INCIDENTS.
“He cometh unto you with a tale which holdeth
Children from play and old men from the chimney-corner.”
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
The life of the Pilgrim Fathers in these first years of their
settlement was full of incident. They could not assent to Solomon’s
_dictum_, that “there is nothing new under the sun.” Here they found
a new heaven and a new earth; all things were strange. Their only
acquaintance in the western wilds was God; and they never wearied of
investigation. Their first move, after thanking God for preservation
and a safe voyage, was to explore. They loved to “guess” out enigmas.
They were always analyzing the soil, and speculating on the prospects
of storms, and dickering with the Indians. From the homeliest and
most commonplace circumstances, they did not disdain to gather wisdom
or “to point a moral and adorn a tale.” They had a teachable spirit,
and were ardent students in the school of nature.
The unbroken forest especially possessed an unfading charm in their
eyes. They were fascinated both by its freedom and its vastness; for
in England, whatever patches of wood existed were enclosed in the
parks of the exclusive nobles, and a bitter code of game-laws barred
all entrance. But while a source of pleasure, it was also often a
source of anxiety.
One pleasant afternoon Winthrop took his gun and strolled into the
woods for a short walk. He lost his way, and night overtook him.
Kindling a fire, he prepared to “camp out.” He spent the hours till
dawn in walking up and down and “singing psalms.” Next morning he
reached home safely, much to the delight of his neighbors, who had
passed the entire night in the forest, hallooing and shooting off
guns, in the hope that the lost governor might hear them.[731]
On another occasion one of the settlers lost a calf. Hearing the
wolves howl in the night, he got up and shot off his musket several
times in rapid succession, to frighten them away. The wind carried
the report to all the settlements; every one was aroused; drums
were beaten; messengers were despatched to spread the alarm; every
bush was taken for an Indian. “But next morning the calf was found
unharmed, the wolves and the colonists being well frightened. The
former had disappeared, and the latter went ‘merrily to breakfast,’
esteeming their alarm a good joke, and quaintly rallying one another
on the ‘great fear that had come upon them, making all their bones
to shake.’”[732] But their fright was not foolish; it was bred of
caution and a knowledge of their situation. They remembered with old
Ben Johnson, that
“A valiant man
Ought not to undergo or tempt a danger,
But worthily, and by selected ways;
He undertakes by reason, not by chance.”
At Plymouth the Pilgrims had been longer in America, and the first
flush of initial excitement had abated. The pulse-beat there was
calmer, for they were more learned in woodcraft than the later
comers. Yet even at Plymouth the jog-trot of events was occasionally
broken. There is a traditionary anecdote, illustrative of the danger
of one gentleman’s commissioning another to do his wooing for him,
which doubtless created an unwonted stir in the sedate old town at
the time. It seems that Miles Standish had buried his wife some time
after his arrival in New England; on which he thus communed with
himself:
“‘’Tis not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures.
This I have said before; and again and again I repeat it;
Every hour in the day I think it, and feel it, and say it.
Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary.
Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship.’”
So Standish resolved to wed again. He had already taken a fancy to
Miss Priscilla Mullins, one of the sweetest of the Puritan maidens;
and he said:
“‘Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of this maiden, Priscilla.
She is alone in the world. Her father, and mother, and brother,
Died in the winter together. I saw her going and coming,
Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying;
Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever
There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven,
Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla
Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned.’”
Therefore the captain resolved to woo her. But,
“Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part,”
he decided to do it by proxy; so he selected John Alden, his
secretary—
“Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom St. Gregory saw, and exclaimed, ‘Not Angles, but angels.’
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.”
“John,” said he,
“‘Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth;
Say that the blunt old captain, a man not of words, but of actions,
Offers his hand and heart—the hand and heart of a soldier.
You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language,
Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of
lovers;
Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden.’”
Now it happened that poor John Alden was himself enamoured of the
lovely Puritan maiden, and he listened to this request aghast. But
Standish, unaware of this fact, urged the unwelcome mission on his
blushing scribe, and demanded his acceptance of it in the name of
friendship. Alden determined to perform the mission, and to do
it faithfully; so he hied him through the forest to Priscilla’s
dwelling. Entering without ado, he at once broached the subject,
and flung forth a glowing record of his master’s virtues. Priscilla
heard him awhile in ominous silence, and then interrupted him by
this query:
“‘If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me,
Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me?
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning.’”
Alden tried to explain and smooth the matter;
“But as he warmed and glowed in his simple and eloquent language,
Quite forgetful of self, and full of 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?’”
The bewildered but happy secretary at once took the hint. Returning
to Standish, he reported his failure. Then he _did_ “speak for
himself,” and to such purpose that he was soon married. There were no
horses in the wilderness; so after the nuptials,
“Alden, the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla,
Brought out a snow-white bull, obeying the hand of his master,
Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils,
Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle.
She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the
noonday;
Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant.
Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others,
Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband,
Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey.
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.”[733]
But sometimes events of ruder and less joyous significance came to
stir a ripple on the placid sea of frontier life. Even among these
Pilgrims there were laws to be enforced and bad men to be curbed.
Thomas Morton was one. This irrepressible torment was once more
engaged at “Merry-Mount” in selling guns and “fire-water” to the
Indians; nor did he hesitate to “shoot hail-shot into them,” because
they refused to bring him a canoe in which to cross the river. He
was apprehended on their complaint, and because he “discredited the
whites.” His den was burned in the presence of the natives whom he
had maltreated; and he himself, after being for a while “set in the
bilboes,” was sent once more a prisoner to England.[734]
This occurred at Boston. At Plymouth a still more emphatic and
sombre scene was enacted. John Billington, always a pest, of whom
Bradford had said, “He is a knave, and so will live and die,”[735]
was convicted of wilful murder. Conference was held with the most
judicious men of Massachusetts Bay as to the disposition to be made
of him. Winthrop and the rest favored his execution, basing the right
to inflict that penalty, not so much on the English common law as on
the code of Moses: “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his
blood be shed.”[736] Under this decision Billington was hung; and
this was the first capital punishment ever inflicted in New England.
These magisterial rigors did not suffice to quell the evil-doers; for
shortly afterwards Philip Radcliff ventured to revile the “powers
that be;” nor did he scruple to asperse the colonial churches. For
this misdemeanor he was condemned to lose his ears. This did not
subdue him; so he was whipped and banished. All which processes did
not serve to increase his affection for the Pilgrims. Landing in
England, he did them what mischief he could.[737]
Then came another rogue. This was Sir Christopher Gardiner, “one of
those mysterious visitors whose appearance in remote settlements so
easily stimulates the imaginations of men of more staid habits and
better mutual acquaintance.”[738] It was not known who he was, nor
whence he came, nor why. It has been conjectured that he was a spy of
Sir Ferdinand Gorges and other foes of Puritanism in England.[739]
Bradford says, “He came into these parts on pretence of forsaking the
world, and to live a private life in a godly course. He had been a
great traveller, was a Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, and a relative
of that Gardiner who was so bitter a persecutor under “Bloody Mary.”
Now he avowed himself penitent for his past ill life, offered to
join the churches here, and said he was willing to apply himself to
any employment.”[740]
Soon, however, he fell under suspicion at Massachusetts Bay. He
was suspected of living in concubinage with “a comely young woman
whom he had brought over with him,” and whom he called his cousin,
“after the Italian manner.” Being cited to answer these charges,
he decamped. Soon Winthrop received letters which showed that this
“knight” had “two wives living in London.”[741] An order was issued
for his apprehension. Eventually he took refuge at Plymouth. Here he
chanced to drop his diary; and in this was found a “memorial showing
what day he was reconciled to the pope and the church of Rome, and in
what university he took his scapula and such and such degrees.”[742]
So Bradford sent the unmasked Jesuit, with the unfortunate diary,
to Winthrop;[743] who, in his turn, presently sent him back “to the
two wives in Old England, that they might search him further.”[744]
On reaching the island, he was not restrained of his liberty, but
roaming at large, soon found out the enemies of the colonies; and he,
with Radcliff, actively engaged in intrigues to its prejudice.[745]
“So difficult was it,” observes Elliot, “to get away from the
wickedness of Satan, who, even in this virgin land, and among these
godly Puritans, would thrust himself in where his company was in
no way wanted. But now one more rascal was exported and sent home,
where, with his two wives and his ‘Italian manner,’ and his popery,
he would not poison Massachusetts.”[746]
Yet, spite of these isolated instances of riot, insubordination,
and disturbance, the Puritan settlements were in the main models
of industry, sobriety, and good order. “I have read,” says Cotton
Mather, “a printed sermon which was preached before ‘both Houses
of Parliament, the lord-mayor and aldermen of London, and the
Westminster assembly of divines,’ the greatest audience then in the
world; and in that sermon the preacher had this passage: ‘I have
lived in a country where, in seven years, I never saw a beggar, nor
heard an oath, nor looked upon a drunkard.’ That Utopia was New
England.”[747] Mather adds sadly: “But they who go hence now must
tell another story.”[748]
What was the secret of such prosperity? When Demosthenes was asked
what it was that so long preserved Athens in a flourishing state, he
replied, “The orators are men of learning and wisdom; the magistrates
do justice; the citizens are quiet, and the laws are kept among them
all.”[749] ’Twas a glorious record for the immortal city, and the
same secret gave the settlements of the Pilgrim fathers substantial
peace and happy order.
Winthrop relates that once “at Watertown there was, in the view of
divers witnesses, a great combat betwixt a mouse and a snake; and,
after a long fight, the mouse prevailed and killed the snake. The
pastor of Boston, Mr. Wilson, a very sincere, holy man, hearing of
it, gave this interpretation: the mouse was a poor contemptible
people, brought by God hither, who should overcome Satan here, and
dispossess him of his kingdom. Upon the same occasion he added:
‘I dreamed before coming to this country, that I was here and saw
a church rise out of the earth, which gradually expanded into a
colossal shape’—as pray God ours may.”[750]
Winthrop’s prayer seemed even then in the way to exact fulfilment.
Many earnest, devoted Pilgrims, continued to pour into New England.
In 1631, Eliot, the famous apostle to the Indians, landed at
Salem.[751] Full of love and full of hope, he soon entered upon those
labors which have immortalized his name on earth, and enrolled it on
the heavenly records as a teacher and benefactor of his race.[752] A
little earlier, Roger Williams was wafted to these shores, where, in
his May of youth, he found a glorious destiny awaited him.[753]
The Pilgrims made the best of every thing—saw only the good of the
land. Even the climate of New England did not lack encomiasts. Wood
had been “carefully hatched,” yet in England disease sapped his
life. While in America, he wrote: “Scarce do I know what belongs to a
day’s sickness.”[754]
An English churchman, who had not Wood’s motive for liking New
England, saw with different eyes: “The transitions from heat to cold
are short, sudden, and paralyzing. We are sometimes frying, and at
others freezing; and as some men die at their labor in the field of
heat, so some in winter are frozen to death by the cold.”[755] No
doubt.
“Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand
By thinking of the frosty Caucasus?”
The Puritans saw New England as the refuge of the godly, and looking
at it through the mirage of sentiment, its sky rivalled that of Italy
in soft beauty. To the churchman it seemed a rugged wilderness in
very deed. It was a difference of standpoint.
But mild or severe, the Pilgrims loved this adopted mother on whose
breast they lay, and their settlements began to increase in number.
A brood of eight little towns, or _townlets_, now nestled under the
wings of the Massachusetts charter;[756] while Plymouth already began
to think of equipping a new colony,[757] and annexing the Connecticut.
The western wilds were no longer tenantless, or what is equivalent
to that, held only by prowling barbarians. The French, who had been
hovering over the coast ever since their rout from L’Acadie, in 1613,
by Sir Samuel Argall, had recently acquired Canada by purchase.[758]
The wise statesmanship of Richelieu had bought from Charles I.—busy
in a fatal attempt to enforce ceremonialism,
“Rending the book in struggles for the binding,”—
one of the finest provinces in the known world for fishing, masts,
harbors.[759] Already the Latin provinces had begun to string a chain
of citadels westward along the banks of the St. Lawrence and the
borders of the lakes to the valley of the Mississippi,
——“toppling round the dreary west
A looming bastion fringed with fire.”
The Spaniard was in Florida.[760] The Dutchman smoked his pipe on the
banks of the Hudson.[761] English adventurers held Virginia.[762]
The Pilgrims had clutched New England. Labor was vocal on every
hill-side; the whole continent began to echo to the civilizing stroke
of the woodman’s axe.