Such was the fate of PHILIP OF POKANOKET, an Indian warrior whose
name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts and Connecticut.
He was the most distinguished of a number of contemporary sachems
who reigned over the Pequods, the Narragansetts, the Wampanoags,
and the other eastern tribes at the time of the first settlement
of New England--a band of native untaught heroes who made the
most generous struggle of which human nature is capable, fighting
to the last gasp in the cause of their country, without a hope of
victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry and
fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, they have left
scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk
like gigantic shadows in the dim twilight of tradition.*
* While correcting the proof-sheets of this article the author is
informed that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished an
heroic poem on the story of Philip of Pokanoket
When the Pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by their
descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New World
from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation was
to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in number, and
that number rapidly perishing away through sickness and
hardships, surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage tribes,
exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter and the
vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate, their minds were filled
with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved them from sinking
into despondency but the strong excitement of religious
enthusiasm.
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