Part 3

To trace the causes and indicate the character of this sudden and irreversible revulsion of feeling is to relate the story of the public career of James Otis as _primus inter pares_ and leader of the popular party in the Province of Massachusetts. For ten years, with the exception of some brief intervals of popular misunderstanding and disfavor, he stood forth as the eloquent exponent and acknowledged champion of the popular cause. Long prior to 1760 he had achieved renown as a lawyer, and the skill and distinction he had attained in his profession had already received due and appropriate recognition and reward in his appointment to the Attorney-Generalship of the Province. In that year, however, the outcry against the administration of the Acts of Trade became loud and general, and in the discontent and excitement which prevailed the over-zealous agents of the Executive came into collision with the people. The revival of an old "Act for the better securing and encouraging the trade of His Majesty's colonies in America," imposed a duty of sixpence on molasses and other articles imported from the French and Spanish West Indies. As this was tantamount to doubling the price, the trade was forced into contraband channels, and vigorous measures had to be adopted for the suppression of the illicit traffic. A third of the forfeited goods belonged to the king, and were appropriated for the benefit of the colony; a third belonged to the governor; and a third fell to the informers. But as that portion of the spoils which accrued to the colony was not claimed, the money was used to stimulate the zeal and vigilance of the customs-officers. These persons, armed with "writs of assistance" issued by the Chancellor of the Exchequer in England, were empowered to enter and search any private house suspected of containing smuggled goods, and seize whatever articles might be considered contraband within the meaning of the acts. Against these proceedings resistance was bold and general, suspected householders answering the demand of the customs-officers by closing the doors in their faces. It was the duty of Otis, as Advocate-General of the Province, to uphold the action of the executive government; but he refused to argue for the writs, and resigned. On his resignation becoming known he was at once retained, along with Oxenbridge Thacher, to defend the cause of the people, and his splendid triumph in this capacity made him the popular hero. His opponent, as has been already intimated, was his old friend, Jeremiah Gridley, King's Attorney,--a lawyer of great learning and acuteness. An eye-witness comments on the sublime spectacle of Otis, spite of the difficulties of his position, the excitement of the hour, and the fire and vehemence of his own passionate nature, treating his old master "with all deference, respect, and esteem", but confuting all his arguments, and reducing him to silence, and Gridley, on the other hand, "seeming to exult inwardly at the glory and triumph of his pupil."

In answering, almost at the outset, a charge which made his highest public virtue his fault,--the charge that he had deserted his office,--he said: "I renounced that office, and I argue this cause from the same principle, and I argue it with the greater pleasure as it is in favor of British liberty at a time when we hear the greatest monarch upon earth declaring from his throne that he glories in the name of Briton, and that the privileges of his people are dearer to him than the most valuable prerogatives of his crown; and it is in opposition to a kind of power, the exercise of which in former periods of English history cost one king his head, and another his crown."

* * * * *

The only principles of public conduct that are worthy of a gentleman or 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?"