John Robinson, whose touching farewell words Winslow has preserved for
us:
“he charged us before God and his blessed angels to follow him no
further than he followed Christ; and if God should reveal anything
to us by any other instrument of his, to be as ready to receive it
as ever we were to receive any truth by his ministry; for he was
very confident the Lord had more truth and light yet to break forth
out of his holy word.”
This sad scene must have been still vivid in Bradford’s memory when he
wrote some ten years later in Plymouth:
“truly dolfull was y^{e} sight of that sade and mournfull parting;
to see what sighs and sobbs and praires did sound amongst them,
what tears did gush from every eye, & pithy speeches peirst each
harte”; “but they knewe they were pilgrimes, and looked not much on
those things, but lift up their eyes to y^{e} heavens, their
dearest cuntrie, and quieted their spirits.”
After a good run with a prosperous wind they found the _Mayflower_ at
Southampton, but as the _Speedwell_ proved unseaworthy they were again
delayed, and after putting in for repairs to Dartmouth and Plymouth, the
_Mayflower_ finally, on September 16th, sailed alone from Plymouth.
Observe the group of brave voyagers setting forth on an unknown “sea of
troubles,” trustful wives and children, manly youths and blooming
maidens, as they wave a last good-by to dear Old England from the deck
of the _Mayflower_. Their leaders form a notable band: Brewster,
Carver, Bradford, Winslow, Standish, the soul, the heart, the head, the
good right hand, the flashing sword, well-chosen instruments to unlock
the frozen heart of New England, and to found there
“Empire such as Spaniard never knew.”
Perhaps George Herbert, prince of poets, referred to this sailing when
he wrote in his _Church Militant_:
“Religion stands on tiptoe in our land,
Ready to pass to the American strand.”
Of the terrible discomforts and dangers of that perilous voyage of
sixty-seven days who has not read the pitiful story? Have we not, all of
us, “come over in the _Mayflower_,” and rejoiced with these patient
souls when at length, one clear morning in November, the shores of Cape
Cod lay fair before their expectant eyes?
Determining to put in to Cape Cod harbor, and so to land on a territory
where their patent could confer no rights, the leaders of the
expedition, after consulting together in the cabin of the _Mayflower_,
there drew up and signed the historic “Compact” which was to convert the
hundred voyagers into the founders of a commonwealth. There they
solemnly and mutually, in the presence of God and of one another,
combined themselves into a civil body politic, to frame and enact such
just and equal laws from time to time as should be thought most meet and
convenient for the general good of the colony, unto which they promised
all due submission and obedience.
While their sloop-rigg shallop of some fifteen tons was made ready for
exploration by sea, those who went at once far into the forest came back
with reports of fine growths of oak, pine, sassafras, juniper, birch and
holly, abundant grape-vines and red cedar, which like sandalwood
“Sheds its perfume on the axe that slays it.”
They found excellent springs, many deer and wild-fowl, and what proved
to be their salvation in the wilderness, “divers faire Indian baskets
filled with corn, which seemed to them a goodly sight.” For this
precious seed-corn the Indian owners were conscientiously paid double
price some six months later.
The weakness and illness natural after the discomforts of such a voyage
now made themselves felt in an alarming manner, and an exploring party
was hastily organized to select the spot for their final settlement.
Setting forth in the frail shallop, a party of eighteen picked men,
after a successful “First Encounter” with the Indians, were driven by a
furious gale to take shelter in the lee of a little island lying in a
friendly harbor to the west of their starting-point. After thawing out
over a good cedar-wood fire and resting for a night, they explored the
island and repaired their boat. Of this island, afterward named for John
Clarke, mate of the _Mayflower_, Bradford writes:
“But though this had been a day and night of much trouble & danger
unto them, yet God gave them a morning of comforte & refreshing (as
usually he doth to his children), for y^{e} next day was a faire
sunshining day, and they found them sellvs to be on an iland secure
from the Indeans, wher they might drie their stufe, fixe their
peeces, & rest them selves, and gave God thanks for his mercies, in
their manifould deliverances. And this being the last day of y^{e}
weeke, they prepared ther to keepe y^{e} Sabath. On Munday they
sounded the harbor, and founde it fitt for shipping; and marched
into y^{e} land and found diverse cornfeilds and litle runing
brooks, a place (as they supposed) fitt for situation; at least it
was y^{e} best they could find, and y^{e} season & their presente
necessitie made them glad to accepte of it.”
So, on the 21st day of December, 1620, was made the now world-famous
landing at Plymouth, of which these few words are the humble record.
After a week of anxious waiting their return must have been hailed with
delight on board the _Mayflower_, and their good tidings warmly
welcomed. As with all sails set the good ship made her way into the
harbor, eager eyes doubtless watched with joy the high hills of Manomet,
the wooded bluffs, the shining, protecting beaches, the fair island, the
low friendly stretch of the mainland sloping back to the picturesque
hillsides, which make Plymouth harbor at all times and seasons a goodly
sight to look upon. And here at length lay safely at anchor the
” ... simple _Mayflower_ of the salt-sea mead!”
And now, “Courteous Reader,” as writes that most faithful secretary of
the Pilgrims, Nathaniel Morton, in his _New England Memorial_ (1669),
“that I may not hold thee too long in the porch,” even in such goodly
company, I bid you welcome to the Plymouth of to-day. For in the harbor,
the sand-dunes, the green hillsides and the fresh valleys and
[Illustration: THE HARBOR.]
meadows, in the blue streams and ponds, the past is inseparably blended
with the present. A small theatre it is, and the actors were but few who
played such important _rôles_ in the building up of a nation, but the
few memorials in which that early struggle for existence is recorded are
here lovingly preserved.
From the Rock where they landed we may follow their weary footsteps up
the steep ascent of the first street, now named for Leyden, their city
of refuge, and which may well be called the Via Sacra of Plymouth.
Running back from the waterside to the foot of Burial Hill, and parallel
to the Town Brook, it formed the centre of their daily toil, the scene
of their early joys and sorrows. Here on either hand were staked out the
homesteads for the nineteen first families; here with sturdy courage and
endless labor they dragged the trees felled outside the clearing, and
built their rude houses, thatching them with swamp-grass.
The site of their first or “Common-House” is now marked, and near the
lot assigned to Elder Brewster still we may stop to drink from the
Pilgrim Spring: the “delicate water” is fresh and sweet now as when our
thirsty forefathers delighted in it.
[Illustration: PLYMOUTH in 1622.
Copyright, 1891, by A. S. Burbank.]
Crossing Main Street, once the King’s highway, we find ourselves in Town
Square, under the shade of beautiful old elm-trees, planted more than a
hundred years ago. To the north was William Bradford’s homestead. Here
came all those who sought advice and help in their sore need, and here
in 1630 were begun those “scribbled writings” which, “peeced up at times
of leasure afterward,” are now printed, in letters of gold in many a
faithful memory! Here, perhaps, or in the vicinity of the Common House,
was concluded their first treaty with a foreign power for mutual aid and
protection, when the noble chief Massasoit, with his sixty Indian
braves, was led thither by Samoset, the friendly sachem, whose English
welcome had surprised the anxious colonists. Through Samoset they
learned that some four years before a pest had devastated that region,
called by them Patuxet. With him came Tisquantum, who became a valued
friend and interpreter, teaching them to plant their corn when the
oak-leaves were the size of a mouse’s ear, and to place three herring in
each hill with the seed-corn, which novel practice awakened serious
doubts in English minds.
In the autumn of 1621, this was the scene of the first Thanksgiving
held in New England, when, their houses built, their crops garnered from
some thirty fertile acres, their furs and lumber safely stored, they
made merry for three days, with Massasoit and ninety Indians as guests.
Even with fish, wild-fowl and deer in plenty, the good housewives must
have spent a lively week of preparation for such a feast!
Farther up the slope was built, in 1637, their first meeting-house, and
at the head of the Square now stands the lately completed stone church
of the first parish. In the belfry hangs the old town bell, cast by Paul
Revere, which for nearly a century has had a voice in the affairs of the
town.
Following the now steep incline, we stop to take breath on the brow of
the hill, the spot so wisely chosen by Captain Myles Standish for the
building of the solid timber fort, whereon he promptly placed his
cannon.
“Unable to speak for himself was he,
But his guns spoke for him right valiantly!”
And most persuasive did their voices prove, inspiring awe in the hearts
of the “salvages” for many miles around!
Here in the shelter of the fort they met for worship; here their hymns
of praise and prayers for guidance arose in the still air of the
wilderness. In four short months one half of these brave souls had been
laid to rest on Cole’s Hill by the waterside. And yet, when one April
morning those who were left to mourn them stood here watching the
_Mayflower_ weigh anchor, to flit with her white sails over the blue sea
which parted them from Old England, not one soul faltered, _not one went
back_!
The sad loss of their good Governor Carver, whose responsible place was
taken by William Bradford, and the daily trials and hardships of that
first long year, shook not their sturdy faith. Each day brought its
absorbing task, and when, one morning in November, the sentry at the
fort shouted, “Sail, ho!” and the _Fortune_ came sailing in by the
Gurnet Nose, bringing the first news from the other side, they were
ready with a return load of lumber, furs and sassafras for the Merchant
Adventurers. Of this load, valued at £500, Edward Winslow modestly
writes in his letter to England: “Though it be not much, yet it will
witness for us that we have not been idle, considering the smallness of
our numbers this summer.”
Two years later, after a trying season of drought and famine, when,
their corn exhausted, “ground-nuts, clams and eels” were their only
food, they still gave thanks to God that He had given them of “the
abundance of the seas, and of the treasures hid in the sand.” When even
the strongest men among them had grown weak for want of food, and their
eyes were wearied with watching for a friendly sail, the good ship
_Anne_ was sighted in the offing. Dear relatives and friends brought
them timely succor and new courage; a season of rejoicing followed, and
many happy weddings were celebrated.
In the _Anne_, perhaps, came the Old Colony record-book, in which was
made the early registration of births, marriages and deaths. The first
of the laws therein enacted, dating from December 27, 1623, established
trial by jury, as may still be seen in the quaint handwriting of these
hard-working heroes. This book, together with the Charter of 1629,
curious old papers concerning the division of cattle brought over in the
_Charity_ in 1624, ancient deeds signed by the Indians, the original
owners of this our goodly heritage, and many another time-stained
treasure, is now carefully preserved and gladly shown in the Registry
of Deeds in the Court House.
Looking to the north, beyond the town of Kingston, lying, with its sweet
rose-gardens, on the pretty winding river named for that arch betrayer,
Captain Jones, of the _Mayflower_, we see Duxbury and the green slopes
of Captain’s Hill, so named in honor of Myles Standish, who from the top
of his gray stone monument still guards us in effigy. Lingering near the
fort and the guns he loved so well, he must often have looked this way,
and admired the fine position this hill offered for a homestead. And as
with years the colony grew larger, as children came to him and Barbara,
and when his first Company of Standish Guards were in perfect training
and could be relied upon to defend the colony at need, he bought out
Winslow’s share in the famous red cow, and led the way to the new fields
he longed to conquer. There he was soon followed by John Alden and
Priscilla, the Brewsters and other families, and at Marshfield, near by,
the Winslows became their neighbors. So some eleven years after the
landing came the first separation, which though not a wide one was a
sore grief to their tender-hearted governor.
Among the now rare gravestones of the seventeenth century on Burial
Hill, we look in vain for the most familiar names: Elder Brewster died
in 1644, lamented by all the colony; Edward Winslow died at sea in 1655,
and in the two years following this sad loss Myles Standish and Governor
Bradford ended their labors. So closed the lives of these leaders of
men. Descendants, brave, wise and strong like themselves, continued
worthily the work they had nobly begun.
From 1630, Plymouth held friendly intercourse with the Boston Bay
Colony. The terrors of the war with Philip, treacherous son of the
friendly Massasoit, had united her with the neighboring colonies against
a common foe, and at length, after seventy-one years of nearly
independent existence, we find her, in 1692, absorbed, with some regret,
into the royal province of Massachusetts, but still ready to take her
part in public affairs.
That the _rôle_ played by her was a worthy one, the tablets about us
testify. Heroes of the expedition against Louisbourg, in 1745, lie here;
more than a score of Plymouth patriots who served in the Revolution, and
many a brave soldier who won his laurels in the War of 1861. Under this
stone, with its quaint urn and willow-branch, rests the famous naval
hero of the Revolutionary war, Captain Simeon Sampson, whose cousin
Deborah spun, dyed, and wove the cloth for the suit in which she left
home to serve as a soldier. Their story, and that of many another hero
and heroine now lying here, have been well told by Mrs. Jane Goodwin
Austin.
Beneath his symbolic scallop-shell we read the name of Elder Faunce, who
knew the Pilgrims, and, living for ninety-nine years, formed an
important link between two centuries. The stone consecrated to the
memory of the Rev. Chandler Robbins, who for nearly twoscore years
toward the close of the last century gave his faithful services to the
first parish, reminds us that at one time the town fathers found it
advisable to request him “not to have more horses grazing on Burial Hill
than shall be really necessary!”
Here, in old times, could be had a grand view of the shipping, come from
the West Indies and all parts of the world; from here the news of many
fatal shipwrecks had been spread through the town, to rouse willing help
for suffering sailors; here, too, no doubt, men’s souls were often
tempted to incur the fine of twenty shillings, the cost of “telling a
lie about seeing a whale,” in those strict days when a plain lie, if
“pernicious,” was taxed at half that price!
Old Father Time with his scythe and hour-glass--symbols of his
power--rules here over seven generations; but lingering while the
setting sun illumines the harbor and the surrounding hills with the same
radiance that rejoiced the first comers, while Manomet glows with a
deeper purple, and the twin lights of the Gurnet shine out, we may still
feel in very deed that
“The Pilgrim spirit has not fled.”
Turning from the story of Plymouth, as written on the lichen-covered
headstones on Burial Hill, let us wend our way under the shady elms of
Court Street to Pilgrim Hall, built in 1824 by the Pilgrim Society,
instituted four years earlier. Here we may trace, in the many treasured
reminders of their daily lives, the annals of those brave souls in whom
” ...persuasion and belief
Had ripened into faith, and faith become
A passionate intuition.”
On broad canvases are portrayed the tearful embarkation from Delfthaven,
the landing on this cheerless, frozen shore. Here are hung charming
pencil sketches of Scrooby and Austerfield, and many interesting
portraits: Dr. Thatcher, the venerable secretary of the Pilgrim Society,
and author of a charming history of Plymouth; the Rev. James Kendall,
for nearly threescore years the beloved minister of the First Church;
Gov. Edward Winslow and his son Josiah; Gen. John Winslow, who by royal
command in 1755 helped to drive from their homes the French Acadians;
Deacon Ephraim Spooner, whose “lining out” of the old hymns formed an
impressive part of “Anniversary Day”; Daniel Webster, who lived in
Marshfield, and whose glowing oration of 1820, in honor of the two
hundredth anniversary[66] of the landing of the Pilgrims, was
epoch-making in Plymouth annals.
Among the many priceless books and documents here we find the lately
acquired _Speculum Europæ_ (1605) by Sir Edwin Sandys, the active friend
of our Separatists in England;
[Illustration: THE “MAYFLOWER” IN PLYMOUTH HARBOR.
Copyright by A. S. Burbank.
FROM THE PAINTING BY W. F. HALSALL, IN PILGRIM HALL.]
two autographs of John Robinson render this volume of special interest.
A facsimile of the Bradford manuscript also is here, and a _Confutation
of the Rhemists Translation_, printed by Brewster in Leyden, in 1618.
Among the old Bibles worn by hands seeking for guidance and comfort is
one belonging to John Alden, dated 1620. Here also are a copy of Robert
Cushman’s memorable sermon on “The Danger of Self-love,” delivered by
him in Plymouth in 1621; one of the seven precious original copies of
_Mourt’s Relation_ the journal written by Bradford and Winslow in
1620-21, and so promptly printed in London in 1622; one of the four
copies of Eliot’s Indian Bible (1685); the Patent of 1621, granted our
colonists by the New England Company, and the oldest state paper in the
United States.
[Illustration: THE OLD COLONY SEAL.]
A large copy of the seal of the colony, in handsomely carved oak,
reminds us that the original seal was stolen in the days of Andros. Its
appropriate motto, “Patrum pietate ortum, filiorum virtute servandum,”
may be found
[Illustration: The landing of the FATHERS Plymouth Dec 22 1620
COPIED FROM AN OLD PAINTING ON GLASS.
CARVER
BRADFORD
STANDISH
BREWSTER
used as a heading of the first _Plymouth Journal_, published by
Nathaniel Coverly in 1785, of which one file is preserved in the library
of rare old books. Here are the Original Records of the Old Colony Club,
founded in 1769, but dissolved four years later when party feeling ran
high between the Whigs and Tories. Its worthy members first instituted
the celebration of “Forefathers’ Day,” and here we may read the bill of
fare of their first dinner, “dressed in the plainest manner,” beginning
with “a large baked Indian whortleberry pudding,” “a dish of Succotash,”
“Clamms,” etc. The Indian dishes, succotash and nokake, and the five
parched corns which recall the time when their last pint of corn was
divided among them, still form part of the “twenty-second” dinner of
every faithful descendant!
Here the sword of the truculent Myles Standish lies at rest, and beside
it, in lighter vein, a bit of the quilt that belonged to his wife Rose,
and a sampler skilfully embroidered by his daughter Lora. Between the
ample armchairs in which Governor Carver and Elder Brewster must have
pondered over many a weighty problem of government for the people and by
the people, is the closely woven little Dutch cradle
[Illustration: THE FULLER CRADLE.]
in which Peregrine White, that most youthful of voyagers, was rocked to
sleep. The large hole worn in the foot of the cradle suggests pleasantly
that the rosy toes of the sturdy baby colonists made early for freedom!
Perhaps the tiny leathern ankle-ties, hardly four inches in length,
which belonged to Josiah Winslow--this was long before they thought of
making him governor--had a hand, or rather a foot, in that bombardment!
Near the shoes is a dainty salt-cellar of blue and white enamel,
delicately painted with pink and yellow roses, suggestive of fine linen
and pleasant hospitality. Here too are
“The wheels where they spun
In the pleasant light of the sun,”
those anxious, lonely housewives, waiting for their good men to return
from dangerous expeditions in the forest or on the sea. Thus varied was
the freight of the _Mayflower_.
[Illustration: AN OLD ENGLISH SPINNING-WHEEL.]
As we walk through the lively main street of the town, we must stop to
admire the fine gambrel roof of the old house where lived James Warren,
that active patriot, who became president of the Provincial Congress,
and whose wife, Mercy Otis Warren, wrote the “rousing word” which
kindled many a heart in Revolutionary days. The line of fine lindens
just beyond, as they rustle in the cool sea-breeze, could whisper many a
charming tale of lovely dames and stately men, of scarlet cloaks and
powdered wigs they have watched pass by under their shading branches, of
treasures of old china and old silver, of blue tiles and claw-footed
furniture, of Copley portraits now packed off to the great city, and of
many changes come about since they came here as young trees from Nova
Scotia, in a raisin-box.
[Illustration: Copyright by A. S. Burbank.
THE DOTEN HOUSE, 1660.
THE OLDEST HOUSE IN PLYMOUTH.]
Overlooking the blue water stands the old Winslow house, the solid frame
of which came from England in 1754. Under its spreading lindens, through
the fine colonial doorway so beautifully carved, many distinguished
guests have passed, and here Ralph Waldo Emerson was married to Lydia
Jackson, who was born in the picturesque house just beyond, almost
hidden in trees and vines.
A drive toward the south will take us by some of the oldest houses. From
the one with a dyke in front, Adoniram Judson, the famous Baptist
missionary, took his departure for Burmah. His devoted sister then vowed
that no one should cross the threshold until his return, and the
door-step was taken away. Grass grew over the pathway, and the front
door remained closed, for he died at sea, in 1850.
As we pass the handsome new building of the High School, it is good to
remember, in this Plymouth of eight thousand inhabitants, paying
thirty-four thousand dollars for last year’s “schooling,” that in 1672
it was decided that Plymouth’s school, supported by the rents of her
southerly common-lands, was entitled to £33, the fishing excise from the
Cape, offered to any town which would keep a _free_ colonial school,
classical as well as elementary. And in that free school began an early
struggle of the three R’s against Latin and Greek. From Plymouth went
Nathaniel Brewster, a graduate of Harvard’s first class of 1642, and the
first of a long line of Plymouth students to enter Harvard.
Past the blue Eel River, flowing gently through shining green meadows to
the sea, we may drive along quiet roads in Plymouth Woods, under sweet
pines and sturdy oaks, by the shore of many a calm pond, sparkling in
its setting of white beach sand. We cross old Indian trails, perhaps,
and skirt acre after acre of level cranberry-bogs, pink and white, like
a sheet of delicate sprig-muslin, when in bloom, and bright with the
crimson fruit in early autumn. In these woods in their season bloom
sweet mayflowers, the rare rhodora, the sabbatia, sundew and corema, and
there many another treasure may be found by those who know how to seek!