Again, when the people of Providence proposed to divide certain common lands among themselves, he pleaded that they be left untouched for the use of future new-comers who might have to flee from persecution. To the very last, soul liberty was dear to his heart.
“I have only one motion and petition,” were his stirring words, “which I earnestly pray the town to lay to heart, as ever they look for a blessing from God on the town, on your families, your corn and cattle, and your children after you, it is this, that after you have got over the black brook of soul bondage yourselves, you tear not down the bridge after you, by leaving no small pittance for distressed souls that may come after you.”
Both before and after the war, he spent considerable time preaching to the English dwellers in the Narragansett country and it is very probable that he had Indian congregations also. Once a month, for many years, he journeyed back and forth, between his own home at Providence and Mr. Smith’s at Narragansett, for this purpose. It is remarkable that a man of his advanced age, handicapped by lameness and illness, could have carried on such a work as long as he did.
When he was finally forced to give up active life, he then turned to profitable occupation indoors. He valued time and made the most of it. “One grain of its inestimable sand,” he once said, “is worth a golden mountain.” After such a long life of faithful service, he could have been excused had he chosen to sit still in the twilight of his life with folded hands. Instead, by the home fireside he put together the sermons he had preached with an idea of having them published. He never saw them in print. The fact that he had to apply to those of his friends in his own colony, Massachusetts, Connecticut and Plymouth “who hath a shilling and a heart to countenance such a work” to meet the expenses of publication, shows that he must have been poor at this time. The written pages numbered but thirty and the cost of their printing could not have been an exorbitant sum.
There is every reason to think, in fact, that Roger Williams and his wife were partly dependent upon their son Daniel toward the close of their lives. And he cared for them with true filial devotion, too. “I judge,” he said in the quaint language of that age, “they wanted nothing that was convenient for ancient people.” Instead of saving for the proverbial rainy day, the open-hearted founder of Rhode Island had generously disposed of the best of his worldly possessions for the good of others. Give, give, give! It had been the motto of his life. Said this same son, “He gave away his lands and other estate to them that he thought were most in want, until he gave away all, so that he had nothing to help himself.... If a covetous man had that opportunity as he had, most of this town would have been his tenants, I believe.”
The humble home in which Roger Williams spent his Providence days was very likely much like that of his neighbors. They were truly primitive dwellings—those early houses—usually consisting of a single large room down stairs, one end of which was taken up by a generous stone chimney, and a half-story loft above, reached by a steep, ladder-like flight of stairs. As family needs increased, a “lean-to” was added to the main structure. Even so, there must have been scarcity of elbow room in those days of sizable families and free hospitality.
Neither the exact day nor month of Roger Williams’ death is known. Like the date of his birth, it remains a mystery. The nearest we can come to it is that it must have been some time between January 16th and May 10th, 1683. No reliable record has ever been found, and the only facts that have come down to us regarding the close of this noble, self-sacrificing life consist of two mere fragments of information. The one, a brief extract from a letter written by one John Thornton from Providence to his friend, Samuel Hubbard, at Newport, the other, a line from a Colonial historian, are as follows:
“The Lord hath arrested by death our ancient and approved friend, Mr. Roger Williams.”
“He was buried with all the solemnity the colony was able to show.”
Out of the shadows he came, back to the shadows he returned. The death of the Apostle of Soul Liberty was nothing more than the slightest ripple on the surface of the life of the community. The people with whom Roger Williams lived had no conception of his real greatness. It remained for a later age to appreciate him and his work.