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While with her foot on the treadle she guided, the wheel in its motion.

Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalmbook of Ainsworth,

Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together,

Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a churchyard,

Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses.

Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan anthem.

She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest,

Making the humble house and the modest apparel of home-spun

Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being!

Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless,

Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his errand;

All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished,

All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion,

Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces.

Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it,

"Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards:

Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its fountains,

Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and the hearths of the living,

It is the will of the Lord; and his mercy endureth for ever!"

So he entered the house: and the hum of the wheel and the singing

Suddenly ceased, for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold,

Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome,

Saying, "I knew it was you when I heard your step in the passage;

For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning."

Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingled

Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden,

Silent before her he stood, and gave her the

flowers for an answer,

Finding no words for his thoughts. He remembered that day in the winter,

After the first great snow, when he broke a path from the village,

Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that encumbered the doorway, Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered the house, and Priscilla

Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the fireside,

Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her in the snow-storm.

Had he but spoken then! perhaps not in vain had he spoken;

Now it was all too late; the golden moment had vanished!

So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers for an answer.

Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful Spring-time,

Talked of their friends at home, and the May-
Flower that sailed on the morrow.
"I have been thinking all day," said gently the
Puritan maiden,

"Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of
the hedge-rows of England,-
They are in blossom now, and the country is all
like a garden;

Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet,

Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbours

Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together,

And, at the end of the street, the village church, with ivy

Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves in the churchyard.

Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion:

Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back in old England.

You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it: I almost

Wish myself back in old England, I feel so lonely and wretched."

Thereupon answered the youth:-"Indeed 1 do not condemn you;

Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in this terrible winter. Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on;

So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage

Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth!"

Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters.

Did he not embellish the theme, nor array It in beautiful phrases,

But came straight to the point, and blurted it out like a schoolboy;]

Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly.

Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden

Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with wonder,

Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her speechless;

Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence:

"If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me,

Why does he not come himself, and take the

trouble to woo me?

If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!"

Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter,

Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy,

Had no time for such things;-such things! the words grating harshly, Fell on the ear of Priscilla and swift as a flash

she made answer:

"Has he no time for such things, as you call it, before he is married,

Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding?

That is the way with you men; you don't understand us, you cannot.

When you have made up your minds, after thinking of this one and that one,

Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with another,

Then you make known your desire, with abrupt and sudden avowal.

And are offended and hurt, and indignant per

haps, that a woman

Does not respond at once to a love that she never suspected,

Docs not attain at a bound the height to which you have been climbing.

This is not right nor just: for surely a woman's affection

Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking.

When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it.

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Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla,

Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding;

Spoke of his courage and skill, and of ail his battles in Flanders,

How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction,

How, in return for his zeal, they made him Captain of Plymouth;

He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plamly

Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England,

Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of Thurston de Standish;

Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded,

Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent,

Combed and watted gules, and all the rest of the blazon.

He was a man of honour, of noble and generous nature:

Though he was rough he was kindly; she knew how during the winter

He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle

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INTO the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered,

Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the sea-side;

Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east-wind,

Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him.

Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendours,

Sank the city of God, in the vision of John the Apostle,

So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire.

Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted

Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city.

"Welcome, O wind of the East!" he exclaim d in his wild exultation.

"Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlantic!

Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of sea-grass,

Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the grottos and gardens of ocean!

Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap me

Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me!"

Like an awakened conscience the sca was moaning and tossing,

Beating remorseful and lond the mutable sands of the sea-shore.

Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contending;

Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding,

Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty!

"Is it my fault," he said, "that the maiden has chosen between us?

Is it my fault that he failed,-my fault that I am the victor?"

Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the Prophet:

"It hath displeased the Lord!" and he thought of David's transgression,

Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle!

Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation,

Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the

deepest contrition:

"It hath displeased the Lord! It is the temptation of Satan!"

Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there

Dimly the shadowy form of the May-Flower riding at anchor, Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow;

Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage

Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors' "Ay, ay, Sir!"

Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight.

Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel,

Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom,

Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow.

"Yes, it is plain to me now," he murmured;

"the hand of the Lord is

Leading me out of the land of darkness, the

bondage of error,

Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around me,

Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me.

Back will I go o'er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon,

Her whom I may not love, and whom my heart has offended.

Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England,

Close by my mother's side, and among the dust of my kindred;

Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonour!

Sacred and safe, and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber,

With me iny secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers

Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and darkness,

Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter!"

Thus, as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong resolution, Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight,

Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent
and sombre,

Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of
Plymouth,

Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of
the evening.

Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain

Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages
of Cæsar,

Fighting some great campaign in Hamault or
Brabant or Flanders.

"Long have you been on your errand," he said,
with a cheery demeanour,

Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue.

"Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us;

But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming

I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city.

Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened."

Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure,

From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened:

How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship,

Only smoothing a little, and softening down her

refusal.

But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken,

Words so tender and cruel: "Why don't you
speak for yourself, John?"

Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped
on the floor till his armour
Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a
sound of sinister omen.

All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden
explosion.

Even as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it.

Wildly he shouted, and loud: "John Alden! you have betrayed me!

Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me!

One of my ancestors run his sword through the
heart of Wat Tyler;

Who shall prevent me from running my own
through the heart of a traitor?
Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a
treason to friendship!

You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished
and loved as a brother;

You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keeping

I have intrusted my honour, my thoughts the most sacred and secret,

You too. Brutus! ah, woe to the name of friendship hereafter!

Brutns was Cæsar's friend, and you were mine, but henceforward

Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred!"

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber,

Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his temples.

But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway,

Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance,

Rumours of dangers and war, and hostile incursions of Indians!

Straightway the Captain paused, and without | further question or parley

Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron,

Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed.

Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard

Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in
the distance.

Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth
into the darkness,
Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot
with the insult,

Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his
hands as in childhood.
Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who
seeth in secret

Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council,

Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming;

Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment,

Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest
to heaven,

Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent
Elder of Plymouth.

God has sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat
for this planting,

Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation;

To say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people!

Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant,

Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect;

While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible,

Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland,

And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered,

Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge for warfare,

Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance.

This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating

What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace,

Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting;

One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder,

Judging it wise and well that some at least were
converted,

Rather than any were slain, for this was bu
Christian behaviour!

Then outspake Miles Standish, the stalwart Cap-
tain of Plymouth,

Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger:

"What! do you mean to make war with milk
and the water of roses?

Is it to shoot red squirrels, you have your
howitzer planted
There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot
red devils?

Truly the only tongue that is understood by a

savage

Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the
mouth of the cannon!"

Thereupon answered and said the excellent
Elder of Plymouth,

Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreve-
rent language:

"Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other Apostles;

from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with !"

Not

But

unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain,

Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing:

"Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth.

War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous,

Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!'

Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture,

Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets

Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage,

Saying, in thundering tones: "Here, take it! this is your answer!"

Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage,

Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself like a serpent,

Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest.

V.

THE SAILING OF THE MAY-FLOWER. JUST in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the ineadows,

There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth;

Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, Forward!"

Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence.

Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village.

Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army,

Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men,

Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage.

Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David;

Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible,

Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines.

Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners

of morning;

Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing,

Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated.

Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of Plymouth Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labours.

Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke from the chimneys

Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward;

Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the weather,

Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for the May-Flower; Talked of their Captain's departure, and all the dangers that menaced,

He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence.

Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of

women

Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the household.

Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming:

Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains;

Beautiful on the sails of the May-Flower riding at anchor,

Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter,

Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvass,

Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors.

Darted a puff of smoke, and [floated seaward; anon rang

Loud over field and forest the cannon's roar, and the echoes

Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure!

Ah! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people!

Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible,

Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty!

Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth,

Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the sea-shore,

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Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the May-Flower,

Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert.

Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without slumber. Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever.

He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the council,

Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur,

Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swearing.

Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence;

Then he turned away, and said: "I will not awake him!

Let him sleep on; it is best: for what is the use of more talking?"

Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his pallet,

Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning,

Covered himself with the cloak he had won in his campaign in Flanders.

Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action.

But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight Alden beheld him

Put on his corslet of steel, and all the rest of his armour,

Buckle above his waist his trusty blade of Damascus,

Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber.

Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace him,

Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon;

All the old friendship came back, with its tender and grateful emotions;

But his pride overmastered the noble nature within him,

Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the insult.

So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not,

Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and he spake not!

Then arose from his bed, and heard what the people were saying,

Joined in the talk at the door with Stephen and Richard and Gilbert.

Joined in the morning prayer and in the reading of Scripture,

And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the sea-shore,

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Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting.

He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish,

Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvass,

Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue him.

But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla

Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that was passing.

Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention,

Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient,

That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose

As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction.

Strange is the heart of man, with its quick,

mysterious instincts!

Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments,

Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine.

"Here I remain!" he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him,

Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the madness,

Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong,

"Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me,

Seems like a hand, that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean,

There is another hand that is not so spectral and ghost-like,

Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection.

Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the

ether!

Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me; I heed not

Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil!

There is no land so sacred. no air so pure and so wholesome,

As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her footsteps.

Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence

Hover around her for ever, protecting, supporting her weakness!

Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on

this rock at the landing,

So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving!"

Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important, Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather,

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well of the Pilgrims.

O strong hearts and true! not one went back in the May-Flower.

No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this ploughing!

Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors

Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor,

Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind,

Blowing steady and strong; and the May-
Flower sailed from the harbour,
Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving
far to the southward

Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the
First Encounter,

Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic,

Borne on the sand of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims.

Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel,

Much endeared to them all, as something living and human;

Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in avision prophetic,

Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth

Said, "Let us pray!" and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took courage Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them

Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their kindred

Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered. Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean

Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard:

Buried beneath it lay for ever all hope of escaping.

Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form

of an Indian,

Watching them from the hill; but while they

spake with each other,

Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, "Look!" he had vanished.

So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little,

Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billows

Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine,

Like the Spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters.

VI. PRISCILLA.

Turs for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean,

Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla;

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