“My children，” concluded this venerable person， “donothing rashly. Cry not aloud， but pray for the welfare ofNew England and expect patiently what the Lord will doin this matter.”
The event was soon to be decided. All this time theroll of the drum had been approaching through Cornhill，louder and deeper， till with reverberations from houseto house and the regular tramp of martial footsteps itburst into the street. A double rank of soldiers made theirappearance， occupying the whole breadth of the passage，with shouldered matchlocks and matches burning， soas to present a row of fires in the dusk. Their steadymarch was like the progress of a machine that wouldroll irresistibly over everything in its way. Next， movingslowly， with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement，rode a party of mounted gentlemen， the central figurebeing Sir Edmund Andros， elderly， but erect and soldierlike.
Those around him were his favorite councillors andthe bitterest foes of New England. At his right hand rodeEdward Randolph， our arch-enemy， that “blasted wretch，”
as Cotton Mather calls him， who achieved the downfall ofour ancient government and was followed with a sensiblecurse-through life and to his grave. On the other side wasBullivant， 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 thepeople， who beheld him， their only countryman by birth，among the oppressors of his native land. The captain of afrigate in the harbor and two or three civil officers underthe Crown were also there. But the figure which mostattracted the public eye and stirred up the deepest feelingwas the Episcopal clergyman of King’s Chapel ridinghaughtily among the magistrates in his priestly vestments，the fitting representative of prelacy and persecution， theunion of Church and State， and all those abominationswhich had driven the Puritans to the wilderness. Anotherguard of soldiers， in double rank， brought up the rear.
The whole scene was a picture of the condition of NewEngland， and its moral， the deformity of any governmentthat does not grow out of the nature of things andthe character of the people—on one side the religiousmultitude with their sad visages and dark attire， andon the other the group of despotic rulers with the highchurchman in the midst and here and there a crucifix attheir bosoms， all magnificently clad， flushed with wine，proud of unjust authority and scoffing at the universalgroan. And the mercenary soldiers， waiting but the wordto deluge the street with blood， showed the only means bywhich obedience could be secured.
“O Lord of hosts，” cried a voice among the crowd， “providea champion for thy people！”
This ejaculation was loudly uttered， and served as aherald’s cry to introduce a remarkable personage. Thecrowd had rolled back， and were now huddled togethernearly at the extremity of the street， while the soldiershad advanced no more than a third of its length. Theintervening space was empty—a paved solitude betweenlofty edifices which threw almost a twilight shadowover it. Suddenly there was seen the figure of an ancientman who seemed to have emerged from among thepeople and was walking by himself along the centre ofthe street to confront the armed band. He wore the oldPuritan dress—a dark cloak and a steeple-crowned hatin the fashion of at least fifty years before， with a heavysword upon his thigh， but a staff in his hand to assist thetremulous gait of age.
When at some distance from the multitude， the oldman turned slowly round， displaying a face of antiquemajesty rendered doubly venerable by the hoary beardthat descended on his breast. He made a gesture at onceof encouragement and warning， then turned again andresumed his way.
“Who is this gray patriarch？” asked the young men oftheir sires.
“Who is this venerable brother？” asked the old menamong themselves.
But none could make reply. The fathers of the people，those of fourscore years and upward， were disturbed，deeming it strange that they should forget one of suchevident authority whom they must have known in their earlydays， the associate of Winthrop and all the old councillors，giving laws and making prayers and leading them against thesavage. The elderly men ought to have remembered him， too，with locks as gray in their youth as their own were now. Andthe young！ How could he have passed so utterly from theirmemories—that hoary sire， the relic of long-departedtimes， whose awful benediction had surely been bestowedon their uncovered heads in childhood？
“Whence did he come？ What is his purpose？ Who canthis old man be？” whispered the wondering crowd.
Meanwhile， the venerable stranger， staff in hand， waspursuing his solitary walk along the centre of the street.
As he drew near the advancing soldiers， and as the rollof their drum came full upon his ear， the old man raisedhimself to a loftier mien， while the decrepitude of ageseemed to fall from his shoulders， leaving him in graybut unbroken dignity. Now he marched onward with awarrior’s step， keeping time to the military music. Thusthe aged form advanced on one side and the whole paradeof soldiers and magistrates on the other， till， when scarcelytwenty yards remained between， the old man grasped hisstaff by the middle and held it before him like a leadet’struncheon.
“Stand！” cried he.
