the 1st of Auguſt, 1676, the laſt but one of the war, ſays, 'Philip hardly eſcaped with his life alſo. He had fled and left his peage behind him, alſo his ſquaw and ſon were taken captive, and are now priſoners at Plymouth. Thus hath God brought that grand enemy into great miſery before he quite deſtroy him. It muſt needs be bitter as death to him to loſe his wife and only ſon (for the Indians are marvellous fond and affectionate towards their children) beſides other relations, and almoſt all his ſubjects, and country alſo.'
"And what was the fate of Philip's wife and his ſon? This is a tale for huſbands and wives, for parents and children. Young men and women, you cannot underſtand it. What was the fate of Philip's wife and child? She is a woman, he is a lad. They did not ſurely hang them. No, that would have been mercy. The boy is the grandſon, his mother the daughter-in-law of good old Maſſaſoit, the first and beſt friend the Engliſh ever had in New England. Perhaps—perhaps now Philip is ſlain, and his warriors ſcattered to the four winds, they will allow his wife and ſon to go back—the widow and the orphan—to finiſh their days and ſorrows in their native wilderneſs. They are ſold into ſlavery, Weſt Indian ſlavery! an Indian princeſs and her child, fold from the cool breezes of Mount Hope, from the wild freedom of a New England foreſt, to gaſp under the laſh, beneath the blazing ſun of the tropics! 'Bitter as death;' aye, bitter as hell! Is there anything,—I do not ſay in the range of humanity—is there anything animated, that would not ſtruggle againſt this?"
