The day of his departure, how shall we ever forget it? As we moved about among the cots of Ward E, the cheerful voice of Lieutenant Hanley came to us as he clasped our hands for the last time, while he said "I shall never forget you." As the litter bearers were passing through the door he put up his hand as a last farewell, saying he would write us on reaching home. But many months passed before we received the tear-stained letter from a broken-hearted mother, telling us he had wandered to fairer fields.
Where broad between its banks stretches the Meuse, mirroring the bloom in the west and the evening star, where the cornflowers look up with heaven's own blue and the poppies cover the fields like a crimson sea, where the skylark unseen is still soaring and singing, and the nightingale from the snowy hawthorn spray warbles divinely at even. French mothers who have lost all their sons in the war shall come with their tribute of blossoms to those vast cities of the dead. Here while the flowers fall unnoticed from their trembling hands and with tears streaming down their careworn faces and with prayers of gratitude upon their lips, they shall bless the memory of those noble American boys who poured out the rich, red blood of youth who lie in a land they crossed the ocean to save.
Among the priceless treasures we have at home is a picture of Lieutenant Hanley standing among a bower of roses. This was sent to his mother just before he left the United States. How like those roses was he—the most perfect flower of all. The dew of youth, the rosy bloom of manhood, the purity of those fragrant petals in his soul, all speak to us from that portrait. It seems as if:
A happy smile flits 'cross his face,The dream of fair Elysian fields,A vision of the old home placeTo darkened memories swiftly yields.
God had turned the trenches to roses againWhen they bore him home across the waveHe was true to self, to God, and manAnd was leaving a land he died to save.
How quiet on that August mornThe tolling bell gave forth its sound.In star-draped casket, slowly borne,A treasure not of earth was found.
Like dew upon a flower sleepingOr fairest hue of sunset skiesA jewel in the master's keepingA radiant pearl of greatest price.
Like amber-tinted clouds of MayBy many vagrant breezes driven;That frail form swiftly passed awayTo melt and fade in dawn's fair heaven.
Death is but the mist of early mornSeen rising o'er the placid river,An open gateway into heavenWhere the pure with God shall dwelt forever.
Coming into Lexington from the south one passes Follen church, where Emerson preached. Farther along on the right is the house of John Harrington, last survivor of the battle; then, near the corner of Maple street, the great elm planted by his father.
About a quarter of a mile further, on the left, is the Munroe Tavern, headquarters and hospital of Earl Percy, now the property of the Lexington Historical Society. The granite cannon by the High School marks the site of one of the field-pieces placed by Earl Percy to cover the retreat of the British troops. In the town hall is the admirable painting of the Battle of Lexington, by Sandham; also in the town offices statues of Hancock and Adams.
The Hayes memorial fountain, with an ideal statue of the Minute Man, by Henry H. Kitson, sculptor, faces the line of approach of the British from the easterly end of the common. Behind it a granite pulpit marks the site of the old church past which Pitcairn led his men; a boulder to the left locates the position of the Old Belfry from which the alarm was sounded on its bell, April 19, 1775. A boulder on the common to the right from the fountain, together with the old monument, under which the eight men killed during the battle are buried, marks the line of the Minute Men. The Jonathan Harrington house, on the corner of Bedford street, was the scene of a touching incident of the battle. Across Bedford street is the Masonic Temple. The main part of this building was erected in 1822 for the Lexington Academy, and in this building the first normal school in America was opened on July 3, 1839, with three pupils enrolled.
It is good to be here in this section of country not alone for its historical associations, with which it is so rich, but for the association of great minds, from which emanated those flowers of song "that shall bloom in fragrance and beauty in the gardens of the human heart forever." We note in journeying here that the scenery is superb, yet we love the land more for the noble souls who lived and labored here that humanity might rise to higher things.
One does not wonder that Massachusetts can boast of so many illustrious names, for "its lovely landscape and stern climate seem to have been made for the development of genius," and no other period of history could have afforded more telling inspiration than that in which they lived. Their songs had in them the purity of its crystal springs, the beauty of its autumn landscapes, the strength of its rock-strewn hills.
How quiet was all the landscape on that Sabbath afternoon as we stood on the North bridge, where once stood the embattled farmer gazing up the elm-lined vista at the alert figure of the Minute Man. As one writer has said, it seemed difficult to associate this charming spot with strife, and try as we would it ever remained what its name implies, "Concord."
How peaceful the dark, slow-moving stream glided by the town, with scarce a murmur to break the serene stillness! How gently the Old Manse looked from its leafy elms! The noise of automobiles passing along the highway, the rippling laughter of our little guide, or the gurgling melody of a red-winged blackbird scarce disturbed its peaceful slumbers. On the golden stillness of the hot mid-summer afternoon the almost imperceptible current seemed more sluggish still. The graceful foliage of willow, elm and alder, joined in friendly groups by wild grape vines, leaned over the dark water "as if still listening for the golden thoughts of Hawthorne, Chinning, Emerson and Thoreau." It was their spirits that seemed to rule over the brooding landscape rather than that of the Minute Man, clothing each rock and tree with a luster the remembrance of which shall illuminate many a somber-colored day of life.
Yet here was the first battle of the Revolution. The only flag we saw was the vivid red of cardinal flowers, the blue of the chicory, and the white of the elder. We heard no gun save that of the bittern, which savored more of love than war. The calm skies knew no harsher sound than the explosive boom of the night- hawk. The only drum was that of the bullfrog, calling raw recruits from among the lily-pads. The dark waters harbored no submarine save a great turtle who slipped from a log and submerged, sending a mass of ripples around a much-frightened blue heron. The woods echoed to the bold bugle of the Carolina wren. But there, on April 19, 1775, "murmured the first faint tide of war" that continued until, as the stone on the right tells us, "it gave peace to the United States."
Gage sent troops to proceed to Concord to destroy the military stores collected there, but they, like Adams and Hancock in Lexington, had vanished. They were as much surprised as the farmer who planted his peas near a woodchuck den; when he went out to look at them all he had was the smell. For the British, too, only the smell of the powder remained. After they had left a small force to guard the bridge, the troops set fire to the court house. They then cut down the liberty pole, spiked several cannon, threw several barrels of flour into the river, and proceeded to hunt for the arms and ammunition that were not there. The burning flames from the court house kindled the wrath of the little force of Minute Men, who had seen the ominous clouds of smoke on that April day. Soon four hundred men were on their way to Concord. Two hundred regulars, on arriving, seized the bridge. Here they received and returned the British fire and were only overcome by numbers. Major Buttrick forced them back into the village.
As we gazed across again at the Old Manse we thought of the wonderful essays that had been written here. In the rear of the old house is a delightful study. It was here that Emerson wrote "Nature." Here, too, Hawthorne wrote "Mosses from an Old Manse." We thought of the brave clergyman who, from the north window, commanding a broad view of the river, stood watching the first conflict of a long and deadly struggle between the mother country and her child.
Realizing the danger they were in, the British troops began their retreat of eighteen miles. They had eaten little or nothing for fourteen hours. Ages ago freedom loving Nature had conspired to aid the Americans by shaping the field of battle. Huge boulders had been left by the glacier, the potent rays of the April sun made dense masses of verdure in willows, which thus became an ally of the pine. Stone fences and haystacks became ready-made fortifications, and every rising spot was filled with irate hostile yeoman who harried them with aim true and deadly. They soon began to run and leave their wounded behind, and in place of a retreat their disorderly flight must have had the appearance of a Marathon race, the rattle of musketry acting or serving as signals for each to do his best on the home stretch.
They were almost exhausted when they fell into a little hollow square made by Percy's men to receive them. Here the weary, frightened Redcoats took refuge as in a sanctuary, and immediately threw themselves upon the ground to rest. Many of them had either lost or thrown away their muskets. Pitcairn had lost both his horse and the elegant pistols with which. the first shot of the war for independence had been fired. They may now be seen in the town library of Lexington. When the British soldiers reached Arlington, several miles from Boston, they had an obstinate fight with the Yanks. The road swarmed with Minute Men and they could not keep order—but at sunset, when they entered Charlestown under the welcome shelter of the fleet, it was upon the full run. Considered as a race, the British stood far in the lead. Two hundred and seventy-three British were lost and but ninety-three Americans.
As we still lingered on the banks of the sleeping river we recalled these lines from Emerson: "My home stands in lowland with limited outlook, and on the outskirts of the village. But I go with my friend to the shore of our little river, and with one stroke of the paddle I leave the village politics and personalities behind and pass into a delicate realm of sunset and moonlight." Alert and watchful still stood the figure near the bridge, and as we turned away from this quiet spot "his attitude of eternal vigilance still seemed prophetic." He became at once the noble spirit of a brave Anglo-Saxon, standing for Freedom and Right; the spirit that gained our independence; that of 1867 that freed the slave; and that of 1917 that sent the sons of America across the ocean. This glorious Freeman should be placed on some lofty mountain peak in the pure, free air of heaven, where all might read the lesson of Freedom and Human Rights. This is one of America's shrines of which she may be duly proud. Could the European tourist carry back no other memory, it would be well to cross the Atlantic to see this sight. Leaving the guardian at the bridge standing there, we made our way to Sleepy Hollow.
We are not particularly fond of cemeteries, but the knowledge that finally one has to go there himself makes a visit not wholly purposeless. We strolled past. the quiet homes to the more quiet plot of ground, "hallowed by many congenial and great souls." Here on a lofty elevation of ground stood the headstones of Louise May Alcott, Thoreau and Charming, with that of Hawthorne enclosed by a fence and withdrawn a short distance.
"What a constellation of stars, whose radiance shall shine on undimmed through countless centuries!"
Here is what Thoreau wrote concerning monuments: "When the stone is a light one and stands upright, pointing to the sky, it does not repress the spirits of the traveler to meditate by it; but these men did seem a little heathenish to us; and so are all large monuments over men's bodies from the Pyramids down."
A monument should at least be "starry-pointing," to indicate whither the spirit has gone, and not prostrate like the body it has deserted. There have been some nations who could do nothing but construct tombs, and these are the only traces they have left. They are the heathen. But why these stones so upright and emphatic like exclamation points? What was there so remarkable that lived? Why should the monument be so much more enduring than the fame which it is designed to commemorate—a stone to a bone? "Here lies ___" Why do they not sometimes write, "There rises?" Is it a monument to the body only that is intended? "Having ended the term of his natural life." Would it not be truer to say, "Having ended the term of his unnatural life?" The rarest quality in an epitaph is truth. If any character is given it should be as severely true as the decision of judges, and not the partial testimony of friends. Friends and contemporaries should supply only the name and date, and leave it to posterity to write the epitaph.
The Old World bended low beneath a loadOf bigotry and superstitions dark,When Liberty, amid the tottering thronesOf despots born, with gladness filled the homesOf men, e'en the Eternal City badeHer gates imperial open wide; and, likeA cloud the darkness lifted from the land.Then Freedom's gentle, buoyant spirit, likeThe Magi's wand, extended far acrossThe sea, and thereupon the gloomy floodWas parted wide asunder, and revealedA glorious paradise for Freedom's sons.Columbia, beneath thy banner's stars,The mind of man in rare luxuriance blooms,Unfolding one by one the attributesOf deity. In vision we foreseeThe perfect man. In form the image ofHis Maker, God. In toleration filledWith charity for all. In Reason's WaysProfound. In thought, he mounts the throne of powerAnd sways the world. He tries frolic Nature's graspTo lure her secrets still untold till we,Amazed at his bold course, recoil abashed.
—Willis Boughton.
The breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock bound coast,And the woods against the stormy skyTheir giant branches tossed.
"Thus sang Felicia Hemans in the early years of the last century, and anyone who has sailed in by White Horse beach and 'Hither Manomet' when one of those fierce gales that winter brings to this section of the coast sends great billows thundering up against the cliff and churns all the sea into froth and foam, will readily see how truthful this singer has portrayed the scene he has beheld. True, you will not find granite ledges, which follow the coast almost continuously farther north, as at Scituate, Nahant, Rockport, and farther on; but it is rock-bound, nevertheless, with great heaps of boulders, thickly sown, of various shapes and sizes, with a sombre gray color that makes them appear inexpressibly stern even on a bland summer day."
The most picturesque of all the highways leading from Boston to Plymouth is the South Shore road, passing through Milton, Quincy, Hingham, Scituate, Cohasset, Marshfield, and Duxbury, for one of the chief delights of this route is the frequent glimpses of the sea, whose jagged, rocky coast Nature has softened until we only feel that it is rock bound. When the day is clear how the sunshine dusts the water with purplish bloom, mellowing its hard, cold tint of greenish blue. Here one seems to feel the spirit, the mystery of the ocean, and a voice at once grand and irresistible calls from those walls of siren- haunted rocks until he is among them, listening to the music of the waves as they come rolling against their rugged sides. Then one never tires of gazing at the beautiful homes so charmingly embowered amidst their grand old trees and spacious grounds adorned with many flowers, in brilliant masses of various colors. Thus no time is lost by the ardent admirer of the beauties of land and sea, and the ever-varied and changing scenes allow just that variety which the most prosaic person cannot help enjoying.
We shall always remember this road as a sort of traveler's paradise. It is an almost ideal shore road, indeed one of the finest that New England can boast, and one really regrets it is not longer. How many times we have gone over it since that first journey! "Memory and imagination are true yoke-fellows, and between them they are always preparing some new and greater pleasure as we allow them the opportunity."
Many have been the times since those memorable days spent on the old Shore Road; that memory of them gave for a moment a pleasure more real than any we had experienced while strolling at will along that scenic highway. Sometimes seemingly imaginary delights are far from being imaginary. We can see the lovely stretches of beach this moment and hear the breakers booming among the granite boulders—yes, and the grating of the pebbles that are being ground to shifting sand to form the beach.
Then, too, who can ever forget the exhilarating effect of a dip in those waves? The great unfailing attraction of the place, then as now, is the ocean, forever an emblem of unrest, changeable in its unchangeableness. To our minds the ocean seems alive. We could sooner believe in sirens and water-nymphs than in many existences that are commonly spoken of as much more certain "matters of fact." We could believe in them, we say, but do not.
Our communings are not with any monster of the unfathomable deeps of the ocean, but with the spirit of the ocean itself. It grows somber and sullen under a leaden sky, and its voice has in it something of that inexpressible sadness heard in the raging wind among the pines. Then on a calm day in mid-summer how placid and serene its water appears, wearing on its bosom that exquisite blue bloom, like the haze that clothes distant mountains. It scintillates and sparkles like rare jewels in the sunlight, and ever its dancing waves with silvery crests proclaim it a thing of life and motion. You might say that it is dead, yet after all, how many know what life really is? In certain moods, especially when strolling by the sea, you will feel measurably sure of being alive yourself; and the longer you tarry by it the less liable you will be to entertain doubts about the matter.
On the afternoon of our first journey along this Shore Road the sky was overcast with low-hung clouds that foreboded rain. Towhees were calling noisily from wayside thickets; catbirds sang their self-conscious airs or mewed in derision as we passed; chickadees were calling their names and occasionally uttered their pensive minor strains; and far away in a dim- lighted hemlock grove we heard a new bird song that seemed in exquisite accord with our own thoughts.
Again and again the notes came from the forest. How delicious the music was! A perfect song of peace and spiritual tone that told us at once the singer was a thrush—but what thrush? We had heard the song of the hermit among the Berkshire Hills and could never confuse his wonderful hymn with that of another species; yet here was a song possessing the same character of sacredness. It was a restful lullaby like ,the mingled benediction of wood and sea on the tired spirits of weary travelers. It had in it nothing of "pride or passion," but contained the same serene harmony that vagrant breezes draw from the myriad-stringed pines; something of the melodies breathed from the ocean. It proved to be the evening hymn of the veery.
The song of the nightingale, with its trills and phrases, would make harmony seemingly crude if compared to either the hermit or veery thrush, nor would the skylark, famous in poetry and song, bear off the prize were the two birds to be heard alternately. The English blackbird has a very sweet song, which made the weary, homesick heart of the soldier in France rejoice, when he announced that spring was near. Yet if the European traveler complains that our songsters are not brilliant, let him visit our land when the brown thrasher, the bobolink or mocking bird are singing, and he will hear melodies as full of joy and exuberance as any he may have remembered in his native land.
We have been straying a bit from the Shore Road but, as we said, the scenery along it is varied, so will your thoughts be as you move enraptured from place to place.
One almost forgets to eat while so much of beauty lies all about him; but, once reminded that it is meal time, what a ravenous appetite he seems to have! It almost provokes a smile now as we think of the many places along the various roads that are connected in our minds with the question of something to eat. Many of the places (might say nearly all of them) were places where we had dined the year before. Remembering how voracious and indiscriminating our appetites were, we cannot help wondering that we are here to tell the story; for how many new fruits we sampled because we wanted to learn their flavor!
This feeling is no doubt shared by all who recall similar excursions, when the open air and exercise whetted their appetites to an unusual degree. We Americans are objects of much comment in restaurants and hotels of foreign countries, and no doubt many of the waiters think that we have been blessed with more than a spark of life, else it would have been smothered long ago by the constant fuel which we furnish for it. But on a summer trip, where one all but lives out-of-doors, breathes deeply the resin-scented air and has little to worry about, there is not so much of a mystery connected with his ability to keep on the go.
We do not know whether it was the beautiful red color of some choke cherries that hung their bunches temptingly near or whether it was extreme hunger, or fear lest some hungrier soul should get to the bushes first, that caused one member of our party to recklessly cram his mouth with what he thought would be most excellent fruit. But alas! things are not what they seem. He began to pucker his mouth and cough in the most violent manner. "Choke cherries, choke cherries," he repeated between broken coughs; these cherries were evidently named by one who knew the right word for them. This fruit is extremely attractive just before ripening, with its handsome clusters of red cherries; a real feast to the eye but not to the palate, until they change to dark red or almost black. "Some things are to be admired and not judged by the New Testament standard, very literally interpreted, 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' We used other tests here and valued this small tree for its beauty, though its cherries were as bitter as wormwood."
It isn't often one is privileged to dine at the Sign of the Lavender Kettle in Sandwich, but this is what we did in Massachusetts. The place was neat and scrupulously clean, and the dessert consisted of delicious raspberries, which went far to dispel our partner's belief that, as some theologians teach, creation is indeed under a curse. But we are making too much of the food question, and will say nothing of the honey, fresh buns, country butter, etc., but shall make haste to inquire concerning our night's lodging, for Plymouth is celebrating the Tercentenary this year, and we were informed that it is extremely difficult to find hotel accommodations.
While making inquiries concerning a suitable place to stay, we were approached by a motherly but very officious old lady, clad in black, who, after telling us that she was going to entertain some notable person at her home as a guest when he came to view the pageant, advised us to proceed to the Mayflower Inn, where we were sure of being accommodated for the night. She described this hotel as a beautiful and luxurious inn, situated on the slight elevation of Manomet Point a few miles below the town. We decided to spend the night at Plymouth and passed the road which led to the inn. We found that the nearer hotels were all filled, so we had to turn back and in a cold, dreary rain return to the road we had passed.
As we proceeded on our way we saw a fishing vessel putting out to sea. How many scenes that vessel recalled! We thought how many families had been engaged in this precarious livelihood, where their perilous calling was prosecuted at the risk of life itself. The solitude and awesomeness of a stormy night at sea along this rough and rugged coast is heightened by the wild tempests which brood over the waters, strewing the shore with wrecks at all seasons of the year. The news of the frequent loss of husbands or sons, the roar of the waves, and the atmospheric effects which in such situations present so many strange illusions to the eye, must have been calculated to work upon the terrors of those who remained at home; and melancholy fancies must have flitted across their memories as they watched at midnight, listening to the melancholy moaning of wind and wave.
No wonder phantoms and death warnings were familiar to the ancient Celtic fishermen, for those terrible disasters that were constantly occurring could not help but increase the gloom which acts so strongly upon those who are accustomed to contemplate the sea under all its aspects.
"In the long winter nights, when the fishermen's wives whose husbands are out at sea are scared from their uneasy sleep by the rising of the tempest, they listen breathlessly for certain sounds to which they attach a fatal meaning. If they hear a low, monotonous noise of waters falling drop by drop at the foot of their bed, and discover that it has been caused by unnatural means and that the floor is dry, it is the unerring token of shipwreck. The sea has made them widows! This fearful superstition, I believe, is confined to the isle of Artz, where a still more striking phenomenon is said to take place. Sometimes, in the twilight, they say, large white women may be seen moving slowly from the neighboring islands over the sea, and seating themselves upon its borders. There they remain throughout the night, digging in the sands with their naked feet, and stripping off between their fingers the leaves of the rosemary flowers culled upon the beach. Those women, according to the tradition, are natives of the islands, who, marrying strangers, and dying in their sins, have returned to their beloved birthplace to beg the prayers of their friends."
Another superstition was recalled. "At the seaside village of St. Gildas, the fishermen who lead evil lives are often disturbed at midnight by three knocks at their door from an invisible hand. They immediately get up and, impelled by some supernatural power whose behests they cannot resist and dare not question, go down to the beach, where they find long black boats, apparently empty, yet sunk so deeply in the water as to be nearly level with it. The moment they enter, a large white sail streams out from the top of the mast, and the bark is carried out to sea with irresistible rapidity, never to be seen by mortal eyes again. The belief is that these boats are freighted with condemned souls, and that the fishermen are doomed to pilot them over the waste of waters until the day of judgment. The legend, like many others, is of Celtic origin." (footnote: Alexander Bell.)
One can readily see how the imaginative minds of those Celtic fishermen could people their desolate coasts with spectres and phantoms, and indeed we did not need to draw much on our own imagination to see strange figures gliding along the shore in the gloom on a night like this.
Soon, however, the lights from the numerous windows and veranda sent their invitations through the mist-filled air and we entered the hospitable building, and drew our chairs before the glowing fireplace with a feeling of comfort not readily imagined. On leaving the fireside to take a look at the ocean, behold what a transformation! Instead of scudding clouds, a clear blue sky filled with sparkling stars and a full moon, that made a path of gold which led far away over the water. It was such a night as one sees along the shores of the Mediterranean, lacking only the balmy air, the fragrance of orange blossoms, and the broad leafed date palm reflecting the glorious light. True, the air was chilly, but the sudden transition from a dull, melancholy scene to one so cheerful had a fascination for us, like the lulling melody of flutes when their sweetness hushes into silence the loud clamor of an orchestra.
>From the spacious brick piazza, we had a lovely view out over the rolling Manomet Hills. The blue on the distant bluffs grew silvery in the moonlight and the orchestra filled the place with delightful music, so in accord with the murmuring waves, that we thought as did Hogg, the poet:
Of all the arts beneath the heavenThat man has found or God has given,None draws the soul so sweet away,As music's melting, mystic lay.
After the orchestra ceased playing, a young man stepped to the piano and gave a beautiful rendition of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata; recalling our sojourn in the city of Bonn and the pilgrimage to the home of this wonderful genius. How like this must have been that night on which the famous master was stirred with emotion.
"One moonlight evening, while out walking with a friend, through one of the dark, narrow streets of his native city, as they were passing a humble dwelling, the sweet tones of a piano floated out on the evening air, that throbbed with the sweet notes of the nightingale.
"Hush!" said Beethoven, "what sound is that? It is from mySonata in F. Hark! How well it is played!"
There was a sudden break in the finale, when a sobbing voice exclaimed:
"I cannot play it any more. It is so beautiful; it is beyond my power to do it justice. O, what would I not give to go to the Concert at Cologne!"
This appeal, coming out into the stillness of the night, was too much for the kind-hearted musician. He resolved to gratify her desire. As he gently opened the door, he said to his friend: "I will play for her. Here is feeling, genius, understanding! I will play for her and she will understand it."
It was only the humble home of a shoemaker and his blind sister.
"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to enter. I am a musician. I also overheard something of what you said. You wish to hear—that is—shall I play for you?"
The young girl blushed while the young man apologized for the wretched condition of the piano, which was out of tune, and said they had no music.
"No music!" exclaimed Beethoven.
Then he discovered for the first time that the young lady was blind. With profuse apologies, for seeming to have spoken so abruptly, he desired to know how she had learned to play so well by ear. When he heard that she had gained it by walking before the open window while others practiced, he was so touched that he sat down and played to the most interested audience that he had ever entertained. Enraptured they listened.
"Who are you?" exclaimed the young man.
"Listen," said Beethoven, and as the sublime strains of the "Sonata in F" filled the air their joy was unbounded. Seldom is it given to man to have such appreciation. The flame of the candle wavered, flickered, and went out. His friend opened the shutters and let in a flood of moonlight. Under the influence of the spell, the great composer began to improvise. Such a hold did his own music create upon him that he hastened to his room and worked till after the dawn of morning, reducing the great composition to writing. It was his masterpiece, "The Moonlight Sonata." Thus he found that it is indeed "more blessed to give than to receive," and the gift returned to bless the giver many times."
No wonder the musician played this fitting selection, for the silvery light made all the sky radiant and its crystal, star- gemmed depths seemed to shine with a light of their own, transforming its radiant sapphire gleam, shedding it over the glowing water and shore, tipping with silver the shrubbery at its edge which in the dim distance formed a scene that was enchanting. The softly sighing leaves mingled their notes with the rippling waves and:
"Peacefully the quiet starsCame out one after one;The holy twilight fell upon the sea,The summer day was done."
Dawn came with a burst of glory, and the oncoming light of the soft, deep blue and the alluring purple. bloom that spread o'er the ocean was Nature's compensation for those who rose early. Before the stars had all gone to their hiding place and while the light of a few large planets was growing dim, fading into the clay, we were making our way down to the shore through dewy grass, azaleas, and various shrubs, where the swamp sparrows, robins, and catbirds were greeting the new day from their bushy coverts with their songs of gladness.
How many songsters took part in this matitudinal concert, we are unable to state, but there were a great number. The volume of sweet notes would sometimes swell to a full-toned orchestra, and then for a brief time it would die away like the flow and ebb of the tides of a sea of melody. The robins were undoubtedly the most gifted of all the vocalists, and their old familiar songs heard along the seashore seemed to have an added sweetness; their notes being as strong and pure as those of a silver flute, making the seaside echoes ring. We have heard many robins sing, but never have been so impressed with the excellent quality of their songs as on that early morning, when they flung out their medley of notes upon the balmy air. No one could doubt that here were true artists, singing for the pleasure of it.
All along the shore lay huge boulders telling of a more ancient pilgrimage to these parts; of a great moving mass of ice in the gray dawn of time, that crept slowly over the land, leaving a "stern and rock bound coast." Perhaps Plymouth Rock itself may have been one of the number that, like these huge gray boulders on which we stood, arrived thousands of years ago.
We returned to the hotel and after breakfast, proceeded on our way to the old historic town of Plymouth. "The road that leads thither is daily thronged with innumerable wheels; on a summer day the traveler may count motors by the thousand." Yet if you pause here awhile you may soon find within a few rods of the fine highway primitive woodland that will give you an impression of what it must have been three hundred years ago. Here you will see heavy forest growths consisting of oaks, for the most part, with maple and elm, and here and there a tangle of green brier and barberry, interspersed with several varieties of blueberry and huckleberry bushes.
You will perhaps recall that Eric the Red, that fearless Viking, is reported to have landed on the coast several centuries before the English heard of the bold promontory of "Hither Manomet." It is well worth your time to saunter along some of the old trails to be found in this region that lead from the main highway of today into the "wilderness of old-time romance, where you will find them not only marked by the pioneer, but that earlier race who worked out these paths, no one knows how many centuries ago."
We now and then meet with people who profess to care little for a path when walking through a forest solitude. They do not choose to travel a beaten path, even though it was made centuries ago. They are welcome to this freak. "Our own genius for adventure is less highly developed and we love to wander along some beaten path, no matter how often it has been traveled before; and if really awake, we may daily greet new beauties and think new thoughts, and return to the old highway with a new lease on life, which, after all, is the main consideration, whether traveling on old or new trails."
Then the force of those old associations, how they gild the most ordinary objects! The trail you may be traveling may wander here and there, beset by tangles of briers or marshy ground or loses itself in a wilderness of barberry bushes, yet how much more wonderful to travel it, for its soil has been pressed by pilgrim feet. Some path may chance to lead you where a few old lilac bushes, a mound or perhaps a gray and moss-grown house, still stands where some hardy pioneer builded.
You will probably come across parties of boys who have spent hours in the broiling sun, picking blueberries or huckleberries in the woods or old stony pastures. Here grow a number of varieties, which make the woods beautiful and fragrant. They belong to the heath family and help to feed the world. If you would know the value of these berries, try and purchase some from the boys who are gathering them.
How delightful the thrill that we experienced on that lovely morning of July as we were nearing the shrine of the nation. It would have mattered little even though we had not tarried on our journey here, where memories of days of the past came thronging around us, nor little did it matter now that we saw no signs of earlier times as we first approached the town, for in this residence, manufacturing and thriving business center, fluttered hundreds of flags, giving to the place a meaning at once grand and significant; and we seemed to catch the fervent faith, the glad hope that must have swelled in the breasts of our forefathers three centuries ago.
All during the morning our thoughts wandered far away from the days of the Pilgrims, for there came thronging memories of those absent and distant friends with whom we could never talk again, but in whose memory we once had a place, and who will always live in ours. These dear friends have now gone to fairer shores and they are dwelling on the banks of the "river Beautiful, where grows the Tree of Life."
We came to visit the relatives of these departed friends, who have proven in those terrible days of the Meuse-Argonne that there is more in life than its grim reality; who have taught us that not only on the bloody field of battle but while they calmly awaited the last command from the Master of All to make that journey to fairer camping grounds, they were soldiers not only serving their country under General Pershing, but loyal and faithful servants of their country's God.
The first hours of the day were spent at the home of Mrs. Emma Howland, whose son, Chester A. Howland, after receiving gunshot wounds in the Argonne forest, was taken to the Evacuation Hospital, Number 15, where we were privileged to care for him. In vain we searched for words to tell of the faith, courage, and self-sacrifice of a dear son, of this mother, whose photograph he so joyfully showed us on the first morning of our meeting, as he exclaimed:
"Here is a picture of the dearest mother in all the world."
How well we remembered that morning when the cheery rays of sunlight, the first of many days, stole through the windows and fell in golden bands and lay on the pure white brow, illuminating those manly features. A light divine filled his clear, blue eyes, as he said:
"I do not know how badly I am wounded, but then it will be all right."
Then we thought of the once lovely region around Verdun, where the homes were shot full of holes. In many places only heaps of blackened stone remained. The beautiful meadows of the Meuse had been torn full of pits, some small, others large and deep enough to bury a truck; and trenches, barbed wire entanglements and shattered trees were scattered all about. The American cannonading roared along the Argonne front, and the German artillery answered, until the air trembled with an overload of sound. Then as the clear, fine voice of this noble lad filled those halls of pain and death with a rippling melody of cheer, we looked again and a vision came.
In fancy we saw once more the French peasants toiling in their fields of grain; over the once desolate region the skylarks were soaring and singing above emerald meadows, covered with the blue of the corn-flower and crimson of poppies; the pines were peacefully murmuring their age-old songs of freedom and content, unmindful of the conquer-lust of the Hohenzollerns; the evening sky was no longer profaned by the lurid illumination of star shells as they looped across the ghastly field; in what were once shell holes filled with poisonous water the frogs were piping; in the lovely gardens overlooking the Meuse the mavis and merle were singing; and in the violet dusk no hissing shells screamed their songs of death and destruction, and no crashing of forests were heard from far-thrown shells, but the heavy box- scented breeze bore the heavenly psalm of the nightingale.
Across the road from the ward moving silently about the avenues of that vast "city of the dead," French mothers were scattering flowers on graves of their loved ones; and then it was understood why Chester Howland sang while the thundering cannon shook the wards. Soon for him there would be no weary marches, no days of terror and nights of pain. Ah, precious gold-star mother, rightly have you said it seems that he is just "away." The home he once brightened and filled with the beauty of his presence shall know him no more; but think to what radiant fields he has gone, for which you early taught him to prepare! There no cruel war will ever come to take him from your hearth- side.
I cannot say, and I will not sayThat he is dead—he is just away!With a cheery smile, and a wave of the handHe has wandered into an unknown land,And left us dreaming how very fairIt needs must be, since he lingers there,And you—O you, who the wildest yearnFor the old-time step and the glad returnThink of him faring on, as dearIn the love of There as the love of Here;And loyal still, as he gave the blowsOf his warrior-strength to his country's foes.Mild and gentle, as he was brave,When the sweetest love of his life he gaveTo simple things; where the violets grewBlue as the eyes they were likened to,The touches of his hands have strayedAs reverently as his lips have prayed;While the little brown thrush that harshly chirpedWas dear to him as the mocking bird;And he pitied as much as a man in painA writhing honey-bee wet with rain.Think of him still as the same, I sayHe is not dead—he is just away.
—Riley.
The first Pilgrim trail is now Leyden street, which leads from the edge of the water to the fort on Burial Hill. But we first made our way to a real wooded park whose grounds were covered with oak trees, clethra, alder, spice bushes, and green-brier, which we fancied still grew as they did in the days of the Pilgrims. We saw numbers of Indian tepees in this park, which added to its touch of original wildness. We learned that they belonged to the Winnebagoes of Maine, who came down to Plymouth to take part in the pageant. The park was full of blueberry and huckleberry bushes, and companies of the Indian boys and girls were gathering the berries which were just beginning to ripen, giving us a good idea of what the place must have been like before the coming of the white man.
>From this place we followed a path along the shores of a stretch of water known as "Billington sea." It is a lovely lake, that had been blocked off from the ocean by a great terminal moraine until "Town Brook set it free." There is a legend current here, that a man who brought little credit but much trouble to the Pilgrims by his acts of wantonness, was said to have reported the discovery of a new sea; therefore "Billington's sea." His sons seemed to be chips of the old block and caused the colonists no end of worry and trouble by their recklessness. One of them wandered away and became lost, causing great concern among the Pilgrims. He is said to have climbed up into a high tree from which he located his home and also discovered this body of water.
But no matter who the discoverer may have been, it was enough for us to know that we were treading Billington's path along the shore near the water's edge, linking the New Plymouth with that of three hundred years ago.
Here in this seeming wilderness, wandering upon those old trails that in many places are all but obliterated, or vanishing altogether, for a short way among their tangles of undergrowth, you may still glimpse the wooded region of three centuries ago, through the perspective of the ideas and ideals of the present day. "Here we still look back in loving remembrance to that magical little vessel that fought her way across a cruel wintry sea," bearing those brave souls, whose faith and courage have left us in possession of lessons that are priceless.
Anyone who has been in England when the hedgerows are in bloom can readily imagine how the homesick hearts of the pilgrims, after that first terrible winter, fraught with sickness and death, longed for these lovely flowers. The time of the Mayflower's blossoming has long been past, but in fancy our thoughts go back to that early spring when the first bluebird winged his way to Burial Hill, calling up memories of the English robin, which this harbinger of spring resembles. It was the Pilgrims who called him the blue robin.
We love to think, too, of the joyful discovery that one of the Pilgrims must have had, when he stooped to pluck that first flower of spring whose aromatic fragrance was wafted to him by the balmy south wind. Perhaps it was John Alders who first discovered this lovely flower while the bluebird warbled his message of love and spring from a budding alder. No doubt he carried it in triumph to Priscilla as a token of friendship.
Looking out over the land or the lovely bay that spread before them, the Pilgrims, in spite of their toil and hardships, found heart to send word to their friends in England that it was a "fayere lande and bountiful." "So in the darkest times there came days of brightness when all nature seemed to rejoice, and the woods and fields were filled with gladness." When the time came for the sailing of the Mayflower, not a person of all that little band was willing to go back to the land they had left. Longfellow has given us a picture of the departure in his "Courtship of Miles Standish."
O strong hearts and true! Not one went back in the MayFlower!No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to thisploughing!Long in silence they watched the receding sail of thevessel,Much endeared to them all, as something living andhuman;Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in avision propheticBaring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of PlymouthSaid, "Let us pray!" and they prayed,And thanked the Lord and took courage.
But let us return to the first trail of the Pilgrims that leads to Burial Hill. "Here above the enterprise of the modern town rises this hill, bearing the very presence of its founders," where you forget for a time the lure of the woods and sea as you reverently pause to read the inscriptions on the mossy headstones. The oldest marked grave is that of Governor Bradford. It is an obelisk a little more than eight feet in height. On the north side is a Hebrew sentence said to signify, Jehovah is our help. Under this stone rests the ashes of William Bradford, a zealous Puritan and sincere Christian; Governor of Plymouth Colony from April, 1621, to 1657 (the year he died, aged 69), except five years which he declined. "Qua patres difficillime adepti sunt, nolite turpiter relinquare." Which means, What our fathers with so much difficulty secured, do not basely relinquish."
Then we see the monument of his son, an Indian fighter. The epitaph reads like this:
Here lies the body of ye honorable Major Wm. Bradford, who expired Feb. ye 20th 1703-4, aged 79 years.
He lived long but still was doing goodAnd in this country's service lost much blood;After a life well spent he's now at rest,His very name and memory is blest.
Another monument you will see is that of John Howland. The inscription is this: Here ended the Pilgrimage of John Howland who died February 23, 1672-23 aged 80 years. He married Elizabeth, daughter of John Tilly, who came with him in the Mayflower, Dec. 1620. From them are descended numerous posterity.
"He was a goodly man, and an ancient professor in the ways of Christ. He was one of the first comers into this land and was the last man that was left of those that came over in the ship called the May Flower that lived in Plymouth."—Plymouth Records.
Here in the town you may see the Howland house still standing firm upon its foundations, although built in 1667. It has a large Dutch chimney of red brick. The roof is sharp pitched. Here too still stands the Harlow house, which was built in the Old Manse style in 1671. The oak timbers were said to have been taken from the frame of the first Pilgrim fort and common house which stood on a hill back of the town. How like their characters were the works of those early Pilgrims, relics of those bygone days when character-building and home-making were considered essentials.
Then we thought of that other grave that was recently made in the new cemetery; where the body of Chester Howland reposes. He was only one of the many loyal sons of the 26th Division who braved the cruel ocean in 1917 carrying the principles handed down from their Pilgrim forefathers to lands beyond the waves. They seized the golden sword of knighthood—an old inheritance from their worthy sires—and with what valor they wielded it, the rows of white crosses in a foreign land attest. Its hilt for them was set with rarest gems. "A mother's love or sweetheart's fond goodbye." A grateful nation saw fit to bring their remains back to their native land. They merit beautiful monuments, but memory of their noble deeds of valor and sacrifice will be all the monument they need, and by the light of Freedom's blazing torch the world shall read their epitaph written by the hand of Time.
How fine again it is to standWhere they in Freedom's soil are laid,And from their ashes may be madeThe May Flowers of their native land.
At many hearths the fires burn dim,The vacant chairs are closer drawnWhere weary hearts draw nearer themAnd softly whisper, "they are gone."
The low-hung clouds in pity sent,Their floral tributes from the skies,And sobbing winds their voices lentTo stifled sobs and bitter sighs.
In spotless beauty their myriads lay,Upon Freedom's flag like frozen tearsOr petals of the flowers of May,In perfumed softness on their bier.
Oh, may they not have died in vain,Those gallant youths of Freedom's land,They sought not any earthly gainAnd perished that the right might stand.
The death of the following is depicted in "Dr. Le Baron and his Daughters." "In memory of seventy-two seamen who perished in Plymouth harbor on the 26 and 27 days of December, 1778, on board the private armed Brig. Gen. Arnold, of twenty guns, James Magee of Boston, Commander, sixty of whom were buried on this spot."
"Oh falsely flattering were yon billows smoothWhen forth elated sailed in evil hourThat vessel whose disastrous fate, when told,Filled every breast with sorrow and each eye withpiteos tear."
One of the seamen is said to have been the lover of Miss Hannah Howland, which probably explains why she has this epitaph on her monument: "To the memory of Miss Hannah Howland, who died of a languishment January ye 25th, 1780."
The grave of the Elder Faunce, to whom we are indebted for the history of Plymouth Rock and for its preservation, is here. There are numerous other inscriptions quaint yet significant. Here you will find the oldest Masonic stone in the country. There is a design at the top, a skeleton whose right elbow rests upon a tomb, the right hand grasping a scythe. Upon the tomb is an hour glass, and on this are crossbones. At the left of the skeleton is a flaming urn; at the base of which is a rose tree bearing buds and flowers. Near the tomb is a skull leaning against a dead shrub.
"Here lies buried the body of Mr. Nath Jackson who died July ye 14th, 1743, in ye 79th year of his age."
With the Baltimore oriole piping his cheery recitative in the top of an elm; chickadees uttering their minor strains, and mourning doves soothing our ears with their meditative cooing, we left the sacred spot, to visit Plymouth Rock. We loved to listen to the purling undertones of Town Brook and wondered what its liquid music might not tell, if we could interpret its story. Shakespeare was right when he said we could find sermons in stones, and here if we read aright is a sermon that made the Old World monarchs tremble. And still to us it tells of that mighty force that brought it here in the dim past—to be the corner stone of our republic. Its ringing text is still sounding from shore to shore.
"Tradition has kept the memory of the rock on which the Pilgrims first set foot, and which lay on the foot of the hill. It has become an historic spot, to which the name Forefathers' Rock has been given. No other in America possesses such hallowed associations or has so often been celebrated in song and story."
"Here," said De Toqueville, "is a stone which the feet of a few outcasts pressed for an instant, and the stone became famous. It is treasured by a nation. Its very dust is shared as a relic. And what has become of the gateways of a thousand palaces? Who cares for them?"
Tradition also says that Mary Chilton and John Allen were the first to leap upon this rock, as we read in the lines to Mary Chilton—
"The first on Plymouth Rock to leap!Among the timid flock she stood,Rare figure, near the May Flower's prow,With heart of Christian fortitude,And light heroic on her brow."
But whoever was the first to step upon this stone, that act we now cherish as the first one toward the founding of a nation, and as typical of the heroism and daring of its founders. "And such it will stand for all time as one of the grand stepping- stones of history."
We wander once more along Town Brook listening to its soothing voice as the evening shadows begin to gather upon it. The sun, like an orb of fire, is sinking in a vast sea of gold through which a few fleecy clouds of a delicate rose color are slowly drifting. The shadowy forms of the night-hawk are plainly seen as they sweep the heavens for their evening meal of insects. We catch their eerie cries that fall from the rosy depths of the waning sunset to the darkening glades around us, and we hear the breeze softly sighing as it caresses the myriad leaves of the forest. The water of the brook grows dim in the deepening shadows. It is the sweetest hour of the day, and as this song of peace floats out over the twilight woods it calls to holy thoughts. It is as if one heard the Angelus of a distant village.
On returning to Plymouth Rock hotel we were impressed with the crowded streets, for from far and near people had gathered to witness the Tercentenary of the Landing of the Pilgrims. In the gray half light of the evening we saw a majestic elm whose gigantic size told of an earlier time. It may not be so, yet we loved to think that the white settlers' cabins rose around it by the seashore. Perhaps the earliest of the Pilgrim fathers heard the first prayers on American soil uttered from beneath its now aged boughs. It probably saw the surrounding forest disappear and with it, the Indian villages, and now looks down on the thriving historic town of the white man. The youths of several generations have frolicked beneath its beneficent branches. Armies have marched by it. The soldiers of Plymouth may have passed it on their way to the harbor where they stepped on Plymouth Rock before embarking on that perilous journey in 1917; and here it is still standing a silent orator of golden deeds in a land of noble trees. In it one sees far more than so many feet of lumber to calculate. Its gleaming crest in autumn speaks eloquently of priceless deeds of valor and that distant time of the golden dawn of Freedom.
Right proper it was that a nation saw fit to meet here, to do honor to the memory of those free and nobleminded souls who braved the dangers of the mighty Atlantic. Long, severe winters were endured when they had but a scanty amount of food and faced unknown dangers from hostile Indian foes. Uncomplainingly did they endure all of these, rather than submit to tyranny and oppression. Heroic characters they were, with their strong principles and high ideals, to found a great nation. What an epic story of splendid achievement, heroic deeds, and noble sacrifice those Pilgrim Fathers have chronicled upon the illustrious pages of our country's history!
The time is July in place of December, the month in which the Pilgrims arrived. In many respects the place of that first landing has been greatly altered. The waterfront contains rough wharves and is lined with storehouses and factories. Plymouth Rock itself will rest beneath a beautiful granite canopy and seems an incredible distance from the sea, and one wonders how they managed to bridge such a distance to get to shore. Yet if you rely somewhat upon your imagination, you may visualize the place in all its rugged impressiveness, much the same as when the Pilgrims beheld it. Nature seems quickly to obliterate the footprints of man, especially along the sea, and you may wander along Plymouth beach in the weird twilight and listen to the sullen boom of the breakers on the cliff, and see and hear as did they.
The sea has beaten for centuries against the great boulders, yet the stones have been but slightly changed. The coast is still "rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun," and the great granite boulders gleam white in the level rays of the descending sun, looking like great emeralds as the silvery crests of the breakers fall upon them.
The evening sky was thickly overcast with clouds as we made our way down to the shore. The wind blew the dark cloud masses out to sea, and as we watched the surf curried by the rocks into foam and heard the wind moaning and wailing among the tossing branches of the trees on shore, we seemed to catch the spirit of that time as if "it had been that Friday night, three centuries before, when the shallop of the Pilgrims came by this very place lashed by the tempestuous sea, their mast broken in three pieces and their sail lost in the dusky welter of the angry surf."
The sky became darker, and more menacing appeared the waves as the time drew near for the pageant to begin. A kind of weird twilight reigned o'er land and sea. No light was visible save that from the beacon-tower, which sent a fitful gleam o'er the angry waves; all else was dark, primal, spectral, as was that eventful night which these present-day pilgrims were now gathered to commemorate. The gale dashed salt spray and raindrops spitefully into our faces, yet it dampened neither our spirits nor those of the performers.
A large stadium capable of accommodating forty thousand people had been erected near the seashore behind a field of action or immense stage four hundred feet wide and with a depth of four hundred and fifty feet. This stage had to be illuminated from a distance of over one hundred and fifty feet, requiring for the pageant over three hundred kilowatts power, enough electrical energy to operate thirteen thousand ordinary house lights, and by far the largest installation for this purpose that has been used in this country.
Suddenly, from a canopied rock, was heard a rich, powerful voice speaking to the American people of the changes and vicissitudes that the rock has witnessed since "far primordial ages." Fit prologue it was from the "corner-stone of the Republic."
Out of the shadowy night from where is heard the mysterious voice of the rock thirty Indians, bearing ten canoes on their shoulders, move silently toward the shore. Suddenly one of the Indians perceives a strange object to the left on the harbor. Terror seizes them all, and they vanish like larger among lesser shadows. Nine more Indians appear bearing three boats but, seeing the phantom, fear fell upon them and they dropped to the shore, covering themselves with their canoes. From the right appears a Norse galley, the armor-clad warriors and their leader Thorwald making a fine picture as they disembark, carrying their shields, spears, and battle axes. As the men draw near they see the three canoes, and Thorwald forms three groups from his company, who approach rapidly toward them. The approach so frightens the Indians under two of the canoes that they rise up and attempt to flee; whereupon the warriors after some fierce fighting, kill them with their javelins.
The third boat is removed and reveals three Indians too terrified to move. One escapes and one is captured; another, feigning death, creeps slowly and painfully to the left, where his every gesture reveals the agonies of a mortally wounded warrior. The canoes are taken and borne aloft, on the shoulders of the majestic Vikings, trophies of a foreign land and victorious conflict.
No sooner do they pass on board the ship than a watcher in the prow warns the rest of impending danger; for, swiftly and warily approaching; the infuriated red men seem to be planning revenge in a surprise attack. Like a wall of flashing steel the shields go up around the deck while the gangplank is quickly drawn in. Suddenly a shower of arrows fly toward the wall of shields, hitting them with a thud but seemingly doing no harm. Presently they flee in haste, thinking perhaps these are gods who cannot be harmed. Slowly the shields are lowered and Thorwald is shown to be in great distress. One sees he is in a death swoon, yet, he raises an arm and points toward the Gurnet, then reels and falls into the arms of his stalwart men. Once more that steel wall goes up, and the mysterious strangers with their curious ship move out on the sea, bearing their leader's body held high on locked shields.
Next appear three men having an English flag with the words"Martin Pring-Patuxet—1603."
Here on the shore, with a band of men dressed in the costumes of those early days, appears a right merry group of men listening to one of their number who is playing on a gittern. As if enamored of the melody the Indians gather around the musician. One, who by his gesticulations, tells in actions more plainly than words that he wishes to dance, offers this modern Orpheus a peace-pipe. Others present various gifts until the English youth steps out among them. They form a circle about him and try to keep time to the music.
Suddenly a member who drops out receives a beating. Fiercer and swifter becomes the dance until in the height of the wildest part a number of dogs spring forward on their leashes, so frightening the savages that they flee in terror. The player seems to be amused yet startled at the incident and goes toward the Indians laughing. Behind a French flag the lights reveal three sailors. On the flag we see written: "Sieur De Champlain— July 19, 1605."
As the lights shift, two Indians appear bearing a great number of codfish which are being examined by Champlain and his men. The Indians show the hooks and lines with which they catch these fish. Noting some growing corn, Champlain tries to learn about the strange plant. The Indians by signs show him that corn may be raised and used as food. He barters for food and fish. Having acquired a great variety of provender they move toward the shore as the lights fade.
Next appear three men dressed in the Dutch mariner's uniform of the time. The flag they carry bears the inscription: "Admiral Blok—1614."
A crowd of Dutchmen appear to be enjoying the evening. They are watching a band of Indians who are dancing. One cannot tell which they are enjoying most, the long-stemmed pipes they are smoking or the weird dances of the redmen, whom they loudly applaud.
Following this scene is the tableau of Captain John Smith in the spring of 1614. Behind this group are seen three English sailors holding a flag upon which is written "John Smith—Accomack— 1614."
Down by the water where streaks of foam top the dark waves and the forms of two men loom dark and spectral, a boat is riding at anchor. While the boulders beat the surf into white foam and the branches of the elms wail and toss in the night wind, Smith and four of his men are trading with the Indians; others of his men are on guard against any treachery, while two of the men are placing the skins which they have bought into hogsheads. There are thirty or forty Indians when the bartering is at its height, and Smith is seen making a bargain with an Indian for a bale of beaver.
One of Smith's men, who notices a very fine skin an Indian is wearing, lifts it to show it to Smith. The Indian resents this act, and there seems to be resentment and fear among all the red men. The Englishmen stiffen to attention, but Smith, who feared neither man nor devil, goes among the Indians carrying a copper kettle and a gorgeous blanket. He held out his blanket persuasively and added several strings of beads. Then he draped the blanket on himself. The Indian at last reluctantly yields and takes off the skin, a beautiful black fox. The lights closed in around a group of Indians decked in their new robes.
Our attention is turned toward the shore once more where three English sailors hold a flag bearing the words: "Thomas Hunt— Patuxet—1615." Hunt enters stealthily at the right, and his attention is concentrated upon a spot where his trained eye has caught, a glimpse of something of greater interest than bird or fish. He is evidently scouting. Then appear at his signal a band of men moving in single file, who hide behind the bushes. Hunt too, as if hearing something, hides himself. Silently a shadowy procession moves from Town Brook, carrying pelts and fishing apparatus. A canoe is borne on the shoulders of two of them. They put the canoe down and all gather in a group to prepare for the day's fishing.
All unconscious of danger, they lay their weapons aside. Hunt rises and signals to his men, who quickly fall upon the Indians as they try to flee. Several stagger across the field fatally wounded, while most of the men are captured and bound. After they gag the Indians they force them toward the water's edge where a boat is waiting. As the group disappears, or is seen as a band of faint shadows, the despairing figure of Tisquantum, bound and struggling, is brought into relief.
There is darkness for a brief time then, as the lights come slowly on, they reveal an absolutely empty space where before were seen activity and plenty. The music for this scene, composed by Henry F. Gilbert, was of a character at once weird, awe-inspiring, almost magical, portraying by tone as plainly as by words the scene of desolation, sickness and death. It seemed as if there were an increasing sense of indefinite fear—a deep impression of solemnity and gravity, as if we were conscious of contact with the eternities.
A change as unusual as it was unwholesome came upon the ocean. "As the lights touched the water a purple glow that was to it like the ashen hue that beclouds the face of the dying. A filmy green spread over the land and there seemed to arise a miasmatic vapor like the breath of a brooding pestilence, which clung clammily to the earth and dulled all life." Every one felt the presence of trouble impending; one grave question breathed forth from the haunting music and, unspoken, trembled on every lip; one overmastering idea blended with and overpowered all others. "The land and sea were both sick, stagnant, and foul, and there seemed to arise from their unfathomable depths, drawn by the weird power of the music, horrid shapes that glared steadily into the strange twilight they had arisen to."
"Such a morbific, unwholesome condition" cast upon land and sea, and music that seemed to breathe forth such despair and desolation, could not but deeply move the audience.
One breathes more freely when the light falls upon a group of ten Englishmen, who appear in single file at the right. Thomas Dermer seems engaged in a very spirited conversation with Samoset, an Indian, while Tisquantum, another Indian, follows and seems absorbed in his own thoughts. While Dermer is engaged in conversation, a group of sailors pass near the water's edge, where they drop their burdens. They gaze out on the water as if looking for a boat. Tisquantum goes past Dermer and Samoset and stands looking off across the harbor, deep in gloomy thought.
>From out there, as darkness closes about the lonely figure on the shore, there is borne to our ears by the night wind the distant sound of voices chanting early sixteenth century music. The music continues while the various characters appear, and finally grows fainter until it can no longer be heard. A young boy appears on the left as if on his way to his morning labor. He is driving a horse that is hitched to a crude plow. There enters from the right a group of seven men and five women, who wear the costumes of religious pilgrims. They have the staff, the script, and the water bottle. Two of the number have been to Rome, for they wear the palm; two others show that they have been to Compostella, for they wear the shell; while two others have the bottle and bell, proving that they have been to Canterbury.
The next scene represented the Fleet Prison on the night of April 5, 1593. Two heaps of straw are seen, on which a man in Puritan garb is seated, writing rapidly. By the other heap sits a man on a stool, who is correcting some written pages. Both men wear chains. A woman stands by the second man with some papers. She seems to be waiting for the other sheets which the man is writing. As he passes the last to her she hides them all in the bosom of her dress.
The next scene represents the Opposition, 7603. The lights are suddenly turned, on revealing a flurry of children and young people across the field, from left to right, and the sound of gay music from the point toward which the children are running. The field fills rapidly with some hundreds of people—men, women and children, of all types and kinds. From the right to the triumphant march, King James enters in royal progress.
Space forbids us to relate the various scenes portrayed upon this wonderfully well-illuminated field. No one who witnessed this wonderful production can ever forget the solemn impressiveness of its closing scenes. A voice is heard coming from the rock, "As one candle may light a thousand, so the lights here kindled have shone to many, yea! in some sort, to our whole nation."