Gordon; hers, Martha. Now, sir,
you have my history, and I wish to thank you for your kind attention. It
has done me good to relate it to you, for you are the first white man
whom I have seen for many months."
"My dear lady, your story has interested me deeply and aroused in me
both sincere admiration and sympathy for one who has suffered so much
and so bravely. My one thought is to liberate you."
"Can you really do so? Is the country, then, not all given over to the
Indians? Oh, tell me it is not!"
"No, indeed; they are being steadily and surely conquered; though, God
knows, they do enough damage even now. I am Captain Merwin, sent here
from Boston on a scouting expedition. I have two men with me, who are
awaiting my return less than a mile off. I wandered in this direction
while they were resting. I knew there were many Indians roving about;
but that there was a camp in this vicinity I was not aware."
"They suppose their existence here to be unknown to the whites."
"I wonder they trust you as far as this."
"They do; I always return. They know I am unable to escape, and would be
found and brought back if I tried; so they grant me my only solace, that
of wandering in the woods."
"This time they have trusted you once too often. Will you go with me,
and let me take you back to your friends?" asked the captain,
impulsively.
"I would go with you most willingly; but would the venture not be too
rash? Would it not endanger your own safety and that of your men, who
might escape harm alone, but, impeded with a woman, you might lose your
lives while saving hers. No, I had better stay where I am. You can be of
more service without me," answered Millicent, with quiet forethought.
"Not for a moment would I consider myself in the matter, Miss Gordon,"
replied the captain, with prompt assurance; "but perhaps it is not best
to attempt to rescue you until I have secured more men." He remained
silent a few minutes, apparently in deep thought, and said, at last,
very decidedly, "No; in case we met even a small band of Indians we
should be unable to resist, and they would surely recapture you or kill
us all at once. If you will have a little patience, and still trust me,
I promise to return and liberate you as soon as I can get men."
"Yes, I trust you wholly; and, as for patience, the hope of rescue will
make it infinite until you come," said Millicent, smiling.
"Thank you for your trust; it shall not be misplaced. Be prepared at any
time after a week for an attack upon the camp, and this time the war-cry
will come from friends instead of enemies. May I do homage to the fair
hand that has carried water to quench the thirst of an Indian squaw?"
Before the blushing Millicent could deny the favor he had pressed her
fingers to his lips.
"I must return now, or they will look for me. See, the sun sets
already."