Etext of The Courtship of Miles Standish
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Boston: Ticknor and Fields.
MDCCC LIX.

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1858, by Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court
Of the District of Massachusetts. Cambridge: Electrotyped and
Printed by  Metcalf and Company.

CONTENTS.

THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

I. MILES STANDISH
II. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP
III. THE LOVER'S ERRAND
IV. JOHN ALDEN
V. THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER
VI. PRISCILLA
VII. THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH
VIII. THE SPINNING-WHEEL
IX. THE WEDDING-DAY

THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH

I. 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 a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and
pausing Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of
warfare,  

Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corslet 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. 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, 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 May
Flower. 
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, 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 mould, in their grave in the
Flemish morasses." 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; 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,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage, And,
like Caesar, 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: "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, straight-forward, 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; Let them come, if they like, 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, 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:
"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 May Flower! 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,
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 them 
Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding;
Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Cæsar,
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, 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. Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of
the stripling, Busily writing epistles important, to go by the
May Flower, 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, Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden
Priscilla! 

II. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

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 marvellous words and achievements of Julius
Cæsar. After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand,
palm downwards, 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 skilful!"
Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the
youthful: "Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen
and his weapons. 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 Caius Julius Cæsar!
Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village,
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!
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, 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!" 
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 May
Flower, Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden
Priscilla; Every sentence began or closed with the name of
Priscilla, 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: "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, 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. 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,
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 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.
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. Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my
meaning; I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. 

You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language,
Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of
lovers, Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a
maiden." 
When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn
stripling, All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed,
bewildered, Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject
with lightness, Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand
still in his bosom, Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is
stricken by lightning, 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, Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of
Plymouth: "Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay
it; But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for
nothing. Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases.
I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender,
But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not.
I'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon,  

But of a thundering "No!" point-blank from the mouth of a woman,
That I confess I'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it! So
you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar, Having
the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases."
Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and
doubtful, Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he
added: "Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the
feeling that prompts me; Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in
the name of our friendship!" Then made answer John Alden: "The
name of friendship is sacred; What you demand in that name, I
have not the power to deny you!"  

So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler,
Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand. 

III. THE LOVER'S ERRAND.

SO the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, Out
of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest,
Into the tranquil woods, where blue-birds and robins were
building Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of
verdure, Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and
freedom.
All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict,  

Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous
impulse. To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and
dashing, As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel,
Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean!
"Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a wild lamentation,
"Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion? Was
it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence?
Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow
Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England? Truly
the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption  

Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion;
Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan. All
is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it distinctly!
This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon me in anger, For I
have followed too much the heart's desires and devices,
Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious 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 May-flowers blooming
around him,  

Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness,
Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their
slumber. "Puritan flowers," he said, "and the type of Puritan
maidens, Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla!
So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the May-flower of
Plymouth, 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, 

Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the
east-wind; Saw the new-built house and people at work in a
meadow;
Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla
Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem, Music
that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist, Full of the
breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many. Then, as he
opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden Seated beside
her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift Piled at her
knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle, While with
her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion.  

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 wall of a
churchyard, Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the
verses.
Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan
anthem, She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest,
Making the humble house and the modest apparel of home-spun
Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being!
Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and
relentless, Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and
woe of his errand;  

All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had
vanished, All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless
mansion,
Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces.
Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it,
"Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards;
Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its
fountains, Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and the
hearths of the living, It is the will of the Lord; and his mercy
endureth for ever!" 
So he entered the house: and the hum of the wheel and the singing  

Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the
threshold, Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal
of welcome, Saying, "I knew it was you, when I heard your step in
the passage; For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing
and spinning." Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of
him had been mingled Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the
heart of the maiden, Silent before her he stood, and gave her the
flowers for an answer, Finding no words for his 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
Priscilla Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the
fireside, Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her in
the snow-storm. Had he but spoken then! perhaps not in vain had
he spoken; Now it was all too late; the golden moment had
vanished!
So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers for an
answer. 
Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful
Spring-time, Talked of their friends at home, and the May Flower
that sailed on the morrow. "I have been thinking all day," said
gently the Puritan maiden, "Dreaming all night, and thinking all
day, of the hedge-rows of England, --   

They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden;
Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the
linnet, Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of
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. 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;
Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in this terrible
winter. Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to
lean on; So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of
marriage Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain
of Plymouth!" 
Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters,
--  Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful
phrases, But came straight to the point, and blurted it out like
a schoolboy; Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it
more bluntly. Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the
Puritan maiden  

Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with wonder,
Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her
speechless; Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the
ominous silence: "If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very
eager to wed me, Why does he not come himself, and take the
trouble to woo me? If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not
worth the winning!" Then John Alden began explaining and
smoothing the matter, Making it worse as he went, by saying the
Captain was busy, -- Had no time for such things; -- such things!
the words grating harshly Fell on the car of Priscilla; and swift
as a flash she made answer:  

"Has he no time for such things, as you call it, before he is
married, Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the
wedding? That is the way with you men; you don't understand us,
you cannot. When you have made up your minds, after thinking of
this one and that one, Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing
one with another, Then you make known your desire, with abrupt
and sudden avowal, And are offended and hurt, and indignant
perhaps, that a woman Does not respond at once to a love that she
never suspected, Does not attain at a bound the height to which
you have been climbing. This is not right nor just: for surely a
woman's affection  

Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking. When
one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it. Had he
but waited awhile, 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,
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 plainly
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.
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, Not
to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature;
For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous; Any
woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England,
Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish! 
But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language,
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival,
Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes over-running with
laughter, Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for
yourself, John?"  

IV. JOHN ALDEN.

INTO the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered,
Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the sea-side;
Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east-wind,
Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him.
Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendors, Sank
the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle, 

So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire,
Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted
Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city. 
"Welcome, O wind of the East!" he exclaimed in his wild
exultation, "Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the
misty Atlantic! Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and measureless
meadows of sea-grass, Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the grottos
and gardens of ocean! Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning
forehead, and wrap me Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the
fever within me!"  

Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing,
Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the sea-shore.
Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions
contending; Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded
and bleeding, Passionate cries of desire, and importunate
pleadings of duty! "Is it my fault," he said, " that the maiden
has chosen between us? Is it my fault that he failed, -- my fault
that I am the victor?" Then within him there thundered a voice,
like the voice of the Prophet: "It hath displeased the Lord!" --
and he thought of David's transgression, Bathsheba's beautiful
face, and his friend in the front of the battle!  

Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and
self-condemnation, Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the
deepest contrition: "It hath displeased the Lord! It is the
temptation of Satan!" 
Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there
Dimly the shadowy form of the May Flower riding at anchor, Rocked
on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow; Heard the
voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage Thrown on
the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors' "Ay, ay, Sir!"
Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the
twilight. Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared
at the vessel,  

Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom,
Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow.
"Yes, it is plain to me now," he murmured; "the hand of the Lord
is Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error,
Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around
me, Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that
pursue me. Back will I go o'er the ocean, this dreary land will
abandon, Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has
offended. Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in
England, Close by my mother's side, and among the dust of my
kindred;  

Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor!
Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber
With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers
Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and
darkness, --  Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal
hereafter!" 
Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong
resolution, Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in
the twilight, Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent
and sombre, Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of
Plymouth,  

Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening.
Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain
Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Cæsar,
Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders.
"Long have you been on your errand," he said with a cheery
demeanor, Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the
issue. "Not far off is the house, although the woods are between
us; But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and
coming I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a
city. Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has
happened."  

Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure, From
beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened;
How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship,
Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal.
But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken,
Words so tender and cruel: "Why don't you speak for yourself,
John?" Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the
floor, till his armor Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a
sound of sinister omen. All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a
sudden explosion,
Even as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it.  

Wildly he shouted, and loud: "John Alden! you have betrayed me!
Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded,
betrayed me! One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart
of Wat Tyler; Who shall prevent me from running my own through
the heart of a traitor ? Yours is the greater treason, for yours
is a treason to friendship! You, who lived under my roof, whom I
cherished and loved as a brother; You, who have fed at my board,
and drunk at my cup, to whose keeping I have intrusted my honor,
my thoughts the most sacred and secret, -- You too, Brutus! ah
woe to the name of friendship hereafter! Brutus was Cæsar's
friend, and you were mine, but henceforward  

Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred!" 
So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the
chamber, Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins
on his temples. But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at
the doorway, Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent
importance, Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of
Indians! Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further
question or parley, Took from the nail on the wall his sword with
its scabbard of iron, Buckled the belt round his waist, and,
frowning fiercely, departed. Alden was left alone. He heard the
clank of the scabbard 

Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance. Then
he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness, Felt
the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult,
Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands as in
childhood, Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth
in secret. 
Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the
council, Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his
coming; Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in
deportment, Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to
heaven, Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of
Plymouth.  

God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this
planting, Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a
nation; So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the
people! Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and
defiant, Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in
aspect; While on the table before them was lying unopened a
Bible, Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in
Holland, And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattle-snake
glittered, Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and
challenge of warfare, Brought by the Indian, and speaking with
arrowy tongues of defiance.  

This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them
debating What were an answer befitting the hostile message and
menace, Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting,
objecting; One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the
Elder, Judging it wise and well that some at least were
converted, Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian
behavior! Then outspake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of
Plymouth, Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky
with anger, "What! do you mean to make war with milk and the
water of roses ? Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your
howitzer planted  

There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils ?
Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage
Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the
cannon!" Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of
Plymouth, Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent
language:
"Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other Apostles;
Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of fire they spake
with!" But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain,
Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing:
"Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth.  

War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous,
Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!" 
Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sudden, contemptuous
gesture, Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and
bullets Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage,
Saying, in thundering tones: "Here, take it! this is your
answer!" Silently out of the room then glided the glistening
savage, Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself like a
serpent, Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the
forest. 

V. THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER.

JUST in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the
meadows, There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village
of Plymouth; Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order
imperative, "Forward!" Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet,
and then silence. Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of
the village. Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his
valorous army,  

Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men,
Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage.
Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David;
Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible, --
Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines.
Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning;
Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing,
Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated.

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

Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke from the
chimneys Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily
eastward;
Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the
weather, Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for
the May Flower; Talked of their Captain's departure, and all the
dangers that menaced, He being gone, the town, and what should be
done in his absence. Merrily sang the birds, and the tender
voices of women
Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the household.
Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his
coming; Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the
mountains;  

Beautiful on the sails of the May Flower riding at anchor,
Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter.
Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvas,
Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors.
Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean,
Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; anon rang
Loud over field and forest the cannon's roar, and the echoes
Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure! Ah!
but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people! Meekly,
in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible,  

Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty! Then
from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth,
Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the sea-shore,
Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the May Flower,
Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert. 
Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without
slumber, Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his
fever. He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the
council, Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur,
Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like
swearing.  

Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence;
Then he had turned away, and said: "I will not awake him;
Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the use of more
talking!" Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down
on his pallet, Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break
of the morning, -- Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in
his campaigns in Flanders, --  Slept as a soldier sleeps in his
bivouac, ready for action. But with the dawn he arose; in the
twilight Alden beheld him Put on his corslet of steel, and all
the rest of his armor, Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of
Damascus, 

Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the
chamber. Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to
embrace him, Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for
pardon; All the old friendship came back, with its tender and
grateful emotions; But his pride overmastered the nobler nature
within him, -- Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning
fire of the insult. So he beheld his friend departing in anger,
but spake not, Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and
he spake not! Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the
people were saying, Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen
and Richard and Gilbert,  

Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture,
And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the
sea-shore, Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet
as a door-step Into a world unknown, -- the corner-stone of a
nation!

There with his boat was the Master, already a little impatient
Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the
eastward, Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of ocean
about him, Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters
and parcels Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled
together 

Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly bewildered.
Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale,
One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the
sailors, Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for
starting. He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his
anguish, Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is
or canvas, Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise
and pursue him. But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form
of Priscilla Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all
that was passing. Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined
his intention,  

Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient,
That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose,
As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction.
Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious
instincts! Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are
moments, Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall
adamantine! "Here I remain!" he exclaimed, as he looked at the
heavens above him, Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered
the mist and the madness, Wherein, blind and lost, to death he
was staggering headlong. "Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in
the ether above me,  

Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean.
There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghost-like,
Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection.
Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether!
Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me; I heed not
Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil!
There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome, As
is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her
footsteps. Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible
presence Hover around her for ever, protecting, supporting her
weakness;  

Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the
landing, So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at
the leaving!" 
Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important,
Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather,
Walked about on the sands; and the people crowded around him
Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance.
Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller,
Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his vessel,
Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry, Glad
to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow,  

Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel!
Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell of the
Pilgrims. O strong hearts and true! not one went back in the May
Flower! No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this
ploughing! 
Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors
Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor.
Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind,
Blowing steady and strong; and the May Flower sailed from the
harbor, Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the
southward Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First
Encounter,  

Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic,
Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the
Pilgrims. 
Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel,
Much endeared to them all, as something living and human;
Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision
prophetic, Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth
Said, "Let us pray!" and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and
took courage. Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the
rock, and above them Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of
death, and their kindred Seemed to awake in their graves, and to
join in the prayer that they uttered. 
 

Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean
Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard;
Buried beneath it lay for ever all hope of escaping.
Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian,
Watching them from the hill; but while they spake with each
other, Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, "Look!" he
had vanished. So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered
a little, Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the
billows Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of
the sunshine, Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the
waters.

VI. PRISCILLA.

THUS for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean,
Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla;
And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, like the
loadstone, Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its nature,
Lo! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him. 
"Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me?" said she.  

"Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleading
Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward,
Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum?
Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for saying
What I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it; For
there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion,
That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble
Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,
Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.
Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles
Standish,  

Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues,
Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in
Flanders, As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a
woman, Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your
hero. Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse.
You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship
between us, Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily
broken!"
Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles
Standish : "I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was
angry,
Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping."  

"No!" interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive;
"No; you were angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely.
It was wrong, I acknowledge; for it is the fate of a woman Long
to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is
speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of
its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women
Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers
Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and
unfruitful, Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and
profitless murmurs." Thereupon answered John Alden, the young
man, the lover of women:  

"Heaven forbid it, Priscilla; and truly they seem to me always
More like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden,
More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah
flowing, Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the
garden!" "Ah, by these words, I can see," again interrupted the
maiden, "How very little you prize me, or care for what I am
saying. When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret
misgiving, Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and
kindness, Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and
direct and in earnest, Turn them away from their meaning, and
answer with flattering phrases.  

This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is
in you; For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is
noble, Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. 
Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more
keenly If you say aught that implies I am only as one among many,
If you make use of those common and complimentary phrases
Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women, But
which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting."

Mute and amazed was Alden; and listened and looked at Priscilla,
Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her
beauty.  

He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another,
Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an
answer. So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined
What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and
speechless. "Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we
think, and in all things Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the
sacred professions of friendship. It is no secret I tell you, nor
am I ashamed to declare it: I have liked to be with you, to see
you, to speak with you always. So I was hurt at your words, and a
little affronted to hear you Urge me to marry your friend, though
he were the Captain Miles Standish.  

For I must tell you the truth: much more to me is your friendship
Than all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think
him." Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped
it, Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and
bleeding so sorely, Healed by the touch of that hand, and he
said, with a voice full of feeling: "Yes, we must ever be
friends; and of all who offer you friendship Let me be ever the
first, the truest, the nearest and dearest!" 
Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the May Flower,
Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the horizon,
Homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite
feeling,  

That all the rest had departed and left them alone in the desert.
But, as they went through the fields in the blessing and smile of
the sunshine, Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very
archly: "Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pursuit of the
Indians, Where he is happier far than he would be commanding a
household, You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that happened
between you, When you returned last night, and said how
ungrateful you found me." Thereupon answered John Alden, and told
her the whole of the story, --  Told her his own despair, and the
direful wrath of Miles Standish. Whereat the maiden smiled, and
said between laughing and earnest,  

"He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment! 
But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how much he had
suffered, -- How he had even determined to sail that day in the
May Flower, And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers
that threatened, --  All her manner was changed, and she said
with a faltering accent, "Truly I thank you for this: how good
you have been to me always!" 
Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys,
Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward,
Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition;
Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing, 

Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings,
Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remorseful
misgivings. 

VII. THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH.

MEANWHILE the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily
northward, Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend
of the sea-shore, All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of
his anger
Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odor of powder
Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the
forest. Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his
discomfort;  

He who was used to success, and to easy victories always,
Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden,
Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had
trusted! Ah! 'twas too much to be borne, and he fretted and
chafed in his armor! 
"I alone am to blame," he muttered, "for mine was the folly. What
has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness, Used
to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens ?
'Twas but a dream, -- let it pass, -- let it vanish like so many
others! What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is
worthless; Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away,
and henceforward  

Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers!" Thus
he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort, While he
was marching by day or lying at night in the forest, Looking up
at the trees, and the constellations beyond them. 
After a three days' march he came to an Indian encampment
Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest;
Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with
war-paint, Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together;
Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white
men, Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and
musket,  

Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them
advancing, Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a
present; Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there
was hatred. Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers gigantic
in stature, Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of
Bashan; One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called
Wattawamat. Round their necks were suspended their knives in
scabbards of wampum, Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as
sharp as a needle. Other arms had they none, for they were
cunning and crafty. "Welcome, English!" they said, -- these words
they had learned from the traders  

Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for
peltries. Then in their native tongue they began to parley with
Standish, Through his guide and interpreter Hobomok, friend of
the white man, Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for
muskets and powder, Kept by the white man, they said, concealed,
with the plague, in his cellars, Ready to be let loose, and
destroy his brother the red man! But when Standish refused, and
said he would give them the Bible,  Suddenly changing their tone,
they began to boast and to bluster. Then Wattawamat advanced with
a stride in front of the other, And, with a lofty demeanor, thus
vauntingly spake to the Captain:  

"Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain, Angry
is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat Is not
afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman,
But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning,
Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him,
Shouting, 'Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat
?'" Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his
left hand, Held it aloft and displayed a woman's face on the
handle,
Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning: "I
have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle;  

By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of
children!" 
Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles
Standish: While with his fingers he petted the knife that hung at
his bosom, Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back,
as he muttered, "By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha!
but shall speak not! This is the mighty Captain the white men
have sent to destroy us! He is a little man; let him go and work
with the women!"

Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians
Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest,  

Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings,
Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their
ambush. But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them
smoothly; So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days
of the fathers. But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the
taunt, and the insult, All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh
and of Thurston de Standish, Boiled and beat in his heart, and
swelled in the veins of his temples. Headlong he leaped on the
boaster, and, snatching his knife from its scabbard, Plunged it
into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage Fell with his
face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it.  

Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the
war-whoop, And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of
December, Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery
arrows, Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the
lightning, Out of the lightning thunder, and death unseen ran
before it. Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and
in thicket, Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave
Wattawamat, Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a
bullet
Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching
the greensward, Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the
land of his fathers.  

There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above
them, Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the
white man. Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain
of Plymouth: "Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his
strength, and his stature, -- Mocked the great Captain, and
called him a little man; but I see now Big enough have you been
to lay him speechless before you!" 
Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles
Standish. When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of
Plymouth, And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat 
Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and
a fortress,  

All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took
courage. Only Priscilla averted her face from this spectre of
terror, Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles
Standish; Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from his
battles, He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward
of his valor. 

VIII. THE SPINNING-WHEEL.

MONTH after month passed away, and in Autumn the ships of the
merchants Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for
the Pilgrims. All in the village was peace; the men were intent
on their labors, Busy with hewing and building, with garden-plot
and with merestead, Busy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the
grass in the meadows,  Searching the sea for its fish, and
hunting the deer in the forest.  

All in the village was peace; but at times the rumor of warfare
Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension of danger.
Bravely the stalwart Miles Standish was scouring the land with
his forces, Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien
armies,
Till his name had become a sound of fear to the nations.
Anger was still in his heart, but at times the remorse and
contrition Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate
outbreak, Came like a rising tide, that encounters the rush of a
river, Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter and
brackish. 
Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new habitation, 

Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from the firs of the
forest. Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was covered with
rushes; Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes were of
paper, Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were
excluded. There too he dug a well, and around it planted an
orchard: Still may be seen to this day some trace of the well and
the orchard. Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and
secure from annoyance, Raghorn, the snow-white steer, that had
fallen to Alden's allotment In the division of cattle, might
ruminate in the night-time Over the pastures he cropped, made
fragrant by sweet pennyroyal.  

Oft when his labor was finished, with eager feet would the
dreamer Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to the
house of Priscilla, Led by illusions romantic and subtile
deceptions of fancy, Pleasure disguised as duty, and love in the
semblance of friendship. Ever of her he thought, when he
fashioned the walls of his dwelling; Ever of her he thought, when
he delved in the soil of his garden; Ever of her he thought, when
he read in his Bible on Sunday Praise of the virtuous woman, as
she is described in the Proverbs, -- How the heart of her husband
doth safely trust in her always, How all the days of her life she
will do him good, and not evil,  

How she seeketh the wool and the flax and worketh with gladness,
How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth the distaff,
How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or her household,
Knowing her household are clothed with the scarlet cloth of her
weaving! 
So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the Autumn,
Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her dexterous fingers,
As if the thread she was spinning were that of his life and his
fortune, After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound of
the spindle. "Truly, Priscilla," he said, " when I see you
spinning and spinning, Never idle a moment, but thrifty and
thoughtful of others,  

Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed in a moment;
You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beautiful Spinner."
Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter and swifter; the
spindle Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in
her fingers; While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the
mischief, continued: "You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner,
the queen of Helvetia; She whose story I read at a stall in the
streets of Southampton, Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er
valley and meadow and mountain, Ever was spinning her thread from
a distaff fixed to her saddle. She was so thrifty and good, that
her name passed into a proverb.  

So shall it be with your own, when the spinning-wheel shall no
longer Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its chambers with
music. Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it was in
their childhood, Praising the good old times, and the days of
Priscilla the spinner!" Straight uprose from her wheel the
beautiful Puritan maiden, Pleased with the praise of her thrift
from him whose praise was the sweetest, Drew from the reel on the
table a snowy skein of her spinning, Thus making answer,
meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden: "Come, you must
not be idle; if I am a pattern for housewives, Show yourself
equally worthy of being the model of husbands. 

Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, ready for
knitting; Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions have
changed and the manners, Fathers may talk to their sons of the
good old times of John Alden!" Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the
skein on his hands she adjusted, He sitting awkwardly there, with
his arms extended before him, She standing graceful, erect, and
winding the thread from his fingers, Sometimes chiding a little
his clumsy manner of holding,
Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled expertly Twist
or knot in the yarn, unawares -- for how could she help it? --
Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in his body. 

Lo! in the midst of this scene, a breathless messenger entered,
Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news from the village.
Yes; Miles Standish was dead! -- an Indian had brought them the
tidings, -- Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front of
the battle, Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole of
his forces; All the town would be burned, and all the people be
murdered! Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts
of the hearers. Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face
looking backward Still at the face of the speaker, her arms
uplifted in horror; But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of
the arrow

Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his own, and had
sundered Once and for ever the bonds that held him bound as a
captive, Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight of his
freedom, Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what he was
doing, Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form of
Priscilla, Pressing her close to his heart, as for ever his own,
and exclaiming: "Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man put
them asunder!" 
Even as rivulets twain, from distant and separate sources, Seeing
each other afar, as they leap from the rocks, and pursuing Each
one its devious path, but drawing nearer and nearer,

Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in the forest; So
these lives that had run thus far in separate channels, Coming in
sight of each other, then swerving and flowing asunder, Parted by
barriers strong, but drawing nearer and nearer,
Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the other.

IX. THE WEDDING-DAY.

FORTH from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and
scarlet, Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his garments
resplendent, Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his
forehead, Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and
pomegranates. Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor
beneath him Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his
feet was a laver! 

This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden.
Friends were assembled together; the Elder and Magistrate also
Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and
the Gospel, One with the sanction of earth and one with the
blessing of heaven. Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of
Ruth and of Boaz. Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the
words of betrothal, Taking each other for husband and wife in the
Magistrate's presence, After the Puritan way, and the laudable
custom of Holland. Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent
Elder of Plymouth Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were
founded that day in affection, 

Speaking of life and of death, and imploring divine benedictions. 
Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold,
Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sorrowful figure!
Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition
? Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder
? Is it a phantom of air, -- a bodiless, spectral illusion ? Is
it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal
? Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed;
Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression
Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath
them, 

As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud
Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its brightness.
Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent,
As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention.
But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last
benediction, Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with
amazement Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain
of Plymouth! Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with
emotion, "Forgive me! I have been angry and hurt, -- too long
have I cherished the feeling; I have been cruel and hard, but
now, thank God! it is ended. 

Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh
Standish, Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for
error. Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John
Alden." Thereupon answered the bridegroom: "Let all be forgotten
between us, -- All save the dear, old friendship, and that shall
grow older and dearer!" Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing,
saluted Priscilla, Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned
gentry in England, Something of camp and of court, of town and of
country, commingled, Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly
lauding her husband. Then he said with a smile: "I should have
remembered the adage, --  

If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and
moreover, No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of
Christmas!" 
Great was the people's amazement, and greater yet their
rejoicing, Thus to behold once more the sun-burnt face of their
Captain, Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gathered and
crowded about him, Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of
bride and of bridegroom, Questioning, answering, laughing, and
each interrupting the other, Till the good Captain declared,
being quite overpowered and bewildered, He had rather by far
break into an Indian encampment,
Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited. 

Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at
the doorway, Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and
beautiful morning. Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and
sad in the sunshine, Lay extended before them the land of toil
and privation;
There were the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the
sea-shore, There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and the
meadows; But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden
of Eden, Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the
sound of the ocean. 
Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of
departure, Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of
longer delaying, 

Each with his plan for the day, and the work that was left
uncompleted. Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of
wonder, Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of
Priscilla, Brought out his snow-white steer, obeying the hand of
its master, Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its
nostrils, Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a
saddle. She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat
of the noonday; Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along
like a peasant. Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the
others,
Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her
husband, 

Gayly, With joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey.
"Nothing is wanting now," he said with a smile, "but the distaff;
Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha!" 
Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation,
Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together.
Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the
forest, Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love
through its bosom, Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of
the azure abysses. Down through the golden leaves the sun was
pouring his splendors, Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from
branches above them suspended, 

Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the
fir-tree, Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley
of Eshcol. Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral
ages,
Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and
Isaac, Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,
Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers, So
through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession.