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THE GRAY CHAMPION.
THE GRAY CHAMPION.
There was once a time when New England groaned
under the actual pressure of heavier wrongs, than
those threatened ones which brought on the Revolution.
James II., the bigoted successor of Charles the
Voluptuous, had annulled the charters of all the colonies,
and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take
away our liberties and endanger our religion. The
administration of Sir Edmund Andros lacked scarcely
a single characteristic of tyranny: a Governor and
Council, holding office from the King, and wholly
independent of the country; laws made and taxes levied
without concurrence of the people, immediate or
by their representatives; the rights of private citizens
violated, and the titles of all landed property declared
void; the voice of complaint stifled by restrictions on
the press; and finally, disaffection overawed by the first
band of mercenary troops that ever marched on our
free soil. For two years our ancestors were kept in
secured their allegiance to the mother country,
whether its head chanced to be a Parliament, Protector,
or popish Monarch. Till these evil times, however,
such allegiance had been merely nominal, and the colonists
had ruled themselves, enjoying far more freedom,
than is even yet the privilege of the native subjects
of Great Britain.
At length, a rumor reached our shores, that the
Prince of Orange had ventured on an enterprise, the
success of which would be the triumph of civil and
religious rights and the salvation of New England. It
was but a doubtful whisper; it might be false, or the
attempt might fail; and, in either case, the man, that
stirred against King James, would lose his head. Still
the intelligence produced a marked effect. The people
smiled mysteriously in the streets, and threw bold
glances at their oppressors; while, far and wide, there
was a subdued and silent agitation, as if the slightest
signal would rouse the whole land from its sluggish
despondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers resolved
to avert it by an imposing display of strength,
and perhaps to confirm their despotism by yet harsher
measures. One afternoon in April, 1689, Sir Edmund
Andros and his favorite councillors, being warm with
wine, assembled the red-coats of the Governor's Guard,
and made their appearance in the streets of Boston.
The sun was near setting when the march commenced.
The roll of the drum, at that unquiet crisis, seemed
the soldiers, than as a muster-call to the inhabitants
themselves. A multitude, by various avenues, assembled
in King-street, which was destined to be the scene,
nearly a century afterwards, of another encounter between
the troops of Britain, and a people struggling
against her tyranny. Though more than sixty years
had elapsed, since the Pilgrims came, this crowd of
their descendants still showed the strong and sombre
features of their character, perhaps more strikingly in
such a stern emergency than on happier occasions.
There was the sober garb, the general severity of mien,
the gloomy but undismayed expression, the scriptural
forms of speech, and the confidence in Heaven's blessing
on a righteous cause, which would have marked
a band of the original Puritans, when threatened by
some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, it was not yet
time for the old spirit to be extinct; since there were
men in the street, that day, who had worshiped there
beneath the trees, before a house was reared to the
God, for whom they had become exiles. Old soldiers
of the Parliament were here too, smiling grimly at the
thought, that their aged arms might strike another blow
against the house of Stuart. Here also, were the veterans
of King Phillip's war, who had burnt villages and
slaughtered young and old, with pious fierceness, while
the godly souls throughout the land were helping them
with prayer. Several ministers were scattered among
the crowd, which, unlike all other mobs, regarded
their very garments. These holy men exerted their
influence to quiet the people, but not to disperse them.
Meantime, the purpose of the Governor, in disturbing
the peace of the town, at a period when the slightest
commotion might throw the country into a ferment,
was almost the universal subject of inquiry, and variously
explained.
`Satan will strike his master-stroke presently,' cried
some, `because he knoweth that his time is short. All
our godly pastors are to be dragged to prison! We
shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King-street!'
Hereupon, the people of each parish gathered closer
round their minister, who looked calmly upwards and
assumed a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a
candidate for the highest honor of his profession, the
crown of martyrdom. It was actually fancied, at that
period, that New England might have a John Rogers
of her own, to take the place of that worthy in the
Primer.
`The Pope of Rome has given orders for a new St.
Bartholomew!' cried others. `We are to be massacred,
man and male child!'
Neither was this rumor wholly discredited, although
the wiser class believed the Governor's object somewhat
less atrocious. His predecessor under the old
charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first
settlers, was known to be in town. There were grounds
for conjecturing, that Sir Edmund Andros intended,
and to confound the opposite faction, by possessing
himself of their chief.
`Stand firm for the old charter Governor!' shouted
the crowd, seizing upon the idea. `The good old Governor
Bradstreet!'
While this cry was at the loudest, the people were
surprised by the well known figure of Governor Bradstreet
himself, a patriarch of nearly ninety, who appeared
on the elevated steps of a door, and, with characteristic
mildness, besought them to submit to the
constituted authorities.
`My children,' concluded this venerable person, `do
nothing rashly. Cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare
of New England, and expect patiently what the
Lord will do in this matter!'
The event was soon to be decided. All this time,
the roll of the drum had been approaching through
Cornhill, louder and deeper, till, with reverberations
from house to house, and the regular tramp of martial
footsteps, it burst into the street. A double rank of
soldiers made their appearance, occupying the whole
breadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks,
and matches burning, so as to present a row of fires in
the dusk. Their steady march was like the progress
of a machine, that would roll irresistibly over every
thing in its way. Next, moving slowly, with a confused
clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a party of
mounted gentlemen, the central figure being Sir Edmund
Those around him were his favorite councillors, and
the bitterest foes of New England. At his right hand
rode Edward Randolph, our arch enemy, that `blasted
wretch,' as Cotton Mather calls him, who achieved the
downfall of our ancient government, and was followed
with a sensible curse, through life and to his grave.
On the other side was Bullivant, scattering jests and
mockery as he rode along. Dudley came behind, with
a downcast look, dreading, as well he might, to meet
the indignant gaze of the people, who beheld him,
their only countryman by birth, among the oppressors
of his native land. The captain of a frigate in the
harbor, and two or three civil officers under the Crown,
were also there. But the figure which most attracted
the public eye, and stirred up the deepest feeling, was
the Episcopal clergyman of King's Chapel, riding
haughtily among the magistrates in his priestly vestments,
the fitting representative of prelacy and persecution,
the union of church and state, and all those
abominations which had driven the Puritans to the
wilderness. Another guard of soldiers, in double rank,
brought up the rear.
The whole scene was a picture of the condition of
New England, and its moral, the deformity of any
government that does not grow out of the nature
of things and the character of the people. On one
side the religious multitude, with their sad visages and
dark attire, and on the other, the group of despotic
and there a crucifix at their bosoms, all magnificently
clad, flushed with wine, proud of unjust authority, and
scoffing at the universal groan. And the mercenary
soldiers, waiting but the word to deluge the street with
blood, showed the only means by which obedience
could be secured.
`Oh! Lord of Hosts,' cried a voice among the crowd,
`provide a Champion for thy people!'
This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a
herald's cry, to introduce a remarkable personage.
The crowd had rolled back, and were now huddled together
nearly at the extremity of the street, while the
soldiers had advanced no more than a third of its
length. The intervening space was empty—a paved
solitude, between lofty edifices, which threw almost a
twilight shadow over it. Suddenly, there was seen the
figure of an ancient man, who seemed to have emerged
from among the people, and was walking by himself
along the centre of the street, to confront the armed
band. He wore the old Puritan dress, a dark cloak
and a steeple-crowned hat, in the fashion of at least
fifty years before, with a heavy sword upon his thigh,
but a staff in his hand, to assist the tremulous gait of
age.
When at some distance from the multitude, the old
man turned slowly round, displaying a face of antique
majesty, rendered doubly venerable by the hoary beard
that descended on his breast. He made a gesture at
again, and resumed his way.
`Who is this gray patriarch?' asked the young men
of their sires.
`Who is this venerable brother?' asked the old men
among themselves.
But none could make reply. The fathers of the
people, those of fourscore years and upwards, were
disturbed, deeming it strange that they should forget
one of such evident authority, whom they must have
known in their early days, the associate of Winthrop
and all the old Councillors, giving laws, and making
prayers, and leading them against the savage. The
elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, with
locks as gray in their youth, as their own were now.
And the young! How could he have passed so utterly
from their memories—that hoary sire, the relic of long-departed
times, whose awful benediction had surely
been bestowed on their uncovered heads, in childhood?
`Whence did he come? What is his purpose? Who
can this old man be?' whispered the wondering crowd.
Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand,
was pursuing his solitary walk along the centre of the
street. As he drew near the advancing soldiers, and
as the roll of their drum came full upon his ear, the
old man raised himself to a loftier mien, while the decrepitude
of age seemed to fall from his shoulders,
leaving him in gray, but unbroken dignity. Now, he
marched onward with a warrior's step, keeping time
on one side, and the whole parade of soldiers and magistrates
on the other, till, when scarcely twenty yards
remained between, the old man grasped his staff by the
middle, and held it before him like a leader's truncheon.
`Stand!' cried he.
The eye, the face, and attitude of command; the
solemn, yet warlike peal of that voice, fit either to rule
a host in the battle-field or be raised to God in prayer,
were irresistible. At the old man's word and outstretched
arm, the roll of the drum was hushed at once,
and the advancing line stood still. A tremulous enthusiasm
seized upon the multitude. That stately
form, combining the leader and the saint, so gray, so
dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only belong
to some old champion of the righteous cause, whom
the oppressor's drum had summoned from his grave.
They raised a shout of awe and exultation, and looked
for the deliverance of New England.
The Governor, and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving
themselves brought to an unexpected stand,
rode hastily forward, as if they would have pressed
their snorting and affrighted horses right against the
hoary apparition. He, however, blenched not a step,
but glancing his severe eye round the group, which
half encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on Sir
Edmund Andros. One would have thought that the
dark old man was chief ruler there, and that the Governor
and Council, with soldiers at their back, representing
had no alternative but obedience.
`What does this old fellow here?' cried Edward
Randolph, fiercely. `On, Sir Edmund! Bid the soldiers
forward, and give the dotard the same choice
that you give all his countrymen—to stand aside or be
trampled on!'
`Nay, nay, let us show respect to the good grandsire,'
said Bullivant, laughing. `See you not, he is
some old round-headed dignitary, who hath lain asleep
these thirty years, and knows nothing of the change
of times? Doubtless, he thinks to put us down with
a proclamation in Old Noll's name!'
`Are you mad, old man?' demanded Sir Edmund
Andros, in loud and harsh tones. `How dare you stay
the march of King James's Governor?'
`I have staid the march of a King himself, ere now,'
replied the gray figure, with stern composure. `I am
here, Sir Governor, because the cry of an oppressed
people hath disturbed me in my secret place; and beseeching
this favor earnestly of the Lord, it was vouchsafed
me to appear once again on earth, in the good
old cause of his Saints. And what speak ye of James?
There is no longer a popish tyrant on the throne of
England, and by tomorrow noon, his name shall be a
by-word in this very street, where ye would make it a
word of terror. Back, thou that wast a Governor,
back! With this night thy power is ended—tomorrow,
the prison!—back, lest I foretel the scaffold!'
The people had been drawing nearer and nearer,
spoke in accents long disused, like one unaccustomed
to converse, except with the dead of many years ago.
But his voice stirred their souls. They confronted the
soldiers, not wholly without arms, and ready to convert
the very stones of the street into deadly weapons.
Sir Edmund Andros looked at the old man; then he
cast his hard and cruel eye over the multitude, and beheld
them burning with that lurid wrath, so difficult to
kindle or to quench; and again he fixed his gaze on
the aged form, which stood obscurely in an open space,
where neither friend nor foe had thrust himself.
What were his thoughts, he uttered no word which
might discover. But whether the oppressor were over-awed
by the Gray Champion's look, or perceived his
peril in the threatening attitude of the people, it is certain
that he gave back, and ordered his soldiers to
commence a slow and guarded retreat. Before another
sunset, the Governor, and all that rode so proudly with
him, were prisoners, and long ere it was known that
James had abdicated, King William was proclaimed
throughout New England.
But where was the Gray Champion? Some reported,
that when the troops had gone from King-street,
and the people were thronging tumultuously in their
rear, Bradstreet, the aged Governor, was seen to embrace
a form more aged than his own. Others soberly
affirmed, that while they marveled at the venerable
grandeur of his aspect, the old man had faded from
where he stood, there was an empty space. But all
agreed, that the hoary shape was gone. The men of
that generation watched for his re-appearance, in sunshine
and in twilight, but never saw him more, nor
knew when his funeral passed, nor where his gravestone
was.
And who was the Gray Champion? Perhaps his
name might be found in the records of that stern Court
of Justice, which passed a sentence, too mighty for
the age, but glorious in all after times, for its humbling
lesson to the monarch and its high example to the
subject. I have heard, that, whenever the descendants
of the Puritans are to show the spirit of their sires,
the old man appears again. When eighty years had
passed, he walked once more in King-street. Five
years later, in the twilight of an April morning, he
stood on the green, beside the meeting house, at Lexington,
where now the obelisk of granite, with a slab
of slate inlaid, commemorates the first fallen of the
Revolution. And when our fathers were toiling at the
breastwork on Bunker's Hill, all through that night
the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long may it
be, ere he comes again! His hour is one of darkness,
and adversity, and peril. But should domestic tyranny
oppress us, or the invader's step pollute our soil, still
may the Gray Champion come; for he is the type of
New England's hereditary spirit: and his shadowy
march, on the eve of danger, must ever be the pledge,
that New England's sons will vindicate their ancestry.
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