shire and Connecticut, and as far as possible animated them with his own unconquerable will. You may imagine him standing among the dark men of the forest and with a rugged yet burning eloquence reciting the history of their common wrongs, or with prophetic power lifting the veil from the shadowy, though not to him uncertain, future.
He was continually subject to great personal dangers. A price was set upon his head, the Christian Indians were allies of the English and continually employed against him, while above all Uncas and the Mohegans were his deadly enemies. Hunted by English and Indians, assailed by famine and treachery, weakened by death and desertion, his fate was inevitable. When his warriors had fallen in battle, been sold into slavery or corrupted by bribes, when his old men and women, and children had perished, when the fires of the enemy had laid in ashes the wigwams and villages of the Pokanokets and their allies, when to his race there was neither seed-time nor harvest, he came to the home of his ancestors, and there his troubled spirit, contrasting sadly in death as in life with the placid scenes of nature around, passed forever away. He fell by the hand of his own race,—
“Darkly, sternly, and all alone,
A spoil—the richest and the last.”
Philip’s son, a boy nine years of age, was sold into slavery, and the royal race of Massasoit was extinct.
As all our information of Carthage and the Punic wars has been transmitted by Roman authors, so our knowledge of Philip and the war of 1675-6, is derived from partial and in some instances prejudiced sources. Yet it is just to say that our ancestors made no concealment of the facts, although the comments of Mather and Hubbard are often strangely barbarous in spirit. And further, we may be certain that our Pilgrim Fathers were true to the light that was in them; and
