Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth,

Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of actions,

Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier.

Not in these words, you know. but this in short is my meaning:

I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases.

You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language.

Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers,

Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden."

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair

haired taciturn stripling,

All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered,

Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness,

Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom,

Just as a time-piece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning,

Thus made answer and spake, or rather stam

mered than answered:

"Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it;

If you would have it well done,-I am only repeating your maxim,

You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!"

But with the air of a man whom nothing can

turn from his purpose,

Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth:

"Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it;

But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing.

Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases.

I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender,

But march up to a woman with such a proposal,

I dare not.

I'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon,

But of a thundering No!' point-blank from the mouth of a woman,

That I confess I'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it;

So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar,

Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases.

Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful,

Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added:

Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that prompts me; Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship!"

Then made answer John Alden: "The name of

friendship is sacred;

What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you!"

So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler,

Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.

III.

THE LOVER'S ERRAND.

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand,

Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest,

Into the tranquil woods, where blue-birds and robins were building

Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure,

Peaceful, aërial cities of joy and affection and freedom.

All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict,

Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse.

To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing,

As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel,

Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean!

"Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a wild lamentation,

Must I relinquish it all," the joy, the hope, the illusion?

Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence!

Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow

Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England?

Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption

Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion; Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions

of Satan.

All is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it distinctly!

This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon me in anger,

For I have followed too much the heart's desires and devices,

Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idiols of Baal. This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift retribution."

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand,

Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers over pebble and shallow blooming around him,

Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness,

Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber.

"Puritan flowers," he said, "and the type of Puritan maidens,

Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will I take them;

Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and perish,

Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of a giver."

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;

Came to an open space, and saw the dirsk of the ocean,

Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the east-wind;

Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow:

Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla

Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old

Puritan anthem,

Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist,

Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many.

Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden

Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift

Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle,

Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed that he loved me,

Even this Captam of yours-who knows?—at last might have won me,

Old and rough as he is; but now it never can happen."

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

as woman's;

Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and headstrong,

Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and placable always,

Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature;

For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly. courageous;

Any woman in Plymouth, nay. any woman in England,

Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish!

But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language,

Quite forgetful of self and full of the praise of his rival,

Archly the maiden smiled. and, with eyes overrunning with laughter,

Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?"

IV.

JOIN ALDEN.

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 sea 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 my 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!"

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!'

Brutus 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 incarsions of Indians!

Straightway the Captain paused, and without further question or parley

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

To say the chronicles old, and such is the faith Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude of the people! stern and defiant,

Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious While on the table before them was lying unin aspect; Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, opened a Bible, And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattleprinted in Holland, snake glittered,

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

Brought by the Indian, and speaking with This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and arrowy tongues of defiance. heard them debating

What were an answer befitting the hostile mesTalking of this and of that, contriving, suggestsage and menace, ing, 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 Captain 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 There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot howitzer planted 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 Eider of Plymouth,

Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language:

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

Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with!"

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 fect 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; and

anon rang

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

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,