Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption 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, So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand; Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the east wind; Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan anthem, 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 hearts 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 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 Eng land, They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden; And, at the end of the street, the village church, with the ivy Thereupon answered the youth: "Indeed I do not condemn you; Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters,- Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases, Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her speechless; Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: 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, Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew how during the winter Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England, But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language, Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes overrunning with laughter, Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John ?" IV. JOHN ALDEN. INTO the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered, 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 grottoes 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 trans gression, Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle! Then uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there 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. Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow. 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, 66 Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders. Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure, But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken, armour Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion, Even as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it. Wildly he shouted, and loud: "John Alden! you have betrayed me! Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me! |