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 sunburnt 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

occan.

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, Gaily, 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 splendours, 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,

PRELUDE.

THE WAYSIDE INN.

CNE Autumn night, in Sudbury town,
Across the meadows bare and brown,
The windows of the wayside inn

Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves

Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves

Their crimson curtains rent and thin.

As ancient is this hostelry

As any in the land may be,
Built in the old Colonial day,

When men lived in a grander way,
With ampler hospitality;

A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall,

Now somewhat fallen to decay,
With weather-stains upon the wall,

And stairways worn, and crazy doors,
And creaking and uneven floors,

And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.

A region of repose it seems,

A place of slumber and of dreams,
Remote among the wooded hills!
For there no noisy railway speeds,

Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds;
But noon and night, the panting teams
Stop under the great oaks, that throw
Tangles of light and shade below,
On roofs and doors, and window-sills.
Across the road the barns display
Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay,

Through the wide doors the breezes blow,
The wattled cocks strut to and fro,
And, half effaced by rain and shine,
The Red Horse prances on the sign.
Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode
Deep silence reigned, save when a gust

Went rushing down the country road,
And skeletons of leaves, and dust,
A moment quickened by its breath,

Shuddered and danced their dance of death,
And through the ancient oaks o'erhead
Mysterious voices moaned and fled.

But from the parlour of the inn
A pleasant murmur smote the ear,
Like water rushing through a weir;
Oft interrupted by the din

Of laughter and of loud applause,
And, in each intervening pause,
The music of a violin.

The fire-light, shedding over all
The splendour of its ruddy glow,
Filled the whole parlour large and low;
It gleamed on wainscot and on wall,
It touched with more than wonted grace
Fair Princess Mary's pictured face;
It bronzed the rafters overhead,
On the old spinet's ivory keys
It played inaudible melodies,

It crowned the sombre clock with flame,
The hands, the hours, the maker's name,
And painted with a livelier red
The Landlord's coat-of-arms again;
And, flashing on the window-pane,
Emblazoned with its light and shade
The jovial rhymes, that still remain,
Writ near a century ago,

By the great Major Molineaux,

Whom Hawthorne has immortal made.

Before the blazing fire of wood
Erect the rapt musician stood;
And ever and anon he bent

His head upon his instrument,
And seemed to listen, till he caught
Confessions of its secret thought,-

The joy, the triumph, the lament,
The exultation and the pain;
Then, by the magic of his art,

He soothed the throbbings of its heart,

And lulled it into peace again.

Around the fireside at their ease

There sat a group of friends entranced

With the delicious melodies;

Who from the far-off noisy town
Had to the wayside inn come down,
To rest beneath its old oak-trees.
The fire-light on their faces glanced,
Their shadows on the wainscot danced,

2

And, though of different lands and speech,
Each had his tale to tell, and each

Was anxious to be pleased and please.
And while the sweet musician plays,
Let me in outline sketch them all,
Perchance uncouthly as the blaze
With its uncertain touch portrays
Their shadowy semblance on the wall.
But first the Landlord will I trace;
Grave in his aspect and attire;
A man of ancient pedigree,

A justice of the peace was he,

Known in all Sudbury as "The Squire."
Proud was he of his name and race,
Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh,

And in the parlour, full in view,

His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed,
Upon the wall in colours blazed;

He beareth gules upon his shield,

A chevron argent in the field,

With three wolves' heads, and for the crest

A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed

Upon a helmet barred; below

The scroll reads, "By the name of Howe."

And over this, no longer bright,

Though glimmering with a latent light,
Was hung the sword his grandsire bore,
In the rebellious days of yore,
Down there at Concord in the fight.

A youth was there, of quiet ways,

A Student of old books and days,

To whom all tongues and lands were known,

And yet a lover of his own;

With many a social virtue graced,

And yet a friend of solitude;
A man of such a genial mood

The heart of all things he embraced,

And yet of such fastidious taste,
He never found the best too good.
Books were his passion and delight,

And in his upper room at home

Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome,
In vellum bound, with gold bedight,
Great volumes garmented in white,
Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome.
He loved the twilight that surrounds
The border-land of old romance;
Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance,
And banner waves, and trumpet sounds,
And ladies ride with hawk on wrist,
And mighty warriors sweep along,