SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY.

HISTORY.

The poem takes immediate hold of the events given in the early chronicles. The time when the story begins is stated only in a general way; but as the Mayflower began her return voyage April 5, 1621, the phrase, “In the Old Colony days,” stands for April 4th of the same year. The names of the three principal characters are mentioned in Bradford’sHistory of Plymouth Plantationas names of immigrants on the Mayflower. In regard to the instance of the rattlesnake-skin challenge sent by Canonicus, the time of its occurrence has been shifted in the poem from January, 1622, when it really took place, to the date when the poem opens. The incident is historical, and has been brought in almost in the exact form in which it is recorded. The real occasion for the Captain’s expedition (488) was to rescue the neighboring settlement of Weymouth, which was threatened by the Indians in March, 1623. The chronicles mention the details of the encounter very much as given (745-815); also the trophy brought back by the Captain (818, 819). May 12th is mentioned as the date when the first marriage in the colony took place. The poet’s description of the ceremony (936-939) is based upon Bradford’sHistory:

“May 12th was the first mariage in this place, which, according to ye laudable custome of ye Low Countries, in which they had lived, was thought most requisite to be performedby the magistrate, as being a civill thing, upon which many questions aboute inheritances doe depende, with other things most proper to their cognizans, and most consonant to ye Scriptures, Ruth 4, and no wher found in ye Gospell to be layed on ye ministers as part of their office.”

These are the main incidents that form the groundwork; but in addition to these there are numerous minor touches, names and facts from the old records, all which go to build up the narrative into a faithful historic picture.

Such is the portrayal of Standish and his previous service in Holland. He had fought in Flanders (25) against the Spaniards (28); he had charge of the military organization in the Colony (46-93). The Indian names mentioned in 53 are found in the chronicles. The death of Rose Standish (136) is also mentioned. Other names and facts that in one way or another are matters of historic record are the “Psalm-book of Ainsworth,” printed in Amsterdam (231, 232); the seven houses of Plymouth (392); Wat Tyler (415); the Elder and his Words (442, 443 and 457); Stephen, Richard, and Gilbert (547); the Field of the First Encounter (606). “In autumn the ships of the merchants” (825)—this refers to the Anne and the Little James, which arrived in Plymouth in the autumn of 1623. “Still may be seen” (846): the descendants of Alden still own the lands where his house stood, in Duxbury.

State what you can about the locality where the Pilgrims landed and settled. Give a description of it as you think it appeared to the immigrants in December, 1620. Couldit have been an inviting place? How does this locality look in the spring, say early in April?

II.

State in what way the value of the poem as such would be changed if it were not connected with a historic event as momentous as that of the founding of the Plymouth Colony. What, then, besides the story of the three principal characters is there in the poem? State, with reasons for your views, which you regard the more significant,—the story as such, or the historic picture it presents.

III.

Find details in the poem that you regard as particularly faithful to history. Find touches that illustrate historic statements like this: “The pioneers [Puritans] were rugged, strong, and inspired by an unshakable faith in their mission in the New World.” (People’s History of the United States.) See, for instance, line 599. Point out several examples of the customs, habits, and views depicted that are historic in the same way. Quote lines portraying the religious character of the Puritans; their faith in their mission. Cite passages depicting the hardships of the preceding winter. Find strongly visualizing touches portraying their condition as settlers. Also instances showing their relations toward the red men.

IV.

What length of time is covered by the narrative? Point out the events in the first and the last part that fix the time. What difference do you find if you take the actual history of the events as the basis for computing the time?

THE ACTION.

The poem presents an artistically finished story, in which the action begins with a statement of a definite issue, and moves on through complication and suspenses to a complete solution. Hence it is well adapted for the study of plot.

Every carefully constructed story begins with the presentation of an issue so contrived as to seize upon and arrest the attention of the reader. Something of momentous consequence to one or more of the characters is pending. The interests of the hero or the heroine are threatened by the interests of other characters. A collision between two opposing characters is unavoidable. The hero steps forward and enters upon a career clashing with the traditions and customs of his surroundings. His ambition sets up an aim and a purpose that cannot be attained without the risk of life or fortune. A struggle, at any rate, is impending and inevitable; and in the first situation of a well-constructed story the special nature of it is placed before the reader.

At this point the action begins. It seizes upon the attention of the reader by causing him to project his thoughts forward in anticipation of the action completed, the solution of the problem. As he follows the story his interest in the struggle is heightened by finding obstacles that challenge the very best powers of the hero and the heroine, and test to the utmost their strength and courage. These obstacles give rise to situations fraught with special points of interest, rousing curiosity or giving glimpses of character or the secret workings of the soul which the composure of ordinary life does not afford. In the course ofthe story there are subtle touches or character hints which endear the hero to the reader. At this stage it is something more than a struggle waged between comparatively unknown forces—a strong human interest is added, so that the reader conceives strong wishes and consummations of his own with reference to the outcome.

In a story there are several positions that determine the plot and mark the stages of the progress. These form the basis of its structure; and in the study of the plot they are very serviceable as points of departure. Thus we may recognize the point where we have sufficient introductory data to state the problem, or in other words, to formulate the issue. At what point do we feel prompted to wish for any certain kind of result to the struggle? What is the nature of the obstacles that aggravate and complicate the struggle? Do they rise subjectively out of the hero’s character, or are they brought in through the counterplay of other characters? At what point and through what occurrences does the story seem to point to a definite outcome? Through what means is the reader again led to entertain doubts and misgivings? In what way is the main problem solved? Is the struggle ended so that we feel that everything involved in the issue is fully terminated?

In lines 85 and 86, John Alden’s hopes and desires are indicated, and we wonder, How shall he speed, and is the consummation to be such as he desires? Another step is reached in 155, where the action is complicated by an obstacle placed in his way. At this stage we have an opportunity to note a bit of the writer’s art if we observe the effect that this turn of events has. It certainly adds to the interest. But how? In the first place, we are anxiousto know whether this obstacle will, against our wishes, cause the hopes of Alden to be frustrated. If we are in doubt as to whether it takes hold of us in this way, we have but to note that we are not content to leave the story at this point. In the second place, we are curious to know how Alden will acquit himself pleading with Priscilla in behalf of a rival suitor. And again, How will Priscilla receive the proffers of the Captain? The situation to which we immediately look forward has many elements adapted to seize strongly upon the reader’s attention. It will primarily be momentous in the fortunes of the principal characters; and it will, further, have features that in various other ways interest people. Up to this point Alden’s character has been developed in such a way that we are sure he cannot summarily set aside or ignore his promise to the Captain. The commission entrusted to him is bound to create a violent conflict in his mind between love on one side and friendship and conscience on the other. This conflict will be visually exhibited in the coming interview with Priscilla. In whatever way the interview as such terminates, we see that a series of interesting consequences must follow from it: as, for instance, Alden’s report to the Captain, the mood induced in the latter, and his subsequent course of action. Again, it cannot pass without resulting in some sort of counteraction on the part of the other two, thereby giving rise to situations that will tax all their loyalty and resourcefulness.

What assurance have we that Alden will not attempt to ignore or evade his promise (245-248)? In what way isthe situation made more intense by Priscilla’s welcome (251-253)? How does the preliminary conversation increase the difficulties of Alden’s errand? In the manner of delivering his message, is he influenced mainly by a sense of his obligation to the Captain or by the sentiments he entertains towards Priscilla? What is the dramatic effect of his abrupt departure? In what respect was the interview conclusive? At the close of the situation do we feel that the difficulties in Alden’s way are lessened or increased? How did Alden seem to feel in regard to this?

II.

What part of Alden’s report was the main cause of the Captain’s wrath? Had Alden anticipated the effect that his report would have? How does the arrival of the messenger (426) affect the plot? Is the incident of the council a part of the main action, or merely an episode? Why was it necessary at this stage that the Captain should be removed from the presence of the other two (484)? What personal interests of the various characters are pending or threatened at this point of the story?

In what way is the central action still in a state of suspense after the Captain’s departure? Show how the suspense is to be accounted for by the disposition and character of Alden. In what way are the occurrences that take place during the Captain’s absence invested with interest (824-900)?

IV.

What is the decisive moment in the story? Explain the effect it will be likely to have on Alden and his course of action. In what way is the preceding situation a preparationfor this moment? How does the poet make plain to us Alden’s previous sense of restraint as well as his present sense of freedom?

What is the purpose of the information given in 949—“Long had it stood there,” etc.? What difference would it have made to one of Alden’s disposition if the person had presented himself before the ceremony? Could the action be regarded as quite complete without the reconciliation of all the main characters?

THE CHARACTERS.

Miles Standish and John Alden are introduced together, for the reason, no doubt, that the traits of the one may serve to set off those of the other. Miles Standish is a soldier by nature; and a lifetime spent in camp and field has brought out the soldier spirit in him in all its completeness. The character of John Alden is less marked, though it is made sufficiently intelligible, first by his employment as scribe and correspondent of the colonists, which leads us to infer that he was better fitted for the occupation of the scholar than for the struggles of the pioneer; secondly, his youth and delicate complexion are mentioned, and we gather that his physique is not robust nor hardened. The Puritan predominates in John Alden as the soldier does in Miles Standish. The latter attributes the saving of his life to the good steel of the breastplate, while the former attributes it to a direct interposition of the Lord in slackening the speed of the bullet. We feel that if Alden had been left to spend an anxious hour or twoalone, he would have turned for consolation to the Bible and not to “the ponderous Roman.”

The Captain is a man of strong personality and firm integrity. He is an organizer of the colony’s defense; his voice prevails at the council; he is a resolute and able defender, who rises equal to emergencies of sudden and imminent danger. He is also capable of entertaining sentiments of tenderness (58-60) and magnanimity (949-973). Yet the author has indicated that, in the conventional sense, he is not to be taken as the hero. The personal description of him (11) points to this; so also his almost ludicrous inconsistency (36-115 and 163-168). His avowed affection for Priscilla could not have struck deep roots in his heart, for only two or three months have passed since he sustained the loss that made his life “weary and dreary” (36). Moreover, this matter could not have been upper-most in his mind very long, for he would then have observed that Alden had frequently gone on a lover’s errand in his own behalf (252-258). Neither could his inclinations have been very ardent, for while Alden is gone he spends the hours without anxiety, absorbed in the campaigns of Cæsar. He misunderstands and underestimates the sterling nature of Priscilla when he thinks that the winning of her is largely and mainly a matter of phrases (169) and elegant language, “such as you read of in books in the pleadings and wooings of lovers.” All this helps us to become reconciled to the Captain’s discomfiture.

John Alden is the most typical Puritan of the leading characters. His tendency towards a fatalistic view of life and to self-accusation seem almost too strange to beaccounted for by any doctrine or belief. As a Puritan he had been brought up and trained in submission to his elders, which may partly explain his lack of self-assertion. His position as a dependent in the household of Miles Standish made him more ready than he otherwise could have been to go on the Captain’s delicate errand. There are situations in which we find Alden insufficient (182, 558, 559). He has little opportunity, in so far that the part assigned to him is mainly passive. Yet there are possibilities of stern manhood in him; and, with reference to the main issue, he is certainly strong in those very respects where Miles Standish is weak.

Priscilla presents a contrast to the other two. She is full of healthy, joyous life. Neither the sternness of her associates nor the hardships of the pioneer life that she had experienced had been able to detract from her cheerful, buoyant disposition. During the winter she had become an orphan, and yet she appears to have been potent as a ray of sunshine amid the gloom and distress incident to the condition of the colonists. The fact that she is a trifle more frank in her conversation with John Alden than strict conventional form would require detracts nothing, but rather places her among such ideals of women as Miranda, Imogen, and Elaine.

In the first eighty lines designate the means used in describing Miles Standish. Which reveals his character most effectively—the author’s direct description of him, his talk, his weapons, or his books? Are there any details in this description that you would like to see alteredif the Captain were to be the hero of the story? The Miles Standish of history is said to have been thirty-six years at this time; in what direction has the poet changed his age? Why?

II.

What position of authority does Standish hold in the colony? Why has the poet made him and Alden household companions (15)? What character-contrast in 25-33? Why should the maxim of line 37 be reiterated (114)? How does the Captain’s inconsistency (164) affect the tone of the narrative? Is the reply in 168 to the point? How does the Captain’s reliance on phrases and elegant language change our opinion of him?

III.

How does line 398 square with lines 173, 174? What had been the Captain’s state of mind during Alden’s absence? What effects measure to us the degree of his anger after having listened to Alden’s report? What motives induced the Captain to start in pursuit of hostile Indians (486)? Hoes this expedition seem to have been most likely to insure the safety of the colony? What evidence have we later on of the Captain’s magnanimity? As he is not in the conventional sense the hero of the story, what purpose, from the point of view of the action, does he serve?

IV.

In the character portrayal of 1-86, which are the main points of contrast between Miles Standish and John Alden? What appears to be the age of Alden? In describing him, why does the author use more poetic terms (17-20) thanhe does in the case of Standish? Was Alden commissioned by others of the colonists to write letters for them? What single fact makes clear the sentiments he entertains towards Priscilla? Had they been acquainted before they left England?

How can we account for Alden’s yielding to the Captain’s request? What other courses of action were open to him? “Then made answer John Alden” (181)—continue here, and in half a dozen lines write the answer you think he should have made. After leaving the Captain, what motives hold him to the fulfillment of his promise (185-248)? Was his blunt manner of delivering the message (288) deliberate, or was he so overcome that he could not do it otherwise?

VI.

What exactly is the cause of his distress as told in 339-342? Comment on the frankness of the report he submits. Should he not have attempted to explain and to set himself right? Interpret the mood visualized in 558, 559. Does he seem to have a sufficient reason for “thinking to fly from despair” (562)? Would it be a better story if Alden had been given an opportunity for active heroism? What in his character is most admirable?

VII.

Did Priscilla belong to those Puritans that had lived for some years in Holland (269)? What suggestions have we regarding Priscilla before lines 223-238? In the description (223-238) what traits are made most prominent?Explain in what respect her disposition seems to be in sharp contrast to that of Alden (293-338). At what point and under what conditions does Priscilla’s influence show itself most powerful? What do we learn of her from her words in 667-680? At what point in the story and in what way is her character most exquisitely drawn? Which of the three characters had passed through the saddest experiences since the landing at Plymouth?

THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH.

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims,To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,Strode, with martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing5Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,Hanging in shining array along the walls of his chamber,—Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket and matchlock.10Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was alreadyFlaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,15Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window;Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captivesWhom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, “Not Angles but Angels.”Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.20Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.“Look at these arms,” he said, “the warlike weapons that hang hereBurnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,—25Well I remember the day!—once saved my life in a skirmish;Here in front you can see the very dint of the bulletFired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles StandishWould at this moment be mold, in their grave in the Flemish morasses.”30Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:“Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!”Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:“See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;35That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,40Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!”This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeamsDance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:45“Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer plantedHigh on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose,Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresistible logic,Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen.Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians:50And the sooner they try it the better,—Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow,Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon!”Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape,Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind,55Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean,Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine.Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape,Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion,Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded:60“Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish;Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside!She was the first to die of all who came in the Mayflower!Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there,Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people,65Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished!”Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful.Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among themProminent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding:Barriffe’s Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Cæsar,70Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London,And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible.Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtfulWhich of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort,Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans,75Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians.Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman,Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silenceTurned o’er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the margin,Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest.80Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling,Busily writing epistles important, to go by the Mayflower,Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing!Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter,Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla,85Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla!

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims,

To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,

Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,

Strode, with martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.

Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing5

Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,

Hanging in shining array along the walls of his chamber,—

Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,

Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,

While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket and matchlock.10

Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,

Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;

Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already

Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.

Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,15

Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window;

Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,

Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives

Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, “Not Angles but Angels.”

Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.20

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.“Look at these arms,” he said, “the warlike weapons that hang hereBurnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,—25Well I remember the day!—once saved my life in a skirmish;Here in front you can see the very dint of the bulletFired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles StandishWould at this moment be mold, in their grave in the Flemish morasses.”30Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:“Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!”Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:“See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;35That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,40Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!”This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeamsDance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:45“Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer plantedHigh on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose,Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresistible logic,Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen.Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians:50And the sooner they try it the better,—Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow,Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon!”

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,

Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.

“Look at these arms,” he said, “the warlike weapons that hang here

Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!

This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,—25

Well I remember the day!—once saved my life in a skirmish;

Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet

Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.

Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish

Would at this moment be mold, in their grave in the Flemish morasses.”30

Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:

“Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;

He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!”

Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:

“See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;35

That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.

Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;

So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.

Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,

Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,40

Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,

And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!”

This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams

Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.

Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:45

“Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose,

Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresistible logic,

Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen.

Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians:50

And the sooner they try it the better,—

Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow,

Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon!”

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape,Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind,55Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean,Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine.Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape,Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion,Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded:60“Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish;Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside!She was the first to die of all who came in the Mayflower!Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there,Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people,65Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished!”Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful.

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape,

Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind,55

Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean,

Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine.

Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape,

Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion,

Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded:60

“Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish;

Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside!

She was the first to die of all who came in the Mayflower!

Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there,

Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people,65

Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished!”

Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful.

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among themProminent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding:Barriffe’s Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Cæsar,70Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London,And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible.Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtfulWhich of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort,Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans,75Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians.Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman,Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silenceTurned o’er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the margin,Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest.80Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling,Busily writing epistles important, to go by the Mayflower,Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing!Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter,Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla,85Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla!

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them

Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding:

Barriffe’s Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Cæsar,70

Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London,

And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible.

Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful

Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort,

Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans,75

Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians.

Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman,

Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence

Turned o’er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the margin,

Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest.80

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling,

Busily writing epistles important, to go by the Mayflower,

Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing!

Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter,

Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla,85

Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla!

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling,Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain,Reading the marvelous words and achievements of Julius Cæsar.After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards,90Heavily on the page: “A wonderful man was this Cæsar!You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellowWho could both write and fight, and in both was equally skillful!”Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful:“Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his weapons.95Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictateSeven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs.”“Truly,” continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other,“Truly a wonderful man was this Caius Julius Cæsar!‘Better be first,’ he said, ‘in a little Iberian village,100Than be second in Rome,’ and I think he was right when he said it.Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after;Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered;He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded;Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus!105Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders,When the rear guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too,And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely togetherThere was no room for their swords? Why, he seized a shield from a soldier,Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the captains,110Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns;Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons;So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other.That’s what I always say; if you wish a thing to be well done,You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!”115All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading.Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the striplingWriting epistles important to go next day by the Mayflower,Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla;Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla,120Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret,Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla!Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover,Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket,Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth:125“When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you.Be not, however, in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!”Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters,Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention:“Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen,130Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish.”Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases:“’Tis not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures.This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it;Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it.135Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary;Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship.Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla.She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brotherDied in the winter together; I saw her going and coming,140Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying,Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if everThere were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven,Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is PriscillaHolds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned.145Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it,Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part.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.150Not 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.”155When 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 timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning,160Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered 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,165Gravely 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,170But 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,175Having 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!”180Then 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 molding the gentler,Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling,

Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain,

Reading the marvelous words and achievements of Julius Cæsar.

After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards,90

Heavily on the page: “A wonderful man was this Cæsar!

You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow

Who could both write and fight, and in both was equally skillful!”

Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful:

“Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his weapons.95

Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate

Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs.”

“Truly,” continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other,

“Truly a wonderful man was this Caius Julius Cæsar!

‘Better be first,’ he said, ‘in a little Iberian village,100

Than be second in Rome,’ and I think he was right when he said it.

Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after;

Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered;

He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded;

Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus!105

Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders,

When the rear guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too,

And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together

There was no room for their swords? Why, he seized a shield from a soldier,

Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the captains,110

Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns;

Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons;

So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other.

That’s what I always say; if you wish a thing to be well done,

You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!”115

All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading.Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the striplingWriting epistles important to go next day by the Mayflower,Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla;Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla,120Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret,Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla!Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover,Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket,Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth:125“When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you.Be not, however, in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!”Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters,Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention:“Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen,130Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish.”Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases:“’Tis not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures.This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it;Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it.135Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary;Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship.Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla.She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brotherDied in the winter together; I saw her going and coming,140Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying,Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if everThere were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven,Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is PriscillaHolds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned.145Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it,Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part.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.150Not 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.”155

All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading.

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling

Writing epistles important to go next day by the Mayflower,

Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla;

Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla,120

Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret,

Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla!

Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover,

Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket,

Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth:125

“When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you.

Be not, however, in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!”

Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters,

Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention:

“Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen,130

Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish.”

Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases:

“’Tis not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures.

This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it;

Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it.135

Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary;

Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship.

Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla.

She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brother

Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming,140

Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying,

Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever

There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven,

Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla

Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned.145

Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it,

Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part.

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.150

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.”155

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 timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning,160Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered 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,165Gravely 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,170But 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,175Having 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!”180Then 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 molding the gentler,Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.

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 timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning,160

Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered 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,165

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,170

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,175

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!”180

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 molding the gentler,

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

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand,185Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest.Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were buildingTowns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure,Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom.All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict,190Love 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,—195“Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion?Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshiped in silence?Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadowOver the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England?Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption200Rise, 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,205Worshiping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols 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 over pebble and shallow,Gathering still, as he went, the mayflowers blooming around him,210Fragrant, 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, the very type of Priscilla!So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the mayflower of Plymouth,215Modest 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 the giver.”So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean,220Sailless, somber 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 PriscillaSinging the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem,Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist,225Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many.Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maidenSeated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-driftPiled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle,While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion.230Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth,Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together.Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the Avail 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,235She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest,Making the humble house and the modest apparel of homespunBeautiful 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;240All 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 plow look backwards;245Though the plowshare 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 forever!”So he entered the house; and the hum of the wheel and the singingSuddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold,250Rose 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 mingledThus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden,255Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer,Finding no words for his thought. 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 Priscilla260Laughed 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.265Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful springtime;Talked of their friends at home, and the Mayflower 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 hedgerows of England,—They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden;270Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet,Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighborsGoing about as of old, and stopping to gossip together,And, at the end of the street, the village church, with the ivyClimbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves in the churchyard.275Kind 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 almostWish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched.”Thereupon answered the youth: “Indeed I do not condemn you;280Stouter 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 marriageMade by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth!”Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters,—285Did 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 maidenLooked into Alden’s face, her eyes dilated with wonder,290Feeling 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!”295Then 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 harshlyFell 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,300Would 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,305And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, that a womanDoes not respond at once to a love that she never suspected,Does not attain at a bound to the height to which you have been climbing.This is not right nor just; for surely a woman’s affectionIs not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking.310When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it.Had he but waited a while, had he only showed that he loved me,Even this Captain 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,315Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding;Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles in Flanders,How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction,How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain of Plymouth;He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly320Back 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 argentCombed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon.325He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature;Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew how during the winterHe 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,330Not 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,335Quite 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?”

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand,185

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

Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were building

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

Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom.

All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict,190

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,—195

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

Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshiped 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 corruption200

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,205

Worshiping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols 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 over pebble and shallow,Gathering still, as he went, the mayflowers blooming around him,210Fragrant, 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, the very type of Priscilla!So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the mayflower of Plymouth,215Modest 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 the giver.”So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean,220Sailless, somber 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 PriscillaSinging the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem,Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist,225Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many.Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maidenSeated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-driftPiled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle,While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion.230Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth,Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together.Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the Avail 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,235She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest,Making the humble house and the modest apparel of homespunBeautiful 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;240All 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 plow look backwards;245Though the plowshare 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 forever!”

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

Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled over pebble and shallow,

Gathering still, as he went, the mayflowers blooming around him,210

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, the very type of Priscilla!

So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the mayflower of Plymouth,215

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 the giver.”

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

Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean,220

Sailless, somber 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,225

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,

While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion.230

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

Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together.

Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the Avail 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,235

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

Making the humble house and the modest apparel of homespun

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;240

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 plow look backwards;245

Though the plowshare 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 forever!”

So he entered the house; and the hum of the wheel and the singingSuddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold,250Rose 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 mingledThus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden,255Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer,Finding no words for his thought. 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 Priscilla260Laughed 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.265

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,250

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,255

Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer,

Finding no words for his thought. 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 Priscilla260

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.265

Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful springtime;Talked of their friends at home, and the Mayflower 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 hedgerows of England,—They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden;270Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet,Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighborsGoing about as of old, and stopping to gossip together,And, at the end of the street, the village church, with the ivyClimbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves in the churchyard.275Kind 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 almostWish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched.”

Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful springtime;

Talked of their friends at home, and the Mayflower 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 hedgerows of England,—

They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden;270

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

Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbors

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

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

Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves in the churchyard.275

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 I do not condemn you;280Stouter 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 marriageMade by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth!”

Thereupon answered the youth: “Indeed I do not condemn you;280

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,—285Did 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 maidenLooked into Alden’s face, her eyes dilated with wonder,290Feeling 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!”295Then 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 harshlyFell 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,300Would 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,305And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, that a womanDoes not respond at once to a love that she never suspected,Does not attain at a bound to the height to which you have been climbing.This is not right nor just; for surely a woman’s affectionIs not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking.310When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it.Had he but waited a while, had he only showed that he loved me,Even this Captain of yours—who knows?—at last might have won me,Old and rough as he is; but now it never can happen.”

Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters,—285

Did 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,290

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!”295

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,300

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,305

And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, that a woman

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

Does not attain at a bound to 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.310

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

Had he but waited a while, had he only showed that he loved me,

Even this Captain 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,315Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding;Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles in Flanders,How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction,How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain of Plymouth;He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly320Back 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 argentCombed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon.325He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature;Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew how during the winterHe 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,330Not 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!

Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla,315

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

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

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

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

He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly320

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 wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon.325

He was a man of honor, 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,330

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,335Quite 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?”

But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language,335

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?”

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