 22 While the colony of Virginia was fighting for life and struggling against tyranny, other colonies were taking root upon the wide shores of America. You will remember that in 1606 a sort of double company of adventurers was formed in England, one branch of which, the London Company, founded Jamestown. The other branch, the Plymouth Company, also sent out an expedition and tried to found a colony at the mouth of the Kennebec River, but it was a failure. Some of the adventurers were so discouraged with the cold and bleak appearance of the land, that they sailed home again in the ship which had brought them out. Only about forty-five or so stayed on. The winter was long and cold, and they were so weary of it, so homesick and miserable, that when in the spring a ship came out with provisions, they all sailed home again. They had nothing good to say of Virginia, as the whole land was then called by the English. It was far too cold, and no place for Englishmen, they said. Still some of the adventurers of the Plymouth Company did not give up hope of founding a colony. And nine years after this first attempt, our old friend Captain John Smith, recovered from his wounds, received in Virginia and as vigorous as ever, sailed out to North Virginia. In the first place he went to take Wales, and also to make trials of a mine of gold and of copper, and in the long run he hoped to found a colony. It was he who changed the name from North Virginia to New England, by which name it has ever since been known. He also named the Great River which he found there, Charles River, after Prince Charles, who later became King Charles I, and all along the coast he marked places with the names of English towns, one of which he named Plymouth. But Smith did not succeed in founding a colony in New England, and several adventurers who followed him had no better success. The difficulties to be overcome were great, and in order to found a colony on that inhospitable coast men of tremendous purpose and endurance were needed. At length these men appeared. Nowadays a man may believe what he likes either in the way of politics or religion. He may belong to any political party he pleases, or he may belong to none. He may write and make speeches about his opinions. Probably no one will listen to him. Certainly he will not be imprisoned for mere opinions. It is the same with religion. A man may go to any church he likes, or go to none. He may write books or preach sermons, and no one will hinder him. But in the days of King James things were very different. In those days there was little freedom either in thought or action, in religion or politics. As we have seen King James could not endure the thought that his colony should be self-governing, and free to make laws for itself. Consequently he took its charter away. In religion it was just the same. In England at the Reformation the king had been made head of the church, and if people did not believe what the king and clergy told them to believe, they were sure, sooner or later, to be punished for it. Now in England more and more people began to think for themselves on matters of religion. More and more people found it difficult to believe as king and clergy wished them to believe. Some found the Church of England far too like the old Church of Rome. They wanted to do away with all pomp and ceremony, and have things quite simple. They did not wish to separate from the Church. They only wanted to make the Church clean and pure of all its errors. So they got the name of Puritans. Others, however, quite despaired of making the Church pure. They desired to leave it all together and set up a Church of their own. They were called separatists, or sometimes from the name of a man who was one of their chief leaders, brownists. These brownists did not want to have bishops and priests, and they would not own the king as head of the Church. Instead of going to Church they used to meet together in private houses, there to pray to God in the manner in which their own hearts told them was right. This, of course, was considered treason and foul wickedness. So on all hands the brownists were persecuted. They were fined and imprisoned, some were even hanged. But all this persecution was in vain, and the number of separatists, instead of decreasing, increased as years went on. Now at Scrooby, a tiny village in Nottinghamshire, England, and in other villages round, both in Nottinghamshire and Lincolnshire, there were a number of separatists. Every Sunday these people would walk long distances to some appointed place, very likely to Scrooby or to Babworth, where there was a grave and reverent preacher, to hold their meetings. But they were never left long in peace. They were hunted and persecuted on every side. Till at length they decided to go to Holland, where they heard there was freedom of religion for all men. To many of them this was a desperate adventure. In those days few men travelled. For the most part people lived and died without once leaving their native villages. To go into a new country, to learn a new language, to get their living they knew not how, seemed to some a misery almost worths than death. Still they determined to go, such was their eagerness to serve God a right. The going was not easy. They were harassed and hindered in every fashion. Again and again evil men cheated them, and robbed them of almost all they possessed, leaving them starving and penniless upon the seashore. But at length, overcoming all difficulties, in one way or another they all reached Amsterdam. Even here, however, they did not find the full freedom and peace which they desired, and they next moved to Leiden. They found it a beautiful city, and of a sweet situation. Here they settled down, and for some years lived in comfort, earning their living by weaving and such employments, and by worshipping God at peace in their own fashion. But after about eleven or twelve years they began once more to think of moving. They had many reasons for this, one being that if they stayed longer in Holland, their children and grandchildren would forget how to speak English, and in a few generations they would no longer be English but Dutch. So they determined to go to some place where they could still remain English, and yet worship God as they thought right. And the place their thoughts turned to was the vast and unpeopled country of America. But which part of America they could not at first decide? After much talk, however, they at length decided to ask the Virginian company to allow them to settle in their land but as a separate colony, so that they might still have religious freedom. Two messengers were therefore dispatched to London to arrange matters with the company. The Virginian company was quite willing to have these separatists as settlers, but do what they would they could not get the king to promise them freedom to worship God. All that they could ring from him was a promise that he would take no notice of them so long as they behaved peaceably. To allow or tolerate them by his public authority under his broad seal was not to be thought of. That was the best the Virginian company or any of their friends could do for the separatists. And with this answer the messengers were obliged to return to Leiden. When the English men and women there heard it they were much disturbed. Some felt that without better assurance of peace they would be foolish to leave their safe refuge. But the greater part decided that, poor though the assurance was, they would be well to go, trusting in God to bring them safely out of all their troubles. And after all they reflected a seal as broad as the house floor would not serve the turn if James did not wish to keep his promise, so little trust did they put in princes and their oaths. So it was decided to go to the new world, and after much trouble everything was got ready. A little ship called the Speedwell was bought and fitted up. Then those who had determined to go went down to the seashore, accompanied by all their friends. Their hearts were heavy as they left the beautiful city which had been their home for the last twelve years. But they knew that they were pilgrims and strangers upon the earth, and they looked only to find in heaven an abiding place. So steadfastly they set their faces towards the sea. They went on board, their friends following sorrowfully. Then came the sad parting. They clung to each other with tears, their words of farewell and prayers broken by sobs. It was so pitiful a sight that even among the Dutchmen who looked on there was scarce a dry eye. At length the time came when the last farewell had to be said. Then their pastor fell upon his knees on the deck, and as they knelt round him he lifted his hands to heaven, and with tears running down his cheeks prayed God to bless them all. So the sails were hoisted, and the Speedwell sailed away to Southampton. Here she found the Mayflower awaiting her, and the two set forth together. But they had not gone far before the captain of the Speedwell complained that his ship was leaking so badly that he dared not go on. So both ships put into Dartmouth, and here the Speedwell was thoroughly overhauled and mended, and again they set out. But still the captain declared that the Speedwell was leaking, so once more the pilgrims put back, this time to Plymouth, and here it was decided that the Speedwell was unseaworthy and unfit to venture across the great ocean. That she was a rotten little boat is fairly certain, but it is also fairly certain that the captain did not want to sail to America, and therefore he made the worst, instead of the best, of his ship. If it is true that he did not want to cross the ocean he now had his way, for the Speedwell was sent back to London with all those who had already grown tired of the venture, or who had grown fearful because of the many mishaps. And the Mayflower, taking the rest of the passengers from the Speedwell, and as many of the stores as she could find room for, proceeded upon her voyage alone. Among those who sailed in her were Captain Miles Standish and Master Mullins with his fair young daughter Priscilla. I dare say you have read the story Longfellow made about them and John Alden. At the first John Alden did not go as a pilgrim. He was hired at Southampton as a cooper, merely for the voyage, and was free to go home again if he wished. But he stayed, and as we know from Longfellow's poem he married Priscilla. Now at length these pilgrim fathers, as we have learned to call them, were really on their way. But all the trouble about the Speedwell had meant a terrible loss of time, and although the pilgrims had left Holland in July it was September before they finally set sail from Plymouth, and their voyage was really begun. And now, instead of having fair, they had foul weather. For days and nights with every sail reefed, they were driven hither and thither by the wind, were battered and beaten by cruel waves, and tossed helplessly from side to side. At length after two months of terror and hardships they sighted the shores of America. They had, however, been driven far out of their course, and instead of being near the mouth of the Hudson River and within the area granted to the Virginia company, they were much further north, near Cape Cod, and within the area granted to the Plymouth Company, where they had really no legal right to land. So, although they were joyful indeed to see land, they decided to sail southward to the mouth of the Hudson, more especially as the weather was now better. Soon, however, as they sailed south they found themselves among dangerous shoals and roaring breakers, and being in terror of shipwreck they turned back again. And when they once more reached the shelter of Cape Cod Harbor they fell on their knees and most heartily thanked God, who had brought them safely over the furious ocean, and delivered them from all its perils and miseries. They vowed no more to risk the fury of the tempest, but to settle where they were, in the hope of being able to make things right with the Plymouth Company later on. So in the little cabin of the Mayflower the pilgrims held meeting, at which they chose a governor and drew up rules, which they all promised to obey for the government of the colony. But this done they found it difficult to decide just what would be the best place for their little town, and they spent a month or more exploring the coast roundabout. At length they settled upon a spot. On Captain John Smith's map it was already marked Plymouth, and so the pilgrims decided to call the town Plymouth because of this, and also because Plymouth was the last town in England at which they had touched. So here they all went ashore, choosing as a landing-place a flat rock, which may be seen to this day, and which is now known as the Plymouth Rock, which had been to their feet as a doorstep into a world unknown the cornerstone of a nation. The pilgrim fathers had now safely passed the perils of the sea, but many more troubles and miseries were in store for them. For hundreds of miles the country lay barren and untilled, inhabited only by wild red men, the nearest British settlement being five hundred miles away. There was no one upon the shore to greet them, no friendly lights, no smoke arising from cheerful cottage fires, no sign of habitation far or near. It was a silent, frost-bound coast upon which they had set foot. The weather was bitterly cold, and the frost so keen that even their clothes were frozen stiff, and ere these pilgrims could find a shelter from the winter blasts, trees had to be felled and hewn for the building of their houses. It was enough to make the stoutest heart quake. Yet not one among this little band of pilgrims flinched or a thought of turning back. They were made of sterner stuff than that, and they put all their trust in God. May not and ought not the children of those fathers rightly say, writes William Bradford, who was their governor for thirty-one years. Our fathers were Englishmen, which came over this great ocean and were ready to perish in the wilderness. But they cried unto the Lord, and he heard their voice. The winter was an unusually severe one, and so having no homes to shelter them, or comfort of any kind, many of the pilgrims died. Many more became seriously ill. Indeed, at one time there were not more than six or seven out of a hundred and more who were well and able to work, and had it not been for the wonderful devotion and loving kindness of these few, the whole colony might have perished miserably. But these few worked with a will, felling trees, cooking meals, caring for the sick both day and night. The first winter the pilgrim fathers, it was said, endured a wonderful deal of misery with infinite patience. But at length spring came, and with the coming of warmth and sunshine the sickness disappeared. The sun seemed to put new life into everyone, so when in April the Mayflower, which had been in harbour all winter, sailed homeward, not one of the pilgrims sailed with her. The little white-winged ship was the last link with home. They had but to step on board to be wafted back to the green hedgerows and meadows gay with daisies and butter-cups in dear old England. It was a terrible temptation, yet not one yielded to it. With tears streaming down their faces the pilgrims knelt upon the shore, and saw the Mayflower go, following her with prayers and blessings until she was out of sight. Then they went back to their daily labours. Only when they looked out to see the harbour seemed very empty, with no friendly little vessel lying there. Meanwhile among all the miseries of the winter there had been one bright spot. The pilgrims had made friends with the Indians. They had often noticed with fear red men skulking about at the forest's edge, watching them. Once or twice when they had left tools lying about they had been stolen, but whenever they tried to get speech with the Indians they fled away. What was their surprise then when one morning an Indian walked boldly into the camp and spoke to them in broken English? He told them that his name was Samoset and that he was the Englishman's friend. He also said he could tell them of another Indian called Squanto who could speak better English than he could. This Squanto had been stolen away from his home by a wicked captain who intended to sell him as a slave to Spain, but he had escaped to England and later by the help of Englishmen had been brought back to his home. All his tribe, however, had meantime been swept away by a plague, and now only he remained. Samoset also said that his great chief named Massasoit, or Yellowfeather, wished to make friends with the pale faces. The settlers were well pleased to find the Indian ready to be friendly and, giving him presence of a few beads and bits of colored cloth, they sent him away happy. But very soon he returned, bringing Squanto and the chief, Yellowfeather, with him. Then there was a very solemn pow-wow. The savages, gorgeous in paint and feathers, sat beside the sad-faced Englishmen in their tall black hats and sober clothes, and together they swore friendship and peace. And so long as Yellowfeather lived, this peace lasted. After the meeting, Yellowfeather went home to his own wigwams, which were about forty miles away. But Squanto stayed with the Englishmen. He taught them how to plant corn. He showed them where to fish and hunt. He was their guide through pathless forests. He was their staunch and faithful friend, and never left them till he died. Even then he feared to be parted from his white friends, and he begged them to pray God that he too might be allowed to go to the Englishmen's heaven. Besides Yellowfeather and his tribe, there were other Indians who lived to the east of the settlement, and they were by no means so friendly. At harvest time they used to steal the corn from the fields, and otherwise harass the workers, as they went unpunished they grew ever bolder, until at length one day their chief, Kanonikus, sent a messenger to the governor with a bundle of arrows tied about with a large snakeskin. This was meant as a challenge, but the governor was not to be frightened by such threats. He sent back the snakeskin stuffed with bullets and gunpowder, and with it a bold message. If you would rather have war than peace, he said, you can begin when you like, but we have done you no wrong and we do not fear you. When the chief heard the message and saw the gunpowder and bullets, he was far too much afraid to go to war. He was too frightened to touch the snakeskin, or even allow it to remain in his country, but sent it back again at once. This warlike message, however, made the settlers more careful, and they built a strong fence around their little town, with gates in it, which were shot and guarded at night. Thus the pilgrims had peace with the red men. They had also set matters right with the Plymouth Company, and had received from them a patent or charter, allowing them to settle in New England. Other pilgrims came out from home from time to time, and the little colony prospered and grew, though slowly. They were a grave and stern little company, obeying their governor, fearing God, keeping the Sabbath, and regarding all other feast days as popish and of the evil one. It is told how one Christmas day the governor called everyone out to work as usual, but some of the newcomers to the colony objected that it was against their conscience to work on Christmas day. The governor looked gravely at them. If you make it a matter of conscience, he said, I will release you from work upon this day until you are better taught upon the matter. Then he led the others away to fell trees and saw wood, but when at noon he returned he found those whose tender consciences had not allowed them to work, playing at ball and other games in the streets. So he went to them and took away their balls and other toys. For, he said, it is against my conscience that you should play while others work. And such was the power of the governor that he was quietly obeyed, and, we are told, since that time nothing hath been attempted that way, at least openly. They were stern, these old settlers, and perhaps to our way of thinking narrow, and they denied themselves much that is lovely in life and quite innocent. Yet we must look back at them with admiration. No people ever left their homes to go into exile for nobler ends. No colony was ever founded in a braver fashion. And it is with some regret we remember that these brave pilgrim fathers have given a name to no state in the great union. For the colony of Plymouth, having held on its simple, severe way for many years, was at length swallowed up by one of its great neighbors and became part of the state of Massachusetts. But that was not till 1692. Meanwhile, because it was the first of the New England colonies to be founded, it was often called the old colony. End of Chapter 22, read by Kara Schellenberg, on May 7th, 2009, in San Diego, California. Chapter 23 of This Country of Hours. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This Country of Hours by Henrietta Elizabeth Marshall. Chapter 23. The Founding of Massachusetts. For ten years after the coming of the pilgrim fathers, charters were constantly granted to adventurers of one kind or another for the founding of colonies in New England. And, driven by the tyranny of King James and of his son Charles I, small companies of Puritans began to follow the example of the pilgrim fathers, and go out to New England, there to seek freedom to worship God. For King James, although brought up as a Presbyterian himself, was bitter against the Puritans. I shall make them conform themselves, he had said, or I will harry them out of the land. And as he could not make them conform, he harried them, so that many were glad to leave the land to escape tyranny. King James has been called the British Solomon, but he did some amazingly foolish things. This narrow-minded persecution of the Puritans was won, yet by it he helped to form a great nation, so perhaps he was not so foolish after all. As has been said, many companies were formed, many land charters granted for Northern Virginia, or New England as it was now called. At length the company of Puritans, under the name of the Massachusetts Bay Company, got a charter from Charles I, granting them a large tract of land from three miles south of the Charles River, to three miles north of the Merrimack, and as far west as the Pacific. Of course no one in those days realized what a huge tract that would be, for no man yet guessed how great a continent America was, or by what thousands of miles the Pacific was separated from the Atlantic. This charter was not unlike that given to Virginia, but there was one important difference. Nowhere in the charter did it say that the seat of government must be in England. So when Charles dismissed his parliament, vowing that if the members would not do as he wished he would rule without them, a great many Puritans decided to leave the country. They decided also to take their charter with them, and remove the company of Massachusetts Bay, bag and baggage, to New England. Charles did nothing to stop them. Perhaps at the time he was pleased to see so many powerful Puritans leave the country, for without them he was all the freer to go his own way. So in the spring of 1630, more than a thousand set sail, taking with them their cattle and household goods. Many of these were cultured gentlemen who were thus giving up money, ease and position in order to gain freedom of religion. They were not poor laborers or artisans, not even for the most part traders and merchants. They chose as governor for the first year a suffolk gentleman named John Winthrop. A new governor was chosen every year, but John Winthrop held the post many times, twice being elected three years in succession. Although we may think that he was narrow in some things, he was a man of calm judgment and even temper, and was in many ways a good governor. From the day he set forth from England to the end of his life, he kept a diary, and it is from this diary that we learn nearly all we know of the early days of the colony. It was in June of 1630 that Winthrop and his company landed at Salem, and although there were already little settlements at Salem and elsewhere, this may be taken as the real founding of Massachusetts. Almost at once, Winthrop decided that Salem would not be a good center for the colony, and he moved southward to the Charles River, where he finally settled on a little hilly peninsula. There a township was founded and given the name of Boston, after the town of Boston in Lincolnshire, from which many of the settlers had come. Although these settlers had more money and more knowledge of trading, the colony did not altogether escape the miseries which every other colony had so far suffered, and, less stout hearted than the founders of Plymouth, some fled back again to England, but they were only a few, and for the most part the new settlers remained and prospered. These newcomers were not separatists like the Pilgrim Fathers, but Puritans. When they left England they had no intention of separating themselves from the Church of England. They had only desired a simpler service. But when they landed in America they did in fact separate from the Church of England. England was so far away. The great ocean was between them and all the laws of Church and King. It seemed easy to cast them off, and they did. So the ships were done away with. Great parts of the Common Prayer Book were rejected, and the service as a whole made much more simple, and as they wished to keep their colony free of people who did not think as they did, the founders of Massachusetts made a law that only Church members might have a vote. With the Plymouth Pilgrims, however, separatists though they were, these Puritans were on friendly terms. The governors of the two colonies visited each other to discuss matters of religion and trade, and each treated the other with great respect and ceremony. We read how when Governor Winthrop went to visit Governor Bradford, the chief people of Plymouth came forth to meet him without the town, and led him to the governor's house. There he and his companions were entertained in goodly fashion, feasting every day and holding pious disputations. Then, when he departed again, the governor of Plymouth with the pastor and elders accompanied him half a mile out of the town in the dark. But although the Puritans of Massachusetts were friendly enough with dissenters beyond their borders, they soon showed that within their borders there was to be no other Church than that which they had set up. Two brothers, for instance, who wanted to have the prayer book used in full, were calmly told that New England was no place for them, and they were shipped home again. Later a minister named Roger Williams was banished from Massachusetts, for he preached that there ought to be no connection between Church and State, that a man was responsible to God alone for his opinions, and that no man had a right to take from or give to another a vote because of the Church to which he belonged. It seemed to him a deadly sin to have had anything whatever to do with the Church of England, a sin for which everyone ought to do public penance. He also said that the land of America belonged to the natives and not to the King of England. Therefore the King of England could not possibly give it to the settlers, and they ought to bargain for it with the natives, otherwise they could have no right to it. This idea seemed perfectly preposterous to those old settlers for, said they, He chargeeth King James to have told a solemn public lie, because in his patent he blessed God that he was the first Christian prince that had discovered this land. They might think little enough of the King in their hearts, but it was not for a mere nobody to start such a ridiculous theory as this. We, looking back, can see that Williams was a good and pious man, a man before his time, right in many of his ideas, though not very wise, perhaps, in his way of pressing them upon others who did not understand them. But to his fellow colonists he seemed nothing but a firebrand and a dangerous heretic, so they bade him be gone out of their borders. He went southward to what is now Rhode Island, made friends with the Indians there, bought from them some land, and founded the town of Providence. This country of ours, by H. E. Marshall, Chapter 24. The Story of Harry Vane About this time there came to Massachusetts a handsome young adventurer named Sir Harry Vane. His face was comely and fair, and his thick brown hair, curly and long, so that he looked more like a cavalier than a Puritan. He was, in fact, the eldest son of a cavalier, one of the King's chosen counsellors. But in spite of his birth and upbringing, in spite even of his looks, Harry Vane was a Puritan. And he gave up all the splendor of life at court. He left father and mother and fortune, and came to New England for conscience's sake. Sir Henry Vane hath as good as lost his eldest son who has gone to New England for conscience's sake, wrote a friend. He likes not the discipline of the Church of England. None of our ministers would give him the sacrament standing, no persuasions of our bishops nor authority of his parents could prevail with him. Let him go! As soon as Harry Vane arrived in Massachusetts, he began to take an interest in the affairs of the colony. And perhaps because of his great name as much as his fair face, Gray haired men who had far more experience listened to his youthful advice and bowed to his judgment. And before six months were passed he, although a mere lad of twenty-three, was chosen as governor—a new governor, you remember, was chosen every year. At home Harry Vane had been accustomed to the pomp and splendor of courts, and now he began to keep far greater state as governor than anyone had done before him. Because he was son and heir to a privy counselor in England, the ships in the harbour fired a salute when he was elected, and when he went to church or court of justice a bodyguard of four soldiers marched before him, wearing steel, coarselet, and cap, and carrying hallbirds. He made too a sort of royal progress through his little domain, visiting all the settlements. But although begun with such pomp, Vane's year of office was by no means a peaceful one. He was young and inexperienced, and he was not strong enough to deal with questions which even the oldest among the settlers found hard to settle. Yet with boyish presumption he set himself to the task, and although he failed he left his mark on the life of the colony. His was one more voice raised in the cause of freedom. His was one more hand pointing the way to toleration. But he was too tempestuous, too careless of tact, too eager to hurry to the good end. So instead of keeping the colony with him he created dissension. People took sides, some eagerly supporting the young governor, but a far larger party as eagerly opposing him. So after nine months of office Harry Vane saw that where he had meant to create fair order his hand created only disorder. And utterly disheartened he begged the council to relieve him of the governorship and allow him to go home to England. But when one of his friends stood up and spoke in moving terms of the great loss he would be, Harry Vane burst into tears and declared he would stay, only he could not bear all the squabbling that had been going on, nor to hear it constantly said that he was the cause of it. Then when the council declared that if that was the only reason he had for going they could not give him leave, he repented of what he had said and declared he must go for reasons of private business, and that anything else he had said was only said in temper. Whereupon the court consented in silence to his going. All this was not very dignified for the governor of a state, but hardly surprising from a passionate youth who had undertaken a task too difficult for him and felt himself a failure. However, Vane did not go. He stayed on to the end of his time and even sought to be re-elected. But feeling against him was by this time far too keen. He was rejected as governor and not even chosen as one of the council. This hurt him deeply. He sulked in a somewhat undignified manner and at length in August sailed home, never to return. He had flashed like a brilliant meteor across the dull life of the colony. He made strife at the time, but afterwards there was no bitterness. When the colonists were in difficulties they were ever ready to ask help from Harry Vane, and he as readily gave it. Even his enemies had to acknowledge his uprightness and generosity. At all times, wrote his great-hearted adversary Winthrop, he showed himself a true friend to New England and a man of noble and generous mind. He took a great part in the troublous times which now came upon England, and more than twenty years later he died bravely on the scaffold for the cause to which he had given his life. End of Chapter 24. Read on May 7th, 2009 in San Diego, California. Chapter 25 of This Country of Hours. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. This Country of Hours by H. E. Marshall. Chapter 25. The Story of Anne Hutchinson and the Founding of Rhode Island. About a year before Harry Vane came to Massachusetts, another interesting and brilliant colonist arrived. This was a woman named Anne Hutchinson. She was clever, a woman of ready wit and bold spirit. Like Williams she was in advance of her times, and like him she soon became a religious leader. She was able, she was deeply interested in religion, and she saw no reason why women should not speak their minds on such matters. Men used to hold meetings to discuss questions of religion and politics to which women were not allowed to go. Anne Hutchinson thought this was insulting, and she began to hold meetings for women in her own home. These meetings became so popular that often as many as a hundred women would be present. They discussed matters of religion and, as Mrs. Hutchinson held dangerous errors about grace and works, and justification and sanctification, this set the whole colony agog. By the time that Harry Vane was chosen Governor, the matter had become serious. All the colony took sides for or against. Harry Vane, who stood for toleration and freedom, sided with Mrs. Hutchinson while Winthrop, his great rival, sided against her. Mrs. Hutchinson was supported and encouraged in her wickedness by her brother-in-law, John Wheelwright, a silenced minister sometimes in England. She also led away many other godly hearts. The quarrel affected the whole colony and was a stumbling block in the way of all progress. But so long as Harry Vane was Governor, Mrs. Hutchinson continued her preaching and teaching. When he sailed home, however, and Winthrop was Governor once more, the elders of the community decided that Mrs. Hutchinson was a danger to the colony and must be silenced. So all the elders and leaders met together in assembly and condemned her opinions, some as being blasphemous, some erroneous, and all unsafe. A few women, they decided, might without serious wrong meet together to pray and edify one another. But that a large number of sixty or more should do so every week was agreed to be disorderly and without rule. And as Mrs. Hutchinson would not cease her preaching and teaching, but obstinately continued in her gross errors, she was excommunicated and exiled from the colony. Like Williams Mrs. Hutchinson went to Rhode Island. To the sorrow of the godly, her husband went with her, and when they tried to bring him back he refused. For, he said, I am more dearly tied to my wife than to the church, and I do think her a dear saint and servant of God. In Rhode Island Mrs. Hutchinson and her friends founded the towns of Portsmouth and Newport. Others who had been driven out of one colony or another followed them and other towns were founded, and for a time Rhode Island seems to have been a sort of Ishmael's land, and the most unruly of all the New England colonies. At length, however, all these little settlements joined together under one governor. At first the colony had no charter, and occupied the land only by right of agreement with the Indians, but after some time Roger Williams got a charter from Charles II. In this charter it was set down that no one should be persecuted for any difference in opinion on matters of religion. Thus another new state was founded, and in Rhode Island there was more real freedom than in almost any other colony in New England. Massachusetts was at this time, as we can see, not exactly an easy place to live in for anyone whose opinions differed in the slightest from those laid down by law. Those same people who had left their homes to seek freedom of conscience denied it to others. But they were so very, very sure that their way was the only right way that they could not understand how anyone could think otherwise. They were good and honest men, and if they were severe with their fellows who strayed from the narrow path, it was only in the hope that by punishing them in this life they might save them from much more terrible punishment in the life to come. End of Chapter 25, read on June 7th, 2009, in San Diego, California. Chapter 26 of This Country of Hours. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. This Country of Hours by H. E. Marshall. Chapter 26. The Founding of Harvard. One very good thing we have to remember about the first settlers of Massachusetts is that early in the life of the colony they founded schools and colleges. A good many of the settlers were Oxford and Cambridge men, though more indeed came from Cambridge than from Oxford, as Cambridge was much the more puritan of the two. But whether from Oxford or from Cambridge they were eager that their children, born in this New England, should have as good an education as their fathers had had in England. So when Harry Vane was governor the colonists voted four hundred pounds with which to build a school. This is the first time known to history that the people themselves voted their own money to found a school. It was decided to build the school at New Town, but the Cambridge men did not like the name so they got it changed to Cambridge to tell their posterity once they came. Shortly before this a young Cambridge man named John Harvard had come out to Massachusetts. Very little is known of him save that he came of simple folk and was good and learned. A godly gentleman and lover of learning old writers call him. A scholar and pious in his life and enlarged towards the country and the good of it in life and in death. Soon after he came to Boston this godly gentleman was made minister of the church at Charlestown. But he was very delicate and in a few months he died. As a scholar and a Cambridge man he had been greatly interested in the building of the college at Cambridge so when he died he left half his money and all his books to it. The settlers were very grateful for this bequest and to show their gratitude they decided to name the college after John Harvard. Thus the first university in America was founded. From the beginning the college was a pleasant place more like a bowling green than a wilderness said one man. The buildings were thought by some to be too gorgeous for a wilderness and yet too mean in others apprehensions for a college. The edifice, says another, is very fair and comely within and without having in it a spacious hall and a large library with some books to it. Of Harvard's own books there were nearly three hundred, a very good beginning for a library in those far off days. But unfortunately they were all burnt about a hundred years later when the library accidentally took fire. Only one book was saved as it was not in the library at the time. Harvard's books are gone nor does anything now remain of the first buildings so fair and comely within and without. But the memory of the old founders and their wonderful purpose and energy is still kept green, and over the chief entrance of the present buildings are carved some words taken from a writer of those times. After God had carried us safe to New England and we had builded our houses, provided necessaries for our livelihood, reared convenient places for God's worship and settled the civil government, one of the next things we longed for and looked after was to advance learning and perpetuate it to posterity, dreading to leave an illiterate ministry to the churches when our present ministers shall be in the dust. John Harvard was a good and simple man. In giving his money to found the college he had no thought of making himself famous, but he builded better than he knew, for he reared for himself an eternal monument and made his name famous to all the ends of the earth. And when kings and amperors are forgotten, the name of Harvard will be remembered. End of Chapter 26, read on June 7th, 2009, in San Diego, California. Chapter 27 of This Country of Hours. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. This Country of Hours by H. E. Marshall. Chapter 27. How Quakers First Came to New England. It was about the middle of the 17th century when a new kind of religion arose. This was the religion of the Quakers. George Fox was the founder of this sect and they called themselves the Friends of Truth. The name Quaker was given to them by their enemies in derision because they trembled before the Lord. The Quakers were a peace-loving people. They tried to be kind and charitable. They refused to go to law and they refused to fight. They also gave up using titles of all kinds, for My Lord Peter and My Lord Paul are not to be found in the Bible. They refused to take off their hats to any man, believing that that was a sign of worship which belonged to God only. They refused also to take oath of any kind, even the oath of allegiance to the King because Christ had said, swear not at all. They used the and thou instead of you in speaking to a single person because they thought it more simple and truthful. And they refused to say good night or good morrow for they knew night was good and day was good without wishing either. There was a great deal that was good in their religion and very little it would seem that was harmful but they were pronounced to be mischievous and dangerous people. Men did not understand the Quakers and as often happens when men do not understand they became afraid of them. Because they were black clothes and broad brimmed hats they thought they must be Jesuits in disguise so ignorance bred fear and fear brought forth persecution and on all sides the Quakers were hunted and reviled. They were fined and imprisoned, scourged and exiled and sold into slavery. Then like other persecuted people they sought a refuge in New England across the seas. But the people there were just as ignorant as the people at home and the Quakers found no kindly welcome. The first Quakers to arrive in New England were two women but before they were allowed to land officers were sent on board the ship to search their boxes. They found a great many books which they carried ashore and while the women were kept prisoner on board the ship the books were burned in the marketplace by the common hangman. Then the women were brought ashore and sent to prison for no other reason than that they were Quakers. No one was allowed to speak to them on pain of a fine of five pounds and lest any should attempt it even the windows of the prison were boarded up. They were allowed no candle and their pens, ink and paper were taken from them. They might have starved but that one good old man named Nicholas Upshaw, whose heart was grieved for them, paid the jailer to give them food. Thus they were kept until a ship was ready to sail for England. Then they were put on board and the captain was made to swear that he would put them ashore nowhere but in England. Such, says an old writer, was the entertainment the Quakers first met with at Boston and that from a people who pretended that for conscience's sake they had chosen the wilderness of America before the well-cultivated old England. The next Quakers who arrived retreated much in the same fashion and sent back to England and a law was made forbidding Quakers to come to the colony. At this time the same good old man who had already befriended them was grieved. Take heed, he said, that you be not found fighting against God and so draw down a judgment upon the land. But the men of Boston were seized with a frenzy of hate and fear and they banished this old man because he had dared to speak kindly of the accursed sect. It is true the men of New England had some excuse for trying to keep the Quakers out of their colony, for some of them were foolish and tried to force their opinions noisily upon others. They interrupted the church services, mocked the magistrates and the clergy, and some, carried away by religious fervor, behaved more like mad folk than the disciples of a religion of love and charity. Yet in spite of the law forbidding them to come, Quakers kept on coming to the colony and all who came were imprisoned, beaten, and then thrust forth with orders never to return. But still they came. So a law was made that any Quaker coming into the colony should have one of his ears cut off. If he came again he should have a second ear cut off. If he came a third time he should have his tongue bored through with a hot iron. But even this cruel law had no effect upon the Quakers. They heeded it not, and came in as great or even greater numbers than before. The people of Boston were in despair. They had no eyes to be cruel. Indeed, many hated and were thoroughly ashamed of the cruel laws made against these strange people. But they were nevertheless determined that Quakers should not come into their land. So now they made a law that any Quaker who came to the colony and refused to go away again when ordered should be hanged. This, they thought, would certainly keep these pernicious folk away. But it did not. For the Quakers were determined to prove to all the world that they were free to go where they would, and that if they chose to come to Boston no man-made laws should keep them out. So they kept on coming. The magistrates knew not what to do. They had never meant to hang any of them but only to frighten them away. But having made the law they were determined to fulfill it, and five Quakers were hanged, one of them a woman. But while the fifth was being tried another Quaker named Christoson, who had already been banished, calmly walked into the court. When they saw him the magistrates were struck dumb, for they saw that against determination like this no punishment, however severe, might avail. On their ears Christoson's words fell heavily. I am here to warn you, he cried, that you should shed no more innocent blood, for the blood that you have shed already cries to the Lord God for vengeance to come upon you. Nevertheless he too was seized and tried, but he defended himself well. By what law will you put me to death? he asked. We have a law, replied the magistrates, and by our law you are to die. So said the Jews to Christ, replied Christoson, we have a law, and by our law you ought to die. Who empowered you to make that law? How? Have you power to make laws different from the laws of England? No, said the Governor. Then, said Christoson, you are gone beyond your bounds. Are you subject to the King, yea or nay? Yea, we are so. Well, said Christoson, so am I, therefore seeing that you and I are subject to the King, I demand to be tried by the laws of my own nation, for I never heard nor read of any law that was in England to hang Quakers. Yet in spite of his brave defence Christoson was condemned to death. But the sentence was never carried out, for the people had grown weary of these cruelties, even the magistrates, who for a time had been carried away by blind hate, saw that they were wrong. Christoson and many of his friends, who had lain in prison awaiting trial, were set free. The Quakers, too, now found a strange friend in King Charles. For the doings of the New Englanders in this matter reached even his careless ears, and he wrote to his trusty and well beloved subjects, bidding them cease their persecutions, and send the Quakers back to England to be tried. This the people of Massachusetts never did, but henceforth the persecutions died down. And although from time to time the Quakers were still beaten and imprisoned, no more were put to death. At length the persecution died away altogether, and the Quakers, allowed to live in peace, became quiet, hardworking citizens. How Maine and New Hampshire were founded. North of Massachusetts two more colonies, New Hampshire and Maine, were founded. But they were not founded by men who fled from tyranny, but by statesmen and traders who realized the worth of America, not by Puritans, but by churchmen and royalists. The two men who were chiefly concerned in the founding of these colonies were Sir Ferdinando Gorges and Captain John Mason. They were both eager colonists, and they both got several charters and patents from the King, and from the New England Company. It would be too confusing to follow all these grants and charters, or all the attempts at settlements made by Mason and Gorges and others. The land granted to them was often very vaguely outlined, the fact being that the people who applied for the land, and those who drew up the charters, had only the vaguest ideas concerning the land in question. So the grants often overlapped each other, and the same land was frequently claimed by two people, and of course confusion and quarrels followed. In 1629 Mason and Gorges, being friends, agreed to divide the province of Maine between them, and Mason called his part New Hampshire, after the county of Hampshire in England, of which he was fond. Mason and Gorges each now had an enormous tract of land, but they wanted still more. The French, as you know, had already made settlements in Canada, but just at this time that buccaneering sea captain, David Kirk, besieged Quebec, took it, and carried its brave governor, Champlain, away prisoner. Now as soon as they heard of this, Gorges and Mason asked the King to give them a grant of part of the conquered land, for it was known to be a fine country for fur trade, and was also believed to be rich in gold and silver mines. In answer to this petition, the King granted a great tract of land to Gorges and Mason. This they called Laconia, because it was supposed to contain many lakes. They never did much with it, however, and in a few years when peace was made with France, it had all to be given back to the French. Both Mason and Gorges spent a great deal of money trying to encourage colonists to settle on their land, and the people of Massachusetts were not at all pleased to have such powerful churchmen for their neighbors. As has been said, land grants often overlapped, and part of the land granted to Gorges and Mason was also claimed by Massachusetts. The Massachusetts colonists insisted on their rights. Both Gorges and Mason therefore became their enemies, and did their best to have their charter taken away. To this end, Gorges got himself made governor general of the whole of New England, with power to do almost as he liked, and he made ready to set out for his new domain with a thousand soldiers to enforce his authority. When this news reached Massachusetts, the whole colony was thrown into a state of excitement. For in this appointment the settlers saw the end of freedom, the beginning of tyranny. Both Gorges and his friend Mason were zealous churchmen, and the Puritans felt sure would try to force them all to become churchmen also. This the settlers determined to resist with all their might, so they built forts round Boston Harbor and mounted cannon ready to sink any hostile vessel which might put into support. In every village the young men trained as soldiers, and a beacon was set up on the highest point of the triple hill upon which Boston is built. And daily these young men turned their eyes to the hill, for when a light appeared there they knew it would be time to put on their steel caps and coarselets, and march to defend their liberties. Ever since the hill has been called Beacon Hill. But the danger passed, the new ship which was being built for Ferdinando Gorges mysteriously fell to pieces on the very launching of it, and Captain Mason died. He was the chief mover in all the attempts against us, says Winthrop, but the Lord in his mercy taking him away all the business fell on sleep. But still Gorges did not give up his plans. He did not now go out to New England himself as he had meant to do, but sent first his nephew and then his cousin instead. They, however, did not trouble Massachusetts much. Over the province of Maine, Sir Ferdinando ruled supreme. He could raise troops, make war, give people titles, levy taxes. No one might settle down or trade in his province without his permission, and all must look upon him as the Lord of the soil, and pay him tribute. It was the feudal system come again, and Sir Ferdinando Gorges was as near being a king as any ruler of America ever has been. He drew up a most elaborate constitution, too, for his kingdom, making almost more offices than there were citizens to fill them, for after all his kingdom was a mere wilderness containing two fishing villages, and here and there a few scattered settlements. And when the deputy governor arrived to rule this kingdom he found his palace merely a broken down storehouse with nothing of household stuff remaining but an old pot, a pair of tongs, and a couple of irons. Thus, side by side with the Puritan colonies of New England, colonies which were almost republics, there was planted a feudal state which was almost a monarchy. Of all the New England colonies, New Hampshire and Maine, were the only two which were not founded for the sake of religion. For although the English church was established in both as the state and religion, that was merely because the proprietors were of that church. The colonies were founded for the sake of trade and profit, but they grew very slowly. In 1647 Sir Ferdinando Gorges died, and Maine was left much to itself, for his son John took little interest in his father's great estate. Thirty years later his grandson, another Ferdinando, sold his rights to Massachusetts. From that time till 1820, when it was admitted to the Union as a separate state, Maine was a part of Massachusetts. Neither did the heirs of Mason pay much attention to their estates at first, and when they did there was a good deal of quarreling and a good deal of trouble, and at length they sold their rights to twelve men who were afterwards known as the Masonian proprietors. There was a great deal of trouble, too, before New Hampshire was finally recognized as a separate colony. It was joined to Massachusetts, and separated again more than once. But at last, after many changes, New Hampshire finally became a recognized separate colony, and although Captain John Mason died long before this happened, he has been called the founder of New Hampshire. If the highest moral honor, it has been said, belongs to founders of states, as Bacon has declared, then Mason deserved it. To seize on a tract of the American wilderness, to define its limits, to give it a name, to plant it with an English colony, and to die giving it his last thoughts among worldly concerns, our acts as lofty and noble as any recorded in the history of colonization. End of Chapter 28, read on June 7, 2009, in San Diego, California. Chapter 29 of This Country of Hours. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This Country of Hours by H. E. Marshall, Chapter 29. The founding of Connecticut and war with the Indians. Many of the people who founded Massachusetts Colony were well-to-do people, people of good family, aristocrats, in fact. They were men accustomed to rule, accustomed to unquestioning obedience from their servants and those under them. They believed that the few were meant to rule, and the many meant to obey. The idea that every grown-up person should have a share in the government never entered their heads. Their governor, Winthrop, was an aristocrat to the bone. He believed heartily in the government of the many by the few, and made it as difficult as possible for citizens to obtain the right of voting. But there were many people who were discontented with this aristocratic rule. Among them was a minister named Thomas Hooker, like John Harvard, a graduate of Emanuel College, Cambridge. So, being dissatisfied, he and his congregation decided to move away and found a new colony. They were the more ready to do this as the land round Boston was not fertile, and so many new settlers had come, and their cattle and flocks had increased so rapidly that it was already difficult to find food and fodder for man and beast. Adventurers who had traveled far afield had brought back glowing reports of the beauty and fertility of the Connecticut Valley, and there Hooker decided to settle. But for several reasons many of the people of Massachusetts objected to his going. He and his people, they said, would be in danger from the Dutch, who already had a settlement there, and who claimed the whole valley. They would also be in danger from the Indians, who were known to be hostile, and, lastly, they would be in danger from the British government, because they had no charter permitting them to settle in this land. The people at home, they said, would not endure they should sit down without a patent on any place which our king lays claim unto. The people of Massachusetts were keeping quiet and going along steadily in their own way, without paying any heed to the British government. They wanted to be left alone, and they did not want anyone else to do things which might call attention to them. And besides all this, they were greatly troubled at the thought of losing an eloquent preacher like Hooker. Every church was like a candlestick giving light to the world. And the removing of a candlestick, they said, is a great judgment, which is to be avoided. But in spite of all arguments Hooker determined to go, so one June morning he and his congregation set forth. They sent their furniture by water, and they themselves, both men and women, started to walk the hundred miles, driving their cattle before them. Only Mrs. Hooker, who was ill, being carried in a litter. They went slowly, allowing the cattle to graze by the wayside, living chiefly on the milk of the cows and the wild fruits they found. It was no easy journey, for their way led through the pathless wilderness, their only guides being the compass and the sun. For in those days we must remember that beyond the settlements the whole of America was untrodden ground. Save the Indian trails, there were no roads. Here they had to fell trees and make a rough bridge to cross a stream. There they hewed their way through bushy undergrowth. Again they climbed steep hillsides, or picked their way painfully through swamps, suffering many discomforts and fatigues. But there were delights too, for the sky was blue above them, birds sang to them night and morning, and wild flowers starred the ground and scented the air. All day they marched beneath the sunny blue sky. Every evening they lit their watchfires as a protection against wild beasts, and lay down to rest beneath the stars, for they had no cover but the heavens, nor any lodgings but those which simple nature afforded them. For a fortnight they journeyed thus through the wilderness. Then they reached the Connecticut River, and their journeys end, and here they built a little town which they called Hartford. Other communities followed the example of Hooker and his flock, and Weathersfield and Windsor were built. At first all these towns remained a part of Massachusetts, in name at least. But after a time the settlers met together at Hartford and agreeing to form a little republic of their own, they drew up a set of rules for themselves. The chief difference from those of Massachusetts being that the religious tests were done away with, and a man need no longer be a member of a church in order to have the right to vote. It is also interesting to remember that in these fundamental orders, as they called their constitution, there is no mention of the British King or Government. These colonists had settled new land without a charter, and they made laws without recognizing any authority but their own. Thus the colony of Connecticut was founded. Besides these towns John Winthrop, the son of the Governor of Massachusetts, founded a fort at the mouth of the Connecticut River. For he saw it was a good place for trade with the Indians. This fort was called Seybrook, after Lord Sey and Seal, and Lord Brook, the Puritan lords who had obtained a grant of land along the Connecticut River. But this new colony was very nearly wiped out as soon as begun, for one of the dangers which the people of Massachusetts foretold proved a very real one. This was the danger from the Indians. The Indians are divided into several families, such as the Algonquins, the Hurons, the Iroquois, each of these families again containing many tribes. All the Indians in New England belonged to the Algonquin family, but were of course divided into many tribes. One of these tribes was called the Peacots. They were very powerful, and they tyrannized over the other tribes round about. They hated the white men, and whenever they had the opportunity they slew them. The new colony of Connecticut was far nearer their hunting ground than Massachusetts. It was a far easier prey, and from the very beginning the Peacots harassed the settlers. They made no open attack, but skulked about, murdering men and women, now here, now there, appearing suddenly and vanishing again as swiftly. This sort of thing could not be endured, and the English determined to put a stop to it. So messengers were sent to the Indians to demand that the murderers should be given up to the English. When the Indians saw the English boats appear they did not seem in the least afraid, but came running along the waterside shouting, What cheer, Englishmen, what cheer, what do you come for? But the Englishmen would not answer. And the Peacots, never thinking that the Englishmen meant war, kept running on beside the boats as they sailed up the river. What cheer, Englishmen, what cheer, they kept repeating, Are you angry? Will you kill us? Do you come to fight? But still the Englishmen would not answer. Then the Indians began to be afraid, and that night they built great fires on either side of the river, fearing lest the Englishmen might land in the darkness. All night long, too, they kept up a most doleful howling, calling to each other and passing the word on from place to place, to gather the braves together. Next morning early they sent an ambassador to the English captain. He was a big, splendid-looking man, very grave and majestic. Why do you come here? he asked. I have come, answered the captain, to demand the heads of those who have slain our comrades. It is not the habit of the English to suffer murderers to live. So if you desire peace and welfare, give us the heads of the murderers. We knew not, answered the wily Indian, that any of our braves had slain any of yours. It is true we have slain some white men, but we took them to be Dutch. It is hard for us to know the difference between Dutch and English. You know the difference between Dutch and English quite well, answered the captain sternly. And therefore, seeing you have slain the King of England's subjects, we come to demand vengeance for their blood. We knew no difference between the Dutch and English, declared the Indian. They are both strangers to us, and we took them to be all one. Therefore we crave pardon. We have not willfully wronged the English. That excuse will not do, insisted the captain. We have proof that you know the English from the Dutch. We must have the heads of those persons who have slain our men, or else we will fight you. Then, seeing that he could not move the English captain from his determination, the ambassador asked Lieve to go back to his chief, promising to return speedily with his answer. He was allowed to go, but as he did not return very soon, the Englishman followed. Seeing this, the ambassador hurried to them, begging them not to come nearer, and saying that his chief could not be found, as he had gone to Long Island. That is not true, replied the English. We know he is here, so find him speedily, or we will march through the country and spoil your corn. Hour after hour went past, the Englishman always patiently waiting, the wily Indian always inventing some new excuse for delay. But at length the patience of the English was exhausted, and, beating their drums, they charged the savages. Some were killed, and the rest fleeing, the English burned their wigwams and destroyed their corn, and carried off their mats and baskets as booty. But the peacots were not in the least subdued, and more than ever they harassed the colonists of Connecticut. So the men of Connecticut sent to Massachusetts and to Plymouth asking for help. The people of Plymouth, however, said the quarrel was none of theirs and sent no help, but from Massachusetts about twenty men were sent. Besides this, a few friendly Indians, glad at the chance of punishing their old tyrants, joined with the white men. So one moonlight night the little company embarked, and, sailing along the coast, landed at a spot about two days' journey from the Peacot Fort. As they got near to it, most of the Indians who had come with the English took fright and ran away. So less than a hundred Englishmen were left to attack seven hundred Indians. A little before dawn they reached the fort. The Indians were all sleeping and keeping no guard, so the Englishmen quietly took possession of both entrances to the fort. Then suddenly through the still morning air the sharp sound of a volley of musketry rang out, as though the finger of God had touched both match and flint. A fright had the Indians sprang from their sleep yelling in terror. They scarce had time to seize their bows and arrows when, sword in hand, the Englishmen stormed into the fort. A fierce fight followed, showers of arrows fell upon the Englishmen, but they did little hurt, and glanced off, for the most part harmless, from their thick buff coats and steel coarselets. During the fight some of the huts were set on fire, and soon the whole village was a roaring mass of flames. Many perished miserably in the fire, others who fled from it were cut down by the Englishmen, or escaping them, fell into the hands of their own countrymen. They found no mercy for they had given none, and remembering the awful tortures which their fellow countrymen had suffered, the Englishmen had no compassion on their murderers. Air an hour had passed, the fight was over. Out of four hundred Indians, not more than five escaped. The peacots were utterly wiped out, and their village a heap of smoking ruins. Never before had such terrible vengeance overtaken any Indian tribe, and all the other tribes were so frightened and amazed that for forty years there was peace in New England. For no red men dare attack these terrible conquerors. End of Chapter 29, read on June 8, 2009, in San Diego, California. Chapter 30 of This Country of Hours. This country of ours, by H. E. Marshall, Chapter 30. The Founding of New Haven. In spite of the menace of the red men, Englishmen continued to settle in the land they claimed. Even while the peacock war was going on, a new colony had been founded, still further south upon the shores of New England. This colony was founded by a minister named John Davenport. John Davenport had fled from persecution in England, and followed by his congregation, including many wealthy people, had sought, like so many other Puritans, a refuge in New England. The newcomers, however, would not join the other Puritans, but decided to found a colony all to themselves, which should be ruled only by laws found in the Bible. They called their settlement New Haven, and here the law that none but church members should vote was very strictly enforced. Each of the towns was governed by seven men known as the Pillars of the Church. These men served as judges, but no juries were allowed, because no mention of them is found in the Bible. The laws were very strict, but the famous pretended blue laws of New Haven, which people used to make fun of, never existed. In these it was pretended that there were such absurd laws as, No one shall cook, make beds, sweep house, cut hair, or shave on the Sabbath. No woman shall kiss her child on the Sabbath or fasting day. No one shall keep Christmas, make minced pies, dance, play cards, or play on any instrument of music except the drum, trumpet, or juice harp. Some of the old Puritan laws seem to us indeed quaint enough, but there are none quite so absurd as these. They were invented by an early tourist, who sought to make fun of these earnest God-fearing colonists. The New Haven colonists, like those of Connecticut, had no charter from the King of England. They settled the land not by agreement with him, but by agreement with the Indians. Davenport and his followers bought the land upon which they settled from the Indians. To one chief they gave twelve coats of English trucking cloth, twelve alchemy spoons, twelve hatchets, twelve hose, two dozen of knives, twelve porringers, and four cases of French knives and scissors. To another, eleven coats of trucking cloth and one coat of English cloth. The agreement was all duly and properly written out and signed by the chiefs, but, of course, as the chiefs could not write, they made their marks. The first agreement was signed not only by the chief and his council, but also by the chief's sister. We have now heard of seven New England colonies being founded, but later on, as we shall see, Plymouth joined with Massachusetts and New Haven with Connecticut, thus making only five New England colonies, as we know them today. And of those five, one, Maine, was not recognized as a separate colony, but as part of Massachusetts after 1677. It remained part of Massachusetts until 1820, when it entered the Union as a state. Meanwhile, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Plymouth, Connecticut, and New Haven all joined together, promising to help each other in case of war with the Indians, Dutch, or French, who were constant dangers to them all alike. They called themselves the United Colonies of New England. This Union, however, was only for defense. Each colony was still quite independent of the others, and managed its own affairs as before. It was only the first shadow of the Great Union, which was to come many years later. It was also one more proof that the colonies were growing up and thinking for themselves, for they asked no one's leave to form this Union. They thought it was necessary to their safety, so they entered into it. Only Rhode Island was not asked to join. There was still too much bitterness over religious matters between the settlers there and in the other colonies. There were no more Puritan colonies founded, for Puritans ceased now to come to New England in large numbers. The reason was that the great fight between king and people, between Cavalier and Puritan, had begun in Old England. And when the Puritans won and could have their own way at home, they were no longer so eager to set forth to seek a New England beyond the seas. So the Puritans ceased to cross the seas, and as we have seen in their place, many Cavaliers came to Virginia. End of Chapter 30. Read on June 8, 2009, in San Diego, California. Chapter 31 of This Country of Hours. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This Country of Hours by Henrietta Elizabeth Marshall. Chapter 31. The Hunt for the Regicides. The Commonwealth of England did not last long. In 1660 King Charles II was restored. England then became an unsafe abode for all those who had helped to condemn Charles I to death, and two of those men, General Edward Whaley and William Goff, fled to America. They were kindly received by the Puritans of Boston, and after a time they moved on to New Haven. But even in America they were not safe, and royalist messengers were sent from England to arrest them and take them home to be tried. The Governor of Massachusetts pretended to be very eager to help these messengers. In reality he did nothing to help, but hindered them rather. News of the search for the fugitives soon reached New Haven, and at once the people there helped them to hide. For their minister John Davenport had bitten them to hide the outcasts and betray not him that wandereth. Goff and Whaley knew that the people of New Haven would not betray them, but lest their enemies should gain any inkling of their being there, they left the town and, going to another, showed themselves openly. Then, secretly by night, they returned to New Haven. For a whole month they lay hid there in the cellars of the minister's house. But soon that refuge became no longer safe, for the men in search of them had, in spite of their strategy, traced them to New Haven and set out to arrest them. One Saturday the royalists reached Guilford, not sixteen miles away. Here they demanded horses from the Governor to take them on to New Haven, but the Governor had little desire to help them, so with one excuse after another he put them off until it was too late to start that night. The next day was Sunday, and it was strictly against the laws of Puritan New England to ride or drive on Sunday, save to church. So the royalist messengers chafing with impatience might bribe and command as much as they liked. Not a man would stir a hand to help them till Monday morning. Meanwhile a messenger was speeding on his way to New Haven to warn the parliamentarians. And while their pursuers were kicking their heels in enforced idleness, they slipped away, and found a new hiding-place in a mill some miles off. But even this was thought not to be safe, and they fled once more, and at length found refuge in a cave deep in the forest. So on Monday, when at length the royalists arrived, the birds had flown. The minister owned that they had been there, but declared that they had vanished away, no man knowing when or whither. The royalists scoured the country far and wide in search of the fugitives, but their efforts were in vain. They were very much in earnest, but they were strangers, and they did not know the country. No one would help them in their search, and at length, very angry with the people of New Haven, they gave it up and returned to Boston. Then, having spent several months in their cave, the parliamentarians crept forth again. For two years they lived hidden in a friendly house. The king, however, was not satisfied, and after two years messengers again came out from England, and the search was again begun, more eagerly than before. Again, however, Goff and Hoyley were warned, and again they fled to the cave. Here they lived in safety while the royalists swept the country round in search of them, but they had many narrow escapes. Once when they had left the shelter of their cave they were almost caught. Their pursuers were upon their heels, and to reach the cave without being taken prisoner seemed impossible. As the two men fled before their foes they came to a little river crossed by a wooden bridge. It was their last hope. Instead of crossing the bridge they crept beneath it and crouched close to the water. On came the pursuers. They made no pause. Their horses thundered across the bridge and galloped away and away, while beneath the fugitives waited restlessly. Then when all was quiet again they crept back to the shelter of their cave. But at length the cave became a safe retreat no longer, for it was discovered by the Indians, and the fugitives, afraid lest the Indians, tempted by the large reward offered, might betray their hiding place, resolve to seek another. By this time the fury of the search for them had somewhat abated, and another minister, John Russell, offered them a refuge in his house. This minister lived at a place called Hadley. Hadley was many miles from New Haven. It was a lonely settlement on the edge of the wilderness, and to reach it about a hundred miles of pathless forest had to be crossed. But with stout hearts the hunted men set out. By day they lay hidden in some friendly house, or in some lonely cave or other refuge. By night they journeyed onward. At length they reached their new hiding place. It was wonderfully contrived. The minister had lately made some alterations in his house, and in doing so he had made a safe retreat. In the attic there was a large cupboard with doors opening into rooms on either side. In the floor of the cupboard there was a trap door which led down into another dark cupboard below, and from there a passage led to the cellar. So that should the house be searched, any one in the upper rooms could slip into the cupboard, from there reached the cellar, and thus escape. Here the regicides now took up their abode, and so well was their secret kept that they lived there for ten or fifteen years, their presence being unsuspected even by the inhabitants of the little town. Henceforth the world was dead to them, and they were dead to the world. They were both soldiers. On many a field of battle, Gainesboro, Marston, Nasibi, Worster, and Dunbar, they had led their men to victory. They had been members of parliament, friends of the great protector, and had taken part in all the doings of these stirring times. Now all that was over. Now no command, no power was left to them. The years went by, dragging their slow length of days, and bringing no change or brightness to the lives of these two men who lived in secret and alone. It was a melancholy life, the monotony only broken by visits from the minister, or a few other friends, who brought them all the gossip and news of the town. These were but small matters, but to the two men shut off from all other human beings they seemed of rare interest. After ten years Hoyley died. It is believed that he was buried in the cellar of the house in which for so long he had found a hiding-place. Then for five years or so more, Goff dragged out his life alone. As one might imagine the king was not at all pleased with Massachusetts and New Haven for thus sheltering the regicides, and in 1665 he suppressed New Haven as a separate colony, and joined it to Connecticut. The New Haven people did not like this at all, and they fought against it with all their might, but at length they gave way and joined Connecticut. The king was angry with Massachusetts, too, not only for protecting the regicides, but also because of what is known as the Declaration of Rights. In this the people of Massachusetts acknowledged the king as their ruler, but they also made it plain that so long as they did not make laws which ran counter to English laws they expected to be let alone. This made King Charles angry, and if it had not been that he was busy fighting with Holland, very likely the people of Massachusetts would have had to suffer for their boldness at once. As it was, they were left in peace a little longer. End of Chapter 31, read on June 10, 2009, in San Diego, California. Chapter 32 of This Country of Hours. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This Country of Hours by H. E. Marshall. Chapter 32 King Philip's War. Meanwhile the people of New England had another foe to fight. You remember that the Pilgrim Fathers had made a treaty with the Indians when they first arrived. As long as the old chief Massasoit lived, he kept that treaty, but now he was dead, and his son Philip ruled. You will wonder, perhaps, why an Indian chief should have a name like Philip. But Philip's real name was Metacomet. He, however, wanted to have an English name, and to please him the English called him Philip, and by that name he is best known. Before time all went well, but very soon Philip and his tribe grew restless, and dissatisfied. When they saw the white men coming in always greater and greater numbers, and building towns and villages further and further into the land, they began to fear them and long to drive them away, and at length all their thoughts turned to war. Friendly Indians, and praying Indians, as those who had become Christians were called, came now to warn the pale faces and tell them that Philip was gathering his braves and that he had held a war dance lasting for several weeks. In the night, too, people in lonely farms awoke to hear the wild sound of drums and gunshots. But still the English hoped to pacify Philip, so they sent him a friendly letter telling him to send away his braves, for no white man wished him ill. But Philip returned, no answer. Then one Sunday while the people were at church, and the houses were all deserted, Indians attacked the little town of Swansea, burning and plundering. The next day and the next they returned, tomahawk and firebrand in hand, and so the war began. Other tribes joined with King Philip, and soon New England was filled with terror and bloodshed. The men of New England gathered in force to fight the Indians, but they were a hard foe to fight, for they never came out to meet the pale faces in open field. At first when the British began to settle in America they had made it a rule never to sell firearms to the Indians, but that rule had long ago been broken through. Now the Indians not only had guns, but many of them were as good shots as the British, yet they kept to their old ways of fighting, and stealthily as wild animals they sulked behind trees or lurked in the long grass seeking their enemies. They knew all the secret forest ways, they were swift of foot, untiring, and mad with the lust of blood. So from one lonely village to another they sped swiftly as the eagle, secretly as the fox. And where they passed they left a trail of blood and ashes. At night around some lonely homestead all would seem quiet. Far as the eye could see there would be no slightest sign of any red man, and the tired labourer would go to rest feeling safe, with his wife and children beside him. But ere the first red streaks of dawn shivered across the sky he would be awakened by fiendish yells. ere he could seize his gun the savages would be upon him, and the sun when it rose would show only blackened bloodstained ruins, where but a few hours before a happy home had been. Yet with this red terror on every side the people went on quietly with their daily life. On weekdays they tilled their fields and minded their herds. On Sundays they went as usual to church, leaving their homes deserted. But even to church they went armed, and while they knelt in prayer or listened to the words of their pastor their guns were ever within reach of their hands. One Sunday while in the village of Hadley the people were all at church the Indians crept up in their usual stealthy fashion. Suddenly the alarm was given and seizing their guns which stood by their sides the men rushed out of the meeting-house. But they were all in confusion the attack was sudden, they were none of them soldiers but merely brave men ready to die for their homes and their dear ones, and they had no leader. Then suddenly a stranger appeared amongst them. He was dressed in quaint old-fashioned clothes. His hair and beard were long and streaked with gray. He was tall and soldierly, and his eyes shone with the joy of battle. And once he took command. Sharply his orders rang out, unquestioningly the villagers obeyed, for he spoke as one used to command. They were no longer an armed crowd but a company of soldiers, and, fired by the courage and skill of their leader, they soon put the Indians to flight. When the fight was over the men turned to thank their deliverer, but he was nowhere to be found. He had vanished as quickly and mysteriously as he had come. What did it mean, they asked? Who was the strange leader? Had God in his mercy sent an angel from heaven to their rescue? No one could answer their questions, and many decided that indeed a miracle had happened, and that God had sent an angel to deliver them. This strange leader was no other than the regicide, Colonel Goff, who, as we know, had for many years lived hidden in the minister's house. From his attic window he had seen the Indians creeping stealthily upon the village, and when he saw the people standing leaderless and bewildered he had been seized with his old fighting spirit and had rushed forth to lead them. Then the danger being over he had slipped quietly back to his hiding place. There he remained, hidden from all the world as before, until he died and was buried beside his friend. Autumn passed and winter came, and the Indians gathered to their forts, for the bare forests gave too little protection to them in their kind of warfare. When spring came they promised themselves to come forth again and make an end of the palefaces. But the palefaces did not wait for spring. The Indians had gathered to the number of over three thousand into a strong fortress. It was surrounded by a marsh, and the only entrance was over a bridge made by a fallen tree. This fortress the New Englanders decided to attack and take, so a thousand strong they set out one morning before dawn and, after hours of weary marching through the snow, they reached the fort. Across the narrow bridge they rushed, and although many of their leaders fell dead, the men came on, nothing daunted. A fierce fight followed, for each side knew that they must win or die. Shut in on all sides by impassable swamps there was no escape. But not till dark was falling did the white men gain the victory. The ground was strewn with dead and dying, and in the gathering darkness the remaining Indians stole quietly away and vanished like shadows. Then the New Englanders set fire to the wigwams and, taking their wounded, marched back to their headquarters. This was a sad blow to the Indians, but it did not by any means end the war which, as spring came on, broke out again in full fury. But gradually the white men got the upper hand. Instead of attacking, the red men fled before them. They lost heart, and began to blame King Philip for having led them into war, and at length he was slain by one of his own followers. Soon after this the war came to an end, but whole tracts of New England were a desert, a thousand of the bravest and best of the young men were killed. Many women and children too had been slain, and there was hardly a fireside in the whole of Massachusetts where there was not a vacant place. Numbers of people were utterly ruined, and the colonies were burdened with a great debt. As to the Indians their power was utterly broken, and their tribes were almost wiped out. Except the Mohigans, who had remained friendly throughout the war, there were few Indians left in South New England where there was never again a war between white men and Indians. End of Chapter 32, read on June 10th, 2009, in San Diego, California. Chapter 33 of This Country of Hours This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. This Country of Hours by H. E. Marshall Chapter 33 How the Charter of Connecticut Was Saved Meanwhile King Charles had not forgotten his anger against the people of Massachusetts. Besides the fact that they had harbored the regicides he had many other reasons for being angry with them. For they refused to obey the navigation laws and they refused to allow the Church of England to be established within the colony. They had coined money of their own, never made their officials swear allegiance to the throne, and had done many things just as they liked. In fact, Massachusetts seemed to Charles like a badly brought up child who, having come to manhood, wants to go his own way and cares for nothing for the wishes or commands of his parents. He made up his mind not to have any more of this disobedience, and he took away the charter and made Massachusetts a crown colony. Thus, after 55 years of practical freedom, Massachusetts once more belonged to the King of England by right of the discovery of John and Sebastian Cabot. Of course the people of Massachusetts fought against this as hard as they could, but their struggle was useless, and a royal governor was appointed to rule the colony. Almost immediately, however, Charles died, and it was not until his brother, James II, was on the throne that Sir Edmund Andros came out as royal governor. He came not only as governor of Massachusetts, but as governor of all the New England colonies. For the King wanted to make an end of all these separate colonies and unite them into one great province. Andros soon made himself very much disliked, for he tried to rule New England too much as his master tried to rule Great Britain. He levied taxes as he pleased. He imprisoned innocent men if he chose. He allowed nothing to be printed without his permission. He seized lands and goods at will. All New England felt the weight of the governor's hand. He demanded Rhode Island's charter. But the governor of Rhode Island replied that the weather was so bad he really could not send it. So Sir Edmund went to Rhode Island, dissolved its government, and smashed its seal. To Connecticut also Sir Edmund wrote in vain, demanding its charter. The men of Connecticut were, it seemed to him, an unruly lot. So one October day in 1687 he set out to visit this rebellious state and subdue it to his will. He arrived in Hartford with a great train of gentlemen and soldiers. They made a mighty stir in the little town as they rode, jingling and clanking through the quiet streets and drew rain before the State House. Into the chamber where the council sat, strode Andros, looking pompous and grand in lace and velvet, and a great flowing wig. Up to the table he strode, and in tones of haughty command demanded the charter. But the men of Connecticut would not lightly give up the sign of their beloved liberty. They talked and argued and persuaded. They spoke of the hardships they had endured, of the blood they had poured forth to keep their freedom in their new found homes upon the edge of the wilderness. But with such a man as Andros all appeals all persuasions were in vain. To every argument he had but one answer he must and would have the charter. Long and long the argument lasted. The day drew to a close and twilight fell. Through the dusky gloom men could hardly see each other's flushed excited faces. Lights were called for and candles were brought. Some were placed upon the table beside the metal box in which lay the charter. Still the debate went on, either side as unbending as before. Now many citizens, anxious to know how things went, slipped into the room and stood behind the members, listening as the debate was flung this way and that. Outside the night was dark, within the wood-paneled room the flickering candles shed but a dim, uncertain light. They made strange dancing shadows shining fitfully on the stern, eager faces of the men who sat round the table but scarcely revealing against the gloom the crowd of anxious citizens behind. Sir Edmund was weary of the talk. He would have no more of it and suddenly rising he stretched out his hand to seize the charter. Then swiftly from out the shadowy circle of listeners a cloak was flung upon the table. They fell upon the candles and put them out. In a moment the room was in total darkness. There was an outcry and a scuffling of feet, the sound of an opening window, a call for lights. But lights were no such speedy matters in those days when matches had not been invented. When at length the scratching of the tinder-boxes was done and the candles relit, everyone looked eagerly at the table. Behold the charter was gone. Sir Edmund stormed and citizens and councillors looked blankly at each other. But meanwhile through the darkness a man sped. In his hand he held a parchment and he never halted in his run till he reached a great oak-tree. This oak he knew was hollow. Reaching it he thrust the parchment deep into the hole and carefully covered it up with dried leaves and bark. Thus was the charter of Connecticut saved. The man who saved it was Captain Wadsworth. Ever afterwards the tree was called the Charter Oak and until about sixty years ago it stood a memorial of his deed. But some wise folks say this story of the Charter Oak is all a fairytale. That may be so. But it deserves to be true. Yet though the men of Connecticut may have succeeded in saving the sign and symbol of their freedom they could not save their reality. For whether Sir Edmund Andros was in possession of their charter or not he stamped upon their liberties just the same. In the public record the secretary wrote, His Excellency Sir Edmund Andros, Knight Captain General and Governor of his Majesty's Territory and Dominion in New England, by order from his Majesty King of England, Scotland and Ireland, the 31st of October 1687, took into his hands the government of this colony of Connecticut, it being by his Majesty annexed to the Massachusetts and other colonies under his Excellency's government. Phiney. Phiney, as you know, means the end, and one cannot but feel sorry for that stern old freedom-loving Puritan gentleman who wrote the words. For indeed to him the loss of freedom must have seemed the end of all things. Sir Edmund's rule, however, did not last long. For the British soon grew tired of James II and his tyrannous ways, and they asked Prince William of Orange to come and be their king. William came. The people received him with delight. King James fled away to France, and the glorious revolution, as it was called, was accomplished. When the news reached New England there, too, was a little revolution. One spring morning there was a great commotion among the people of Boston. There was beating of drums, noise and shouting, and much running to and fro of young men carrying clubs. Soon it was seen that the city was in arms. The men marched to the castle and demanded its surrender, and Andros, knowing himself to be helpless, yielded, though not without some stomachful reluctances. The proud governor's rule was at an end. He was taken prisoner, and through the streets where he had ridden in splendor he was now led a captive. Then the colonies set about restoring their governments as they had been before Sir Edmund Andros came. But Andros had no mind to remain a prisoner. He and his friends who were imprisoned with him had a good deal of freedom. They were locked into their rooms at night, but during the day they were allowed to walk about anywhere within sight of the sentries, and their friends were allowed to come to see them quite freely. It would not be difficult to escape, thought Andros, and he resolved to do it. So he bribed one of his jailers, and, having procured women's clothes, he dressed himself in them and calmly walked out of his prison. He passed two sentries safely, but the third looked sharply at the tall woman who strode along so manfully. He looked at her boots. And once the sentries' suspicions were aroused, for Sir Edmund had not thought of changing them. No woman ever wore such boots as these, thought the sentry, and he challenged and stopped her. Then, peering beneath the rim of her bonnet, he saw no bashful woman's face, but the well-known features of the governor. So back to prison Andros went. After this he was not allowed so much freedom, but again he tried to escape, and this time he was more successful. He got not only out of Boston, but out of the colony. Once more, however, he was recognized and brought back. The whole of New England had been agog with excitement, but at length things began to calm down, and the world moved on in its old orderly pace, says a writer of the Times. In the midst of this calm two ships arrived from England with an order to those in power to proclaim William and Mary, King and Queen. Then the colonies went mad with joy. From far and near the people flocked to Boston. Bells were rung, bonfires blazed, and after a great procession through the streets there was feasting at the town hall. Thus with joy, splendor, appearance, and unanimity, as had never before been seen in these territories, were William and Mary proclaimed. Sir Edmund Andros was now sent home to England a prisoner, but King William was not altogether pleased with all the colonists had done, and he was set free without any trial. He was not really a bad man, but he was dogged and pig-headed without sympathy or imagination, and altogether the wrong man in the wrong place. Later on he came back to America as Governor of Virginia, and this time he did much better. Meanwhile several changes were made in New England. Rhode Island and Connecticut kept their old charters, to which they had clung so lovingly. New Hampshire, too, remained a separate colony, but Plymouth, sad to say, that gallant little colony founded by the Pilgrim Fathers lost separate existence and became part of Massachusetts. Maine and even Nova Scotia, lately one from the French, were for the meantime also joined to Massachusetts. Massachusetts was now a great colony and received a new charter, but things were not the same. The colony was now a royal province, and the Governor was no longer appointed by the people but by the King. This chafed the people greatly, for they felt that their old freedom was gone, so for a time the history of Massachusetts was hardly more than a dreary chronicle of quarrels and misunderstandings between Governor and people.