THE OLD SHORE ROAD AND THE PILGRIM SPIRIT
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock bound coast,
And the woods against the stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed.
"Thus sang Felicia Hemans in the early years of the last
century, and anyone who has sailed in by White Horse beach and
'Hither Manomet' when one of those fierce gales that winter
brings to this section of the coast sends great billows
thundering up against the cliff and churns all the sea into
froth and foam, will readily see how truthful this singer has
portrayed the scene he has beheld. True, you will not find
granite ledges, which follow the coast almost continuously
farther north, as at Scituate, Nahant, Rockport, and farther on;
but it is rock-bound, nevertheless, with great heaps of
boulders, thickly sown, of various shapes and sizes, with a
sombre gray color that makes them appear inexpressibly stern
even on a bland summer day."
The most picturesque of all the highways leading from Boston to
Plymouth is the South Shore road, passing through Milton,
Quincy, Hingham, Scituate, Cohasset, Marshfield, and Duxbury,
for one of the chief delights of this route is the frequent
glimpses of the sea, whose jagged, rocky coast Nature has
softened until we only feel that it is rock bound. When the day
is clear how the sunshine dusts the water with purplish bloom,
mellowing its hard, cold tint of greenish blue. Here one seems
to feel the spirit, the mystery of the ocean, and a voice at
once grand and irresistible calls from those walls of siren-
haunted rocks until he is among them, listening to the music of
the waves as they come rolling against their rugged sides. Then
one never tires of gazing at the beautiful homes so charmingly
embowered amidst their grand old trees and spacious grounds
adorned with many flowers, in brilliant masses of various
colors. Thus no time is lost by the ardent admirer of the
beauties of land and sea, and the ever-varied and changing
scenes allow just that variety which the most prosaic person
cannot help enjoying.
We shall always remember this road as a sort of traveler's
paradise. It is an almost ideal shore road, indeed one of the
finest that New England can boast, and one really regrets it is
not longer. How many times we have gone over it since that first
journey! "Memory and imagination are true yoke-fellows, and
between them they are always preparing some new and greater
pleasure as we allow them the opportunity."
Many have been the times since those memorable days spent on the
old Shore Road; that memory of them gave for a moment a pleasure
more real than any we had experienced while strolling at will
along that scenic highway. Sometimes seemingly imaginary
delights are far from being imaginary. We can see the lovely
stretches of beach this moment and hear the breakers booming
among the granite boulders--yes, and the grating of the pebbles
that are being ground to shifting sand to form the beach.
Then, too, who can ever forget the exhilarating effect of a dip
in those waves? The great unfailing attraction of the place,
then as now, is the ocean, forever an emblem of unrest,
changeable in its unchangeableness. To our minds the ocean seems
alive. We could sooner believe in sirens and water-nymphs than
in many existences that are commonly spoken of as much more
certain "matters of fact." We could believe in them, we say, but
do not.
Our communings are not with any monster of the unfathomable
deeps of the ocean, but with the spirit of the ocean itself. It
grows somber and sullen under a leaden sky, and its voice has in
it something of that inexpressible sadness heard in the raging
wind among the pines. Then on a calm day in mid-summer how
placid and serene its water appears, wearing on its bosom that
exquisite blue bloom, like the haze that clothes distant
mountains. It scintillates and sparkles like rare jewels in the
sunlight, and ever its dancing waves with silvery crests
proclaim it a thing of life and motion. You might say that it is
dead, yet after all, how many know what life really is? In
certain moods, especially when strolling by the sea, you will
feel measurably sure of being alive yourself; and the longer you
tarry by it the less liable you will be to entertain doubts
about the matter.
On the afternoon of our first journey along this Shore Road the
sky was overcast with low-hung clouds that foreboded rain.
Towhees were calling noisily from wayside thickets; catbirds
sang their self-conscious airs or mewed in derision as we
passed; chickadees were calling their names and occasionally
uttered their pensive minor strains; and far away in a dim-
lighted hemlock grove we heard a new bird song that seemed in
exquisite accord with our own thoughts.
Again and again the notes came from the forest. How delicious
the music was! A perfect song of peace and spiritual tone that
told us at once the singer was a thrush--but what thrush? We had
heard the song of the hermit among the Berkshire Hills and could
never confuse his wonderful hymn with that of another species;
yet here was a song possessing the same character of sacredness.
It was a restful lullaby like ,the mingled benediction of wood
and sea on the tired spirits of weary travelers. It had in it
nothing of "pride or passion," but contained the same serene
harmony that vagrant breezes draw from the myriad-stringed
pines; something of the melodies breathed from the ocean. It
proved to be the evening hymn of the veery.
The song of the nightingale, with its trills and phrases, would
make harmony seemingly crude if compared to either the hermit or
veery thrush, nor would the skylark, famous in poetry and song,
bear off the prize were the two birds to be heard alternately.
The English blackbird has a very sweet song, which made the
weary, homesick heart of the soldier in France rejoice, when he
announced that spring was near. Yet if the European traveler
complains that our songsters are not brilliant, let him visit
our land when the brown thrasher, the bobolink or mocking bird
are singing, and he will hear melodies as full of joy and
exuberance as any he may have remembered in his native land.
We have been straying a bit from the Shore Road but, as we said,
the scenery along it is varied, so will your thoughts be as you
move enraptured from place to place.
One almost forgets to eat while so much of beauty lies all about
him; but, once reminded that it is meal time, what a ravenous
appetite he seems to have! It almost provokes a smile now as we
think of the many places along the various roads that are
connected in our minds with the question of something to eat.
Many of the places (might say nearly all of them) were places
where we had dined the year before. Remembering how voracious
and indiscriminating our appetites were, we cannot help
wondering that we are here to tell the story; for how many new
fruits we sampled because we wanted to learn their flavor!
This feeling is no doubt shared by all who recall similar
excursions, when the open air and exercise whetted their
appetites to an unusual degree. We Americans are objects of much
comment in restaurants and hotels of foreign countries, and no
doubt many of the waiters think that we have been blessed with
more than a spark of life, else it would have been smothered
long ago by the constant fuel which we furnish for it. But on a
summer trip, where one all but lives out-of-doors, breathes
deeply the resin-scented air and has little to worry about,
there is not so much of a mystery connected with his ability to
keep on the go.
We do not know whether it was the beautiful red color of some
choke cherries that hung their bunches temptingly near or
whether it was extreme hunger, or fear lest some hungrier soul
should get to the bushes first, that caused one member of our
party to recklessly cram his mouth with what he thought would be
most excellent fruit. But alas! things are not what they seem.
He began to pucker his mouth and cough in the most violent
manner. "Choke cherries, choke cherries," he repeated between
broken coughs; these cherries were evidently named by one who
knew the right word for them. This fruit is extremely attractive
just before ripening, with its handsome clusters of red
cherries; a real feast to the eye but not to the palate, until
they change to dark red or almost black. "Some things are to be
admired and not judged by the New Testament standard, very
literally interpreted, 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' We
used other tests here and valued this small tree for its beauty,
though its cherries were as bitter as wormwood."
It isn't often one is privileged to dine at the Sign of the
Lavender Kettle in Sandwich, but this is what we did in
Massachusetts. The place was neat and scrupulously clean, and
the dessert consisted of delicious raspberries, which went far
to dispel our partner's belief that, as some theologians teach,
creation is indeed under a curse. But we are making too much of
the food question, and will say nothing of the honey, fresh
buns, country butter, etc., but shall make haste to inquire
concerning our night's lodging, for Plymouth is celebrating the
Tercentenary this year, and we were informed that it is
extremely difficult to find hotel accommodations.
While making inquiries concerning a suitable place to stay, we
were approached by a motherly but very officious old lady, clad
in black, who, after telling us that she was going to entertain
some notable person at her home as a guest when he came to view
the pageant, advised us to proceed to the Mayflower Inn, where
we were sure of being accommodated for the night. She described
this hotel as a beautiful and luxurious inn, situated on the
slight elevation of Manomet Point a few miles below the town. We
decided to spend the night at Plymouth and passed the road which
led to the inn. We found that the nearer hotels were all filled,
so we had to turn back and in a cold, dreary rain return to the
road we had passed.
As we proceeded on our way we saw a fishing vessel putting out
to sea. How many scenes that vessel recalled! We thought how
many families had been engaged in this precarious livelihood,
where their perilous calling was prosecuted at the risk of life
itself. The solitude and awesomeness of a stormy night at sea
along this rough and rugged coast is heightened by the wild
tempests which brood over the waters, strewing the shore with
wrecks at all seasons of the year. The news of the frequent loss
of husbands or sons, the roar of the waves, and the atmospheric
effects which in such situations present so many strange
illusions to the eye, must have been calculated to work upon the
terrors of those who remained at home; and melancholy fancies
must have flitted across their memories as they watched at
midnight, listening to the melancholy moaning of wind and wave.
No wonder phantoms and death warnings were familiar to the
ancient Celtic fishermen, for those terrible disasters that were
constantly occurring could not help but increase the gloom which
acts so strongly upon those who are accustomed to contemplate
the sea under all its aspects.
"In the long winter nights, when the fishermen's wives whose
husbands are out at sea are scared from their uneasy sleep by
the rising of the tempest, they listen breathlessly for certain
sounds to which they attach a fatal meaning. If they hear a low,
monotonous noise of waters falling drop by drop at the foot of
their bed, and discover that it has been caused by unnatural
means and that the floor is dry, it is the unerring token of
shipwreck. The sea has made them widows! This fearful
superstition, I believe, is confined to the isle of Artz, where
a still more striking phenomenon is said to take place.
Sometimes, in the twilight, they say, large white women may be
seen moving slowly from the neighboring islands over the sea,
and seating themselves upon its borders. There they remain
throughout the night, digging in the sands with their naked
feet, and stripping off between their fingers the leaves of the
rosemary flowers culled upon the beach. Those women, according
to the tradition, are natives of the islands, who, marrying
strangers, and dying in their sins, have returned to their
beloved birthplace to beg the prayers of their friends."
Another superstition was recalled. "At the seaside village of
St. Gildas, the fishermen who lead evil lives are often
disturbed at midnight by three knocks at their door from an
invisible hand. They immediately get up and, impelled by some
supernatural power whose behests they cannot resist and dare not
question, go down to the beach, where they find long black
boats, apparently empty, yet sunk so deeply in the water as to
be nearly level with it. The moment they enter, a large white
sail streams out from the top of the mast, and the bark is
carried out to sea with irresistible rapidity, never to be seen
by mortal eyes again. The belief is that these boats are
freighted with condemned souls, and that the fishermen are
doomed to pilot them over the waste of waters until the day of
judgment. The legend, like many others, is of Celtic origin."
(footnote: Alexander Bell.)
One can readily see how the imaginative minds of those Celtic
fishermen could people their desolate coasts with spectres and
phantoms, and indeed we did not need to draw much on our own
imagination to see strange figures gliding along the shore in
the gloom on a night like this.
Soon, however, the lights from the numerous windows and veranda
sent their invitations through the mist-filled air and we
entered the hospitable building, and drew our chairs before the
glowing fireplace with a feeling of comfort not readily
imagined. On leaving the fireside to take a look at the ocean,
behold what a transformation! Instead of scudding clouds, a
clear blue sky filled with sparkling stars and a full moon, that
made a path of gold which led far away over the water. It was
such a night as one sees along the shores of the Mediterranean,
lacking only the balmy air, the fragrance of orange blossoms,
and the broad leafed date palm reflecting the glorious light.
True, the air was chilly, but the sudden transition from a dull,
melancholy scene to one so cheerful had a fascination for us,
like the lulling melody of flutes when their sweetness hushes
into silence the loud clamor of an orchestra.
>From the spacious brick piazza, we had a lovely view out over
the rolling Manomet Hills. The blue on the distant bluffs grew
silvery in the moonlight and the orchestra filled the place with
delightful music, so in accord with the murmuring waves, that we
thought as did Hogg, the poet:
Of all the arts beneath the heaven
That man has found or God has given,
None draws the soul so sweet away,
As music's melting, mystic lay.
After the orchestra ceased playing, a young man stepped to the
piano and gave a beautiful rendition of Beethoven's Moonlight
Sonata; recalling our sojourn in the city of Bonn and the
pilgrimage to the home of this wonderful genius. How like this
must have been that night on which the famous master was stirred
with emotion.
"One moonlight evening, while out walking with a friend, through
one of the dark, narrow streets of his native city, as they were
passing a humble dwelling, the sweet tones of a piano floated
out on the evening air, that throbbed with the sweet notes of
the nightingale.
"Hush!" said Beethoven, "what sound is that? It is from my
Sonata in F. Hark! How well it is played!"
There was a sudden break in the finale, when a sobbing voice
exclaimed:
"I cannot play it any more. It is so beautiful; it is beyond my
power to do it justice. O, what would I not give to go to the
Concert at Cologne!"
This appeal, coming out into the stillness of the night, was too
much for the kind-hearted musician. He resolved to gratify her
desire. As he gently opened the door, he said to his friend: "I
will play for her. Here is feeling, genius, understanding! I
will play for her and she will understand it."
It was only the humble home of a shoemaker and his blind sister.
"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted
to enter. I am a musician. I also overheard something of what
you said. You wish to hear--that is--shall I play for you?"
The young girl blushed while the young man apologized for the
wretched condition of the piano, which was out of tune, and said
they had no music.
"No music!" exclaimed Beethoven.
Then he discovered for the first time that the young lady was
blind. With profuse apologies, for seeming to have spoken so
abruptly, he desired to know how she had learned to play so well
by ear. When he heard that she had gained it by walking before
the open window while others practiced, he was so touched that
he sat down and played to the most interested audience that he
had ever entertained. Enraptured they listened.
"Who are you?" exclaimed the young man.
"Listen," said Beethoven, and as the sublime strains of the
"Sonata in F" filled the air their joy was unbounded. Seldom is
it given to man to have such appreciation. The flame of the
candle wavered, flickered, and went out. His friend opened the
shutters and let in a flood of moonlight. Under the influence of
the spell, the great composer began to improvise. Such a hold
did his own music create upon him that he hastened to his room
and worked till after the dawn of morning, reducing the great
composition to writing. It was his masterpiece, "The Moonlight
Sonata." Thus he found that it is indeed "more blessed to give
than to receive," and the gift returned to bless the giver many
times."
No wonder the musician played this fitting selection, for the
silvery light made all the sky radiant and its crystal, star-
gemmed depths seemed to shine with a light of their own,
transforming its radiant sapphire gleam, shedding it over the
glowing water and shore, tipping with silver the shrubbery at
its edge which in the dim distance formed a scene that was
enchanting. The softly sighing leaves mingled their notes with
the rippling waves and:
"Peacefully the quiet stars
Came out one after one;
The holy twilight fell upon the sea,
The summer day was done."
Dawn came with a burst of glory, and the oncoming light of the
soft, deep blue and the alluring purple. bloom that spread o'er
the ocean was Nature's compensation for those who rose early.
Before the stars had all gone to their hiding place and while
the light of a few large planets was growing dim, fading into
the clay, we were making our way down to the shore through dewy
grass, azaleas, and various shrubs, where the swamp sparrows,
robins, and catbirds were greeting the new day from their bushy
coverts with their songs of gladness.
How many songsters took part in this matitudinal concert, we are
unable to state, but there were a great number. The volume of
sweet notes would sometimes swell to a full-toned orchestra, and
then for a brief time it would die away like the flow and ebb of
the tides of a sea of melody. The robins were undoubtedly the
most gifted of all the vocalists, and their old familiar songs
heard along the seashore seemed to have an added sweetness;
their notes being as strong and pure as those of a silver flute,
making the seaside echoes ring. We have heard many robins sing,
but never have been so impressed with the excellent quality of
their songs as on that early morning, when they flung out their
medley of notes upon the balmy air. No one could doubt that here
were true artists, singing for the pleasure of it.
All along the shore lay huge boulders telling of a more ancient
pilgrimage to these parts; of a great moving mass of ice in the
gray dawn of time, that crept slowly over the land, leaving a
"stern and rock bound coast." Perhaps Plymouth Rock itself may
have been one of the number that, like these huge gray boulders
on which we stood, arrived thousands of years ago.
We returned to the hotel and after breakfast, proceeded on our
way to the old historic town of Plymouth. "The road that leads
thither is daily thronged with innumerable wheels; on a summer
day the traveler may count motors by the thousand." Yet if you
pause here awhile you may soon find within a few rods of the
fine highway primitive woodland that will give you an impression
of what it must have been three hundred years ago. Here you will
see heavy forest growths consisting of oaks, for the most part,
with maple and elm, and here and there a tangle of green brier
and barberry, interspersed with several varieties of blueberry
and huckleberry bushes.
You will perhaps recall that Eric the Red, that fearless Viking,
is reported to have landed on the coast several centuries before
the English heard of the bold promontory of "Hither Manomet." It
is well worth your time to saunter along some of the old trails
to be found in this region that lead from the main highway of
today into the "wilderness of old-time romance, where you will
find them not only marked by the pioneer, but that earlier race
who worked out these paths, no one knows how many centuries
ago."
We now and then meet with people who profess to care little for
a path when walking through a forest solitude. They do not
choose to travel a beaten path, even though it was made
centuries ago. They are welcome to this freak. "Our own genius
for adventure is less highly developed and we love to wander
along some beaten path, no matter how often it has been traveled
before; and if really awake, we may daily greet new beauties and
think new thoughts, and return to the old highway with a new
lease on life, which, after all, is the main consideration,
whether traveling on old or new trails."
Then the force of those old associations, how they gild the most
ordinary objects! The trail you may be traveling may wander here
and there, beset by tangles of briers or marshy ground or loses
itself in a wilderness of barberry bushes, yet how much more
wonderful to travel it, for its soil has been pressed by pilgrim
feet. Some path may chance to lead you where a few old lilac
bushes, a mound or perhaps a gray and moss-grown house, still
stands where some hardy pioneer builded.
You will probably come across parties of boys who have spent
hours in the broiling sun, picking blueberries or huckleberries
in the woods or old stony pastures. Here grow a number of
varieties, which make the woods beautiful and fragrant. They
belong to the heath family and help to feed the world. If you
would know the value of these berries, try and purchase some
from the boys who are gathering them.
How delightful the thrill that we experienced on that lovely
morning of July as we were nearing the shrine of the nation. It
would have mattered little even though we had not tarried on our
journey here, where memories of days of the past came thronging
around us, nor little did it matter now that we saw no signs of
earlier times as we first approached the town, for in this
residence, manufacturing and thriving business center, fluttered
hundreds of flags, giving to the place a meaning at once grand
and significant; and we seemed to catch the fervent faith, the
glad hope that must have swelled in the breasts of our
forefathers three centuries ago.
All during the morning our thoughts wandered far away from the
days of the Pilgrims, for there came thronging memories of those
absent and distant friends with whom we could never talk again,
but in whose memory we once had a place, and who will always
live in ours. These dear friends have now gone to fairer shores
and they are dwelling on the banks of the "river Beautiful,
where grows the Tree of Life."
We came to visit the relatives of these departed friends, who
have proven in those terrible days of the Meuse-Argonne that
there is more in life than its grim reality; who have taught us
that not only on the bloody field of battle but while they
calmly awaited the last command from the Master of All to make
that journey to fairer camping grounds, they were soldiers not
only serving their country under General Pershing, but loyal and
faithful servants of their country's God.
The first hours of the day were spent at the home of Mrs. Emma
Howland, whose son, Chester A. Howland, after receiving gunshot
wounds in the Argonne forest, was taken to the Evacuation
Hospital, Number 15, where we were privileged to care for him.
In vain we searched for words to tell of the faith, courage, and
self-sacrifice of a dear son, of this mother, whose photograph
he so joyfully showed us on the first morning of our meeting, as
he exclaimed:
"Here is a picture of the dearest mother in all the world."
How well we remembered that morning when the cheery rays of
sunlight, the first of many days, stole through the windows and
fell in golden bands and lay on the pure white brow,
illuminating those manly features. A light divine filled his
clear, blue eyes, as he said:
"I do not know how badly I am wounded, but then it will be all
right."
Then we thought of the once lovely region around Verdun, where
the homes were shot full of holes. In many places only heaps of
blackened stone remained. The beautiful meadows of the Meuse had
been torn full of pits, some small, others large and deep enough
to bury a truck; and trenches, barbed wire entanglements and
shattered trees were scattered all about. The American
cannonading roared along the Argonne front, and the German
artillery answered, until the air trembled with an overload of
sound. Then as the clear, fine voice of this noble lad filled
those halls of pain and death with a rippling melody of cheer,
we looked again and a vision came.
In fancy we saw once more the French peasants toiling in their
fields of grain; over the once desolate region the skylarks were
soaring and singing above emerald meadows, covered with the blue
of the corn-flower and crimson of poppies; the pines were
peacefully murmuring their age-old songs of freedom and content,
unmindful of the conquer-lust of the Hohenzollerns; the evening
sky was no longer profaned by the lurid illumination of star
shells as they looped across the ghastly field; in what were
once shell holes filled with poisonous water the frogs were
piping; in the lovely gardens overlooking the Meuse the mavis
and merle were singing; and in the violet dusk no hissing shells
screamed their songs of death and destruction, and no crashing
of forests were heard from far-thrown shells, but the heavy box-
scented breeze bore the heavenly psalm of the nightingale.
Across the road from the ward moving silently about the avenues
of that vast "city of the dead," French mothers were scattering
flowers on graves of their loved ones; and then it was
understood why Chester Howland sang while the thundering cannon
shook the wards. Soon for him there would be no weary marches,
no days of terror and nights of pain. Ah, precious gold-star
mother, rightly have you said it seems that he is just "away."
The home he once brightened and filled with the beauty of his
presence shall know him no more; but think to what radiant
fields he has gone, for which you early taught him to prepare!
There no cruel war will ever come to take him from your hearth-
side.
I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead--he is just away!
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand
He has wandered into an unknown land,
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there,
And you--O you, who the wildest yearn
For the old-time step and the glad return
Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here;
And loyal still, as he gave the blows
Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes.
Mild and gentle, as he was brave,
When the sweetest love of his life he gave
To simple things; where the violets grew
Blue as the eyes they were likened to,
The touches of his hands have strayed
As reverently as his lips have prayed;
While the little brown thrush that harshly chirped
Was dear to him as the mocking bird;
And he pitied as much as a man in pain
A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.
Think of him still as the same, I say
He is not dead--he is just away.
--Riley.
The first Pilgrim trail is now Leyden street, which leads from
the edge of the water to the fort on Burial Hill. But we first
made our way to a real wooded park whose grounds were covered
with oak trees, clethra, alder, spice bushes, and green-brier,
which we fancied still grew as they did in the days of the
Pilgrims. We saw numbers of Indian tepees in this park, which
added to its touch of original wildness. We learned that they
belonged to the Winnebagoes of Maine, who came down to Plymouth
to take part in the pageant. The park was full of blueberry and
huckleberry bushes, and companies of the Indian boys and girls
were gathering the berries which were just beginning to ripen,
giving us a good idea of what the place must have been like
before the coming of the white man.
>From this place we followed a path along the shores of a stretch
of water known as "Billington sea." It is a lovely lake, that
had been blocked off from the ocean by a great terminal moraine
until "Town Brook set it free." There is a legend current here,
that a man who brought little credit but much trouble to the
Pilgrims by his acts of wantonness, was said to have reported
the discovery of a new sea; therefore "Billington's sea." His
sons seemed to be chips of the old block and caused the
colonists no end of worry and trouble by their recklessness. One
of them wandered away and became lost, causing great concern
among the Pilgrims. He is said to have climbed up into a high
tree from which he located his home and also discovered this
body of water.
But no matter who the discoverer may have been, it was enough
for us to know that we were treading Billington's path along the
shore near the water's edge, linking the New Plymouth with that
of three hundred years ago.
Here in this seeming wilderness, wandering upon those old trails
that in many places are all but obliterated, or vanishing
altogether, for a short way among their tangles of undergrowth,
you may still glimpse the wooded region of three centuries ago,
through the perspective of the ideas and ideals of the present
day. "Here we still look back in loving remembrance to that
magical little vessel that fought her way across a cruel wintry
sea," bearing those brave souls, whose faith and courage have
left us in possession of lessons that are priceless.
Anyone who has been in England when the hedgerows are in bloom
can readily imagine how the homesick hearts of the pilgrims,
after that first terrible winter, fraught with sickness and
death, longed for these lovely flowers. The time of the
Mayflower's blossoming has long been past, but in fancy our
thoughts go back to that early spring when the first bluebird
winged his way to Burial Hill, calling up memories of the
English robin, which this harbinger of spring resembles. It was
the Pilgrims who called him the blue robin.
We love to think, too, of the joyful discovery that one of the
Pilgrims must have had, when he stooped to pluck that first
flower of spring whose aromatic fragrance was wafted to him by
the balmy south wind. Perhaps it was John Alders who first
discovered this lovely flower while the bluebird warbled his
message of love and spring from a budding alder. No doubt he
carried it in triumph to Priscilla as a token of friendship.
Looking out over the land or the lovely bay that spread before
them, the Pilgrims, in spite of their toil and hardships, found
heart to send word to their friends in England that it was a
"fayere lande and bountiful." "So in the darkest times there
came days of brightness when all nature seemed to rejoice, and
the woods and fields were filled with gladness." When the time
came for the sailing of the Mayflower, not a person of all that
little band was willing to go back to the land they had left.
Longfellow has given us a picture of the departure in his
"Courtship of Miles Standish."
O strong hearts and true! Not one went back in the May
Flower!
No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this
ploughing!
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.
But let us return to the first trail of the Pilgrims that leads
to Burial Hill. "Here above the enterprise of the modern town
rises this hill, bearing the very presence of its founders,"
where you forget for a time the lure of the woods and sea as you
reverently pause to read the inscriptions on the mossy
headstones. The oldest marked grave is that of Governor
Bradford. It is an obelisk a little more than eight feet in
height. On the north side is a Hebrew sentence said to signify,
Jehovah is our help. Under this stone rests the ashes of William
Bradford, a zealous Puritan and sincere Christian; Governor of
Plymouth Colony from April, 1621, to 1657 (the year he died,
aged 69), except five years which he declined. "Qua patres
difficillime adepti sunt, nolite turpiter relinquare." Which
means, What our fathers with so much difficulty secured, do not
basely relinquish."
Then we see the monument of his son, an Indian fighter. The
epitaph reads like this:
Here lies the body of ye honorable Major Wm. Bradford, who
expired Feb. ye 20th 1703-4, aged 79 years.
He lived long but still was doing good
And in this country's service lost much blood;
After a life well spent he's now at rest,
His very name and memory is blest.
Another monument you will see is that of John Howland. The
inscription is this: Here ended the Pilgrimage of John Howland
who died February 23, 1672-23 aged 80 years. He married
Elizabeth, daughter of John Tilly, who came with him in the
Mayflower, Dec. 1620. From them are descended numerous
posterity.
"He was a goodly man, and an ancient professor in the ways of
Christ. He was one of the first comers into this land and was
the last man that was left of those that came over in the ship
called the May Flower that lived in Plymouth."--Plymouth
Records.
Here in the town you may see the Howland house still standing
firm upon its foundations, although built in 1667. It has a
large Dutch chimney of red brick. The roof is sharp pitched.
Here too still stands the Harlow house, which was built in the
Old Manse style in 1671. The oak timbers were said to have been
taken from the frame of the first Pilgrim fort and common house
which stood on a hill back of the town. How like their
characters were the works of those early Pilgrims, relics of
those bygone days when character-building and home-making were
considered essentials.
Then we thought of that other grave that was recently made in
the new cemetery; where the body of Chester Howland reposes. He
was only one of the many loyal sons of the 26th Division who
braved the cruel ocean in 1917 carrying the principles handed
down from their Pilgrim forefathers to lands beyond the waves.
They seized the golden sword of knighthood--an old inheritance
from their worthy sires--and with what valor they wielded it,
the rows of white crosses in a foreign land attest. Its hilt for
them was set with rarest gems. "A mother's love or sweetheart's
fond goodbye." A grateful nation saw fit to bring their remains
back to their native land. They merit beautiful monuments, but
memory of their noble deeds of valor and sacrifice will be all
the monument they need, and by the light of Freedom's blazing
torch the world shall read their epitaph written by the hand of
Time.
How fine again it is to stand
Where they in Freedom's soil are laid,
And from their ashes may be made
The May Flowers of their native land.
At many hearths the fires burn dim,
The vacant chairs are closer drawn
Where weary hearts draw nearer them
And softly whisper, "they are gone."
The low-hung clouds in pity sent,
Their floral tributes from the skies,
And sobbing winds their voices lent
To stifled sobs and bitter sighs.
In spotless beauty their myriads lay,
Upon Freedom's flag like frozen tears
Or petals of the flowers of May,
In perfumed softness on their bier.
Oh, may they not have died in vain,
Those gallant youths of Freedom's land,
They sought not any earthly gain
And perished that the right might stand.
The death of the following is depicted in "Dr. Le Baron and his
Daughters." "In memory of seventy-two seamen who perished in
Plymouth harbor on the 26 and 27 days of December, 1778, on
board the private armed Brig. Gen. Arnold, of twenty guns, James
Magee of Boston, Commander, sixty of whom were buried on this
spot."
"Oh falsely flattering were yon billows smooth
When forth elated sailed in evil hour
That vessel whose disastrous fate, when told,
Filled every breast with sorrow and each eye with
piteos tear."
One of the seamen is said to have been the lover of Miss Hannah
Howland, which probably explains why she has this epitaph on her
monument: "To the memory of Miss Hannah Howland, who died of a
languishment January ye 25th, 1780."
The grave of the Elder Faunce, to whom we are indebted for the
history of Plymouth Rock and for its preservation, is here.
There are numerous other inscriptions quaint yet significant.
Here you will find the oldest Masonic stone in the country.
There is a design at the top, a skeleton whose right elbow rests
upon a tomb, the right hand grasping a scythe. Upon the tomb is
an hour glass, and on this are crossbones. At the left of the
skeleton is a flaming urn; at the base of which is a rose tree
bearing buds and flowers. Near the tomb is a skull leaning
against a dead shrub.
"Here lies buried the body of Mr. Nath Jackson who died July ye
14th, 1743, in ye 79th year of his age."
With the Baltimore oriole piping his cheery recitative in the
top of an elm; chickadees uttering their minor strains, and
mourning doves soothing our ears with their meditative cooing,
we left the sacred spot, to visit Plymouth Rock. We loved to
listen to the purling undertones of Town Brook and wondered what
its liquid music might not tell, if we could interpret its
story. Shakespeare was right when he said we could find sermons
in stones, and here if we read aright is a sermon that made the
Old World monarchs tremble. And still to us it tells of that
mighty force that brought it here in the dim past--to be the
corner stone of our republic. Its ringing text is still sounding
from shore to shore.
"Tradition has kept the memory of the rock on which the Pilgrims
first set foot, and which lay on the foot of the hill. It has
become an historic spot, to which the name Forefathers' Rock has
been given. No other in America possesses such hallowed
associations or has so often been celebrated in song and story."
"Here," said De Toqueville, "is a stone which the feet of a few
outcasts pressed for an instant, and the stone became famous. It
is treasured by a nation. Its very dust is shared as a relic.
And what has become of the gateways of a thousand palaces? Who
cares for them?"
Tradition also says that Mary Chilton and John Allen were the
first to leap upon this rock, as we read in the lines to Mary
Chilton--
"The first on Plymouth Rock to leap!
Among the timid flock she stood,
Rare figure, near the May Flower's prow,
With heart of Christian fortitude,
And light heroic on her brow."
But whoever was the first to step upon this stone, that act we
now cherish as the first one toward the founding of a nation,
and as typical of the heroism and daring of its founders. "And
such it will stand for all time as one of the grand stepping-
stones of history."
We wander once more along Town Brook listening to its soothing
voice as the evening shadows begin to gather upon it. The sun,
like an orb of fire, is sinking in a vast sea of gold through
which a few fleecy clouds of a delicate rose color are slowly
drifting. The shadowy forms of the night-hawk are plainly seen
as they sweep the heavens for their evening meal of insects. We
catch their eerie cries that fall from the rosy depths of the
waning sunset to the darkening glades around us, and we hear the
breeze softly sighing as it caresses the myriad leaves of the
forest. The water of the brook grows dim in the deepening
shadows. It is the sweetest hour of the day, and as this song of
peace floats out over the twilight woods it calls to holy
thoughts. It is as if one heard the Angelus of a distant
village.
On returning to Plymouth Rock hotel we were impressed with the
crowded streets, for from far and near people had gathered to
witness the Tercentenary of the Landing of the Pilgrims. In the
gray half light of the evening we saw a majestic elm whose
gigantic size told of an earlier time. It may not be so, yet we
loved to think that the white settlers' cabins rose around it by
the seashore. Perhaps the earliest of the Pilgrim fathers heard
the first prayers on American soil uttered from beneath its now
aged boughs. It probably saw the surrounding forest disappear
and with it, the Indian villages, and now looks down on the
thriving historic town of the white man. The youths of several
generations have frolicked beneath its beneficent branches.
Armies have marched by it. The soldiers of Plymouth may have
passed it on their way to the harbor where they stepped on
Plymouth Rock before embarking on that perilous journey in 1917;
and here it is still standing a silent orator of golden deeds in
a land of noble trees. In it one sees far more than so many feet
of lumber to calculate. Its gleaming crest in autumn speaks
eloquently of priceless deeds of valor and that distant time of
the golden dawn of Freedom.
Right proper it was that a nation saw fit to meet here, to do
honor to the memory of those free and nobleminded souls who
braved the dangers of the mighty Atlantic. Long, severe winters
were endured when they had but a scanty amount of food and faced
unknown dangers from hostile Indian foes. Uncomplainingly did
they endure all of these, rather than submit to tyranny and
oppression. Heroic characters they were, with their strong
principles and high ideals, to found a great nation. What an
epic story of splendid achievement, heroic deeds, and noble
sacrifice those Pilgrim Fathers have chronicled upon the
illustrious pages of our country's history!
The time is July in place of December, the month in which the
Pilgrims arrived. In many respects the place of that first
landing has been greatly altered. The waterfront contains rough
wharves and is lined with storehouses and factories. Plymouth
Rock itself will rest beneath a beautiful granite canopy and
seems an incredible distance from the sea, and one wonders how
they managed to bridge such a distance to get to shore. Yet if
you rely somewhat upon your imagination, you may visualize the
place in all its rugged impressiveness, much the same as when
the Pilgrims beheld it. Nature seems quickly to obliterate the
footprints of man, especially along the sea, and you may wander
along Plymouth beach in the weird twilight and listen to the
sullen boom of the breakers on the cliff, and see and hear as
did they.
The sea has beaten for centuries against the great boulders, yet
the stones have been but slightly changed. The coast is still
"rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun," and the great granite
boulders gleam white in the level rays of the descending sun,
looking like great emeralds as the silvery crests of the
breakers fall upon them.
The evening sky was thickly overcast with clouds as we made our
way down to the shore. The wind blew the dark cloud masses out
to sea, and as we watched the surf curried by the rocks into
foam and heard the wind moaning and wailing among the tossing
branches of the trees on shore, we seemed to catch the spirit of
that time as if "it had been that Friday night, three centuries
before, when the shallop of the Pilgrims came by this very place
lashed by the tempestuous sea, their mast broken in three pieces
and their sail lost in the dusky welter of the angry surf."
The sky became darker, and more menacing appeared the waves as
the time drew near for the pageant to begin. A kind of weird
twilight reigned o'er land and sea. No light was visible save
that from the beacon-tower, which sent a fitful gleam o'er the
angry waves; all else was dark, primal, spectral, as was that
eventful night which these present-day pilgrims were now
gathered to commemorate. The gale dashed salt spray and
raindrops spitefully into our faces, yet it dampened neither our
spirits nor those of the performers.
A large stadium capable of accommodating forty thousand people
had been erected near the seashore behind a field of action or
immense stage four hundred feet wide and with a depth of four
hundred and fifty feet. This stage had to be illuminated from a
distance of over one hundred and fifty feet, requiring for the
pageant over three hundred kilowatts power, enough electrical
energy to operate thirteen thousand ordinary house lights, and
by far the largest installation for this purpose that has been
used in this country.
Suddenly, from a canopied rock, was heard a rich, powerful voice
speaking to the American people of the changes and vicissitudes
that the rock has witnessed since "far primordial ages." Fit
prologue it was from the "corner-stone of the Republic."
Out of the shadowy night from where is heard the mysterious
voice of the rock thirty Indians, bearing ten canoes on their
shoulders, move silently toward the shore. Suddenly one of the
Indians perceives a strange object to the left on the harbor.
Terror seizes them all, and they vanish like larger among lesser
shadows. Nine more Indians appear bearing three boats but,
seeing the phantom, fear fell upon them and they dropped to the
shore, covering themselves with their canoes. From the right
appears a Norse galley, the armor-clad warriors and their leader
Thorwald making a fine picture as they disembark, carrying their
shields, spears, and battle axes. As the men draw near they see
the three canoes, and Thorwald forms three groups from his
company, who approach rapidly toward them. The approach so
frightens the Indians under two of the canoes that they rise up
and attempt to flee; whereupon the warriors after some fierce
fighting, kill them with their javelins.
The third boat is removed and reveals three Indians too
terrified to move. One escapes and one is captured; another,
feigning death, creeps slowly and painfully to the left, where
his every gesture reveals the agonies of a mortally wounded
warrior. The canoes are taken and borne aloft, on the shoulders
of the majestic Vikings, trophies of a foreign land and
victorious conflict.
No sooner do they pass on board the ship than a watcher in the
prow warns the rest of impending danger; for, swiftly and warily
approaching; the infuriated red men seem to be planning revenge
in a surprise attack. Like a wall of flashing steel the shields
go up around the deck while the gangplank is quickly drawn in.
Suddenly a shower of arrows fly toward the wall of shields,
hitting them with a thud but seemingly doing no harm. Presently
they flee in haste, thinking perhaps these are gods who cannot
be harmed. Slowly the shields are lowered and Thorwald is shown
to be in great distress. One sees he is in a death swoon, yet,
he raises an arm and points toward the Gurnet, then reels and
falls into the arms of his stalwart men. Once more that steel
wall goes up, and the mysterious strangers with their curious
ship move out on the sea, bearing their leader's body held high
on locked shields.
Next appear three men having an English flag with the words
"Martin Pring-Patuxet--1603."
Here on the shore, with a band of men dressed in the costumes of
those early days, appears a right merry group of men listening
to one of their number who is playing on a gittern. As if
enamored of the melody the Indians gather around the musician.
One, who by his gesticulations, tells in actions more plainly
than words that he wishes to dance, offers this modern Orpheus a
peace-pipe. Others present various gifts until the English youth
steps out among them. They form a circle about him and try to
keep time to the music.
Suddenly a member who drops out receives a beating. Fiercer and
swifter becomes the dance until in the height of the wildest
part a number of dogs spring forward on their leashes, so
frightening the savages that they flee in terror. The player
seems to be amused yet startled at the incident and goes toward
the Indians laughing. Behind a French flag the lights reveal
three sailors. On the flag we see written: "Sieur De Champlain--
July 19, 1605."
As the lights shift, two Indians appear bearing a great number
of codfish which are being examined by Champlain and his men.
The Indians show the hooks and lines with which they catch these
fish. Noting some growing corn, Champlain tries to learn about
the strange plant. The Indians by signs show him that corn may
be raised and used as food. He barters for food and fish. Having
acquired a great variety of provender they move toward the shore
as the lights fade.
Next appear three men dressed in the Dutch mariner's uniform of
the time. The flag they carry bears the inscription: "Admiral
Blok--1614."
A crowd of Dutchmen appear to be enjoying the evening. They are
watching a band of Indians who are dancing. One cannot tell
which they are enjoying most, the long-stemmed pipes they are
smoking or the weird dances of the redmen, whom they loudly
applaud.
Following this scene is the tableau of Captain John Smith in the
spring of 1614. Behind this group are seen three English sailors
holding a flag upon which is written "John Smith--Accomack--
1614."
Down by the water where streaks of foam top the dark waves and
the forms of two men loom dark and spectral, a boat is riding at
anchor. While the boulders beat the surf into white foam and the
branches of the elms wail and toss in the night wind, Smith and
four of his men are trading with the Indians; others of his men
are on guard against any treachery, while two of the men are
placing the skins which they have bought into hogsheads. There
are thirty or forty Indians when the bartering is at its height,
and Smith is seen making a bargain with an Indian for a bale of
beaver.
One of Smith's men, who notices a very fine skin an Indian is
wearing, lifts it to show it to Smith. The Indian resents this
act, and there seems to be resentment and fear among all the red
men. The Englishmen stiffen to attention, but Smith, who feared
neither man nor devil, goes among the Indians carrying a copper
kettle and a gorgeous blanket. He held out his blanket
persuasively and added several strings of beads. Then he draped
the blanket on himself. The Indian at last reluctantly yields
and takes off the skin, a beautiful black fox. The lights closed
in around a group of Indians decked in their new robes.
Our attention is turned toward the shore once more where three
English sailors hold a flag bearing the words: "Thomas Hunt--
Patuxet--1615." Hunt enters stealthily at the right, and his
attention is concentrated upon a spot where his trained eye has
caught, a glimpse of something of greater interest than bird or
fish. He is evidently scouting. Then appear at his signal a band
of men moving in single file, who hide behind the bushes. Hunt
too, as if hearing something, hides himself. Silently a shadowy
procession moves from Town Brook, carrying pelts and fishing
apparatus. A canoe is borne on the shoulders of two of them.
They put the canoe down and all gather in a group to prepare for
the day's fishing.
All unconscious of danger, they lay their weapons aside. Hunt
rises and signals to his men, who quickly fall upon the Indians
as they try to flee. Several stagger across the field fatally
wounded, while most of the men are captured and bound. After
they gag the Indians they force them toward the water's edge
where a boat is waiting. As the group disappears, or is seen as
a band of faint shadows, the despairing figure of Tisquantum,
bound and struggling, is brought into relief.
There is darkness for a brief time then, as the lights come
slowly on, they reveal an absolutely empty space where before
were seen activity and plenty. The music for this scene,
composed by Henry F. Gilbert, was of a character at once weird,
awe-inspiring, almost magical, portraying by tone as plainly as
by words the scene of desolation, sickness and death. It seemed
as if there were an increasing sense of indefinite fear--a deep
impression of solemnity and gravity, as if we were conscious of
contact with the eternities.
A change as unusual as it was unwholesome came upon the ocean.
"As the lights touched the water a purple glow that was to it
like the ashen hue that beclouds the face of the dying. A filmy
green spread over the land and there seemed to arise a miasmatic
vapor like the breath of a brooding pestilence, which clung
clammily to the earth and dulled all life." Every one felt the
presence of trouble impending; one grave question breathed forth
from the haunting music and, unspoken, trembled on every lip;
one overmastering idea blended with and overpowered all others.
"The land and sea were both sick, stagnant, and foul, and there
seemed to arise from their unfathomable depths, drawn by the
weird power of the music, horrid shapes that glared steadily
into the strange twilight they had arisen to."
"Such a morbific, unwholesome condition" cast upon land and sea,
and music that seemed to breathe forth such despair and
desolation, could not but deeply move the audience.
One breathes more freely when the light falls upon a group of
ten Englishmen, who appear in single file at the right. Thomas
Dermer seems engaged in a very spirited conversation with
Samoset, an Indian, while Tisquantum, another Indian, follows
and seems absorbed in his own thoughts. While Dermer is engaged
in conversation, a group of sailors pass near the water's edge,
where they drop their burdens. They gaze out on the water as if
looking for a boat. Tisquantum goes past Dermer and Samoset and
stands looking off across the harbor, deep in gloomy thought.
>From out there, as darkness closes about the lonely figure on
the shore, there is borne to our ears by the night wind the
distant sound of voices chanting early sixteenth century music.
The music continues while the various characters appear, and
finally grows fainter until it can no longer be heard. A young
boy appears on the left as if on his way to his morning labor.
He is driving a horse that is hitched to a crude plow. There
enters from the right a group of seven men and five women, who
wear the costumes of religious pilgrims. They have the staff,
the script, and the water bottle. Two of the number have been to
Rome, for they wear the palm; two others show that they have
been to Compostella, for they wear the shell; while two others
have the bottle and bell, proving that they have been to
Canterbury.
The next scene represented the Fleet Prison on the night of
April 5, 1593. Two heaps of straw are seen, on which a man in
Puritan garb is seated, writing rapidly. By the other heap sits
a man on a stool, who is correcting some written pages. Both men
wear chains. A woman stands by the second man with some papers.
She seems to be waiting for the other sheets which the man is
writing. As he passes the last to her she hides them all in the
bosom of her dress.
The next scene represents the Opposition, 7603. The lights are
suddenly turned, on revealing a flurry of children and young
people across the field, from left to right, and the sound of
gay music from the point toward which the children are running.
The field fills rapidly with some hundreds of people--men, women
and children, of all types and kinds. From the right to the
triumphant march, King James enters in royal progress.
Space forbids us to relate the various scenes portrayed upon
this wonderfully well-illuminated field. No one who witnessed
this wonderful production can ever forget the solemn
impressiveness of its closing scenes. A voice is heard coming
from the rock, "As one candle may light a thousand, so the
lights here kindled have shone to many, yea! in some sort, to
our whole nation."
As Bradford gazes out in the distance, the lights now
penetrating more deeply reveal in turn, George Washington and
Abraham Lincoln. The clear voice of Washington repeats these
significant words: "The basis of our political system is the
right of the people to make and to alter their constitution of
the government." Then the deep, calm voice of Lincoln is heard
to say: "Government of the people, for the people, and by the
people, shall not perish from the earth."
As Lincoln finishes speaking, two men in modern dress come
toward the rock, looking seaward.
The first speaker:
"This was the port of entry of our Freedom.
Men brought it in a box of alabaster
And broke the box and spilled it to the West,
Here on the granite wharf prepared for them.
Second speaker:
"And so we have it."
Firstspeaker:
"Have it to achieve;
We have it as they had it in their day,
A little in the grasp--more to achieve."
Then we hear these significant words:
"I wonder what the Pilgrims if they came
Would say to us, as Freemen? Is our freedom
Their freedom as they left it to our keeping,
Or would they know their own in modern guise?
Across the back of the field to the grand triumphal strains of
martial music pass the flags of the allies, so lighted that they
show brilliantly. Nearer move the French and British flags, and
then all wave and beckon. There follows a hush. Suddenly from
far out on the Mayflower a bugle calls in the darkness and light
begins to glow on the vessel, but very faintly.
Then again the voice from the Rock is heard: "The path of the
Mayflower must be forever free." Forty-eight young women bear
the state flags. The pageant ground is now ablaze with lights,
and as the wonderful chorus that has carried you on its mighty
tide of harmony dies away; the field darkens until there is only
light on the Mayflower.
Again the voice from the Rock fills the place with deep sonorous
tones, like celestial music, as we listen to these fitting
words: "With malice toward none and charity for all it is for us
to resolve that this nation under God shall have a new birth of
freedom."
What is there in Europe, or the whole world, in the way of
pageants that can compare with this? When we consider its
import, viewed in the full, bright light of the rising sun of
Liberty; wafted by the delicate electric threads of this busy
commercial world which are silently conveying with a certain
majesty of movement its significance, we may well say that this
celebrated one of the most eventful deeds of man since time
began.
"As we go back to that shadowy and evanescent period when
history and culture of ancient Chaldea unroll before us, with
the overpowering greatness of Assyria followed by the swift rise
and fall of Babylon, let us try and extract some truths in
regard to the growth of Civilization. Even though nations rise
and fall, and races come and go, has not human development been
ever upward and onward?"
Let us then look forward to the dawning of a better day. Let us
cherish those high ideals of liberty our fore-fathers so dearly
bought. Let us put on the strong armor of the Word of God which
was to them a shield and a buckler and move forward with firm,
steadfast hope toward a brighter dawn of Freedom, that shall
exceed that of the present as the light which gleamed from the
Mayflower exceeded in brilliancy that of the Old World.
Watching the lights slowly fade on the Mayflower we thought how
the Pilgrims had stood on the icy deck of the vessel, with the
winds blowing through the masts overhead and the waves roaring
about the black hull beneath, while they sang hymns of praise
for deliverance from the dangers of the sea.
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true hearted came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drams,
Or the trumpet that sings of fame.
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear,
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free.
--Felicia Henaans.