No More Learning

He,
like Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was a native of the
valley, but had left it in his early days, and taken up the trades of
law and politics. Instead of the rich man's wealth and the warrior's
sword he had but a tongue, and it was mightier than both together. So
wonderfully eloquent was he that, whatever he might choose to say, his
hearers had no choice but to believe him; wrong looked like right, and
right like wrong. His voice, indeed, was a magic instrument: sometimes
it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes it warbled like the sweetest
music. In good truth, he was a wondrous man; and when his tongue had
acquired him all other imaginable success,--when it had been heard in
halls of state and in the courts of princes,--after it had made him
known all over the world, even as a voice crying from shore to
shore,--it finally persuaded his countrymen to select him for the
presidency. Before this time,--indeed, as soon as he began to grow
celebrated,--his admirers had found out the resemblance between him and
the Great Stone Face; and so much were they struck by it that throughout
the country this distinguished gentleman was known by the name of Old
Stony Phiz.

While his friends were doing their best to make him President, Old Stony
Phiz, as he was called, set out on a visit to the valley where he was
born. Of course he had no other object than to shake hands with his
fellow-citizens, and neither thought nor cared about any effect which
his progress through the country might have upon the election.
Magnificent preparations were made to receive the [v]illustrious
statesmen; a cavalcade of horsemen set forth to meet him at the boundary
line of the State, and all the people left their business and gathered
along the wayside to see him pass. Among these was Ernest. Though more
than once disappointed, as we have seen, he had such a hopeful and
confiding nature that he was always ready to believe in whatever seemed
beautiful and good. He kept his heart continually open, and thus was
sure to catch the blessing from on high, when it should come. So now
again, as buoyantly as ever, he went forth to behold the likeness of the
Great Stone Face.

The cavalcade came prancing along the road, with a great clattering of
hoofs and a mighty cloud of dust, which rose up so dense and high that
the visage of the mountain side was completely hidden from Ernest's
eyes. All the great men of the neighborhood were there on horseback:
militia officers, in uniform; the member of congress; the sheriff of the
county; the editors of newspapers; and many a farmer, too, had mounted
his patient steed, with his Sunday coat upon his back. It really was a
very brilliant spectacle, especially as there were numerous banners
flaunting over the cavalcade, on some of which were gorgeous portraits
of the illustrious statesman and the Great Stone Face, smiling
familiarly at one another, like two brothers. If the pictures were to be
trusted, the resemblance, it must be confessed, was marvelous. We must
not forget to mention that there was a band of music, which made the
echoes of the mountains ring with the loud triumph of its strains, so
that airy and soul-thrilling melodies broke out among all the heights
and hollows, as if every nook of his native valley had found a voice to
welcome the distinguished guest. But the grandest effect was when the
far-off mountain precipice flung back the music; for then the Great
Stone Face itself seemed to be swelling the triumphant chorus, in
acknowledgment that, at length, the man of prophecy was come.

All this while the people were throwing up their hats and shouting with
such enthusiasm that the heart of Ernest kindled up, and he likewise
threw up his hat and shouted as loudly as the loudest, "Huzza for the
great man! Huzza for Old Stony Phiz! " But as yet he had not seen him.

"Here he is now! " cried those who stood near Ernest. "There! There! Look
at Old Stony Phiz and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and see if
they are not as like as two twin brothers! "

In the midst of all this gallant array came an open [v]barouche, drawn
by four white horses; and in the barouche, with his massive head
uncovered, sat the illustrious statesman, Old Stony Phiz himself.

"Confess it," said one of Ernest's neighbors to him, "the Great Stone
Face has met its match at last! "

Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of the countenance
which was bowing and smiling from the barouche, Ernest did fancy that
there was a resemblance between it and the old familiar face upon the
mountain side. The brow, with its massive depth and loftiness, and all
the other features, indeed, were bold and strong. But the grand
expression of a divine sympathy that illuminated the mountain visage
might here be sought in vain.

Still Ernest's neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side, and
pressing him for an answer.

"Confess! Confess! Is not he the very picture of your Old Man of the
Mountain? "

"No! " said Ernest, bluntly; "I see little or no likeness. "

"Then so much the worse for the Great Stone Face! " answered his
neighbor. And again he set up a shout for Old Stony Phiz.

But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost despondent; for this was
the saddest of his disappointments, to behold a man who might have
fulfilled the prophecy, and had not willed to do so. Meantime, the
cavalcade, the banners, the music, and the barouches swept past him,
with the shouting crowd in the rear, leaving the dust to settle down,
and the Great Stone Face to be revealed again, with the grandeur that it
had worn for untold centuries.

"Lo, here I am, Ernest! " the benign lips seemed to say. "I have waited
longer than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not; the man will come. "


V

The years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another's
heels. And now they began to bring white hairs and scatter them over the
head of Ernest; they made wrinkles across his forehead and furrows in
his cheeks. He was an aged man. But not in vain had he grown old; more
than the white hairs on his head were the wise thoughts in his mind. And
Ernest had ceased to be obscure. Unsought for, undesired, had come the
fame which so many seek, and made him known in the great world, beyond
the limits of the valley in which he had dwelt so quietly. College
professors, and even the active men of cities, came from far to see and
converse with Ernest; for the report had gone abroad that this simple
farmer had ideas unlike those of other men, and a tranquil majesty as if
he had been talking with the angels as his daily friends. Ernest
received these visitors with the gentle sincerity that had marked him
from boyhood, and spoke freely with them of whatever came uppermost, or
lay deepest in his heart or their own. While they talked together his
face would kindle and shine upon them, as with a mild evening light.
When his guests took leave and went their way, and passing up the
valley, paused to look at the Great Stone Face, they imagined that they
had seen its likeness in a human countenance, but could not remember
where.

While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful Providence
had granted a new poet to this earth. He, likewise, was a native of the
valley, but had spent the greater part of his life at a distance from
that romantic region, pouring out his sweet music amid the bustle and
din of cities. Often, however, did the mountains which had been familiar
to him in his childhood lift their snowy peaks into the clear atmosphere
of his poetry. Neither was the Great Stone Face forgotten, for he had
celebrated it in a poem which was grand enough to have been uttered by
its lips.

The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. He read them after his
customary toil, seated on the bench before his cottage door, where for
such a length of time he had filled his repose with thought, by gazing
at the Great Stone Face. And now, as he read stanzas that caused the
soul to thrill within him, he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance
beaming on him so benignantly.

"O majestic friend," he said, addressing the Great Stone Face, "is not
this man worthy to resemble thee? "

The Face seemed to smile, but answered not a word.

Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had not only
heard of Ernest, but had meditated much upon his character, until he
deemed nothing so desirable as to meet this man whose untaught wisdom
walked hand in hand with the noble simplicity of his life. One summer
morning, therefore, he took passage by the railroad, and, in the decline
of the afternoon, alighted from the cars at no great distance from
Ernest's cottage. The great hotel, which had formerly been the palace of
Mr. Gathergold, was close at hand, but the poet, with his carpetbag on
his arm, inquired at once where Ernest dwelt, and was resolved to be
accepted as his guest.

Approaching the door, he there found the good old man, holding a volume
in his hand, which he read, and then, with a finger between the leaves,
looked lovingly at the Great Stone Face.

"Good evening," said the poet. "Can you give a traveler a night's
lodging? "

"Willingly," answered Ernest. And then he added, smiling, "Methinks I
never saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a stranger. "

The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest talked
together. Often had the poet conversed with the wittiest and the wisest,
but never before with a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and feelings
gushed up with such a natural freedom, and who made great truths so
familiar by his simple utterance of them. Angels, as had been so often
said, seemed to have wrought with him at his labor in the fields; angels
seemed to have sat with him by the fireside. So thought the poet. And
Ernest, on the other hand, was moved by the living images which the poet
flung out of his mind, and which peopled all the air about the cottage
door with shapes of beauty.

As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the Great Stone Face
was bending forward to listen, too. He gazed earnestly into the poet's
glowing eyes.

"Who are you, my strangely gifted guest! " he said.

The poet laid his finger on the volume that Ernest had been reading.

"You have read these poems," said he. "You know me, then,--for I wrote
them. "

Again, and still more earnestly than before, Ernest examined the poet's
features; then turned toward the Great Stone Face; then back to his
guest. But his countenance fell; he shook his head, and mournfully
sighed.

"Wherefore are you sad? " inquired the poet.

"Because," replied Ernest, "all through life I have awaited the
fulfillment of a prophecy; and when I read these poems, I hoped that it
might be fulfilled in you. "

"You hoped," answered the poet, faintly smiling, "to find in me the
likeness of the Great Stone Face. And you are disappointed, as formerly
with Mr. Gathergold, and Old Blood-and-Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz. Yes,
Ernest, it is my doom. You must add my name to the illustrious three,
and record another failure of your hopes. For--in shame and sadness do I
speak it, Ernest--I am not worthy. "

"And why? " asked Ernest. He pointed to the volume. "Are not those
thoughts divine? "

"You can hear in them the far-off echo of a heavenly song," replied the
poet. "But my life, dear Ernest, has not corresponded with my thought. I
have had grand dreams, but they have been only dreams, because I have
lived--and that, too, by my own choice--among poor and mean realities.
Sometimes even--shall I dare to say it? --I lack faith in the grandeur,
the beauty, and the goodness which my own works are said to have made
more evident in nature and in human life. Why, then, pure seeker of the
good and true, shouldst thou hope to find me in yonder image of the
divine? "

The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with tears. So, likewise,
were those of Ernest.

At the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent custom, Ernest was
to speak to an assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants in the open
air. He and the poet, arm in arm, still talking together as they went
along, proceeded to the spot. It was a small nook among the hills, with
a gray precipice behind, the stern front of which was relieved by the
pleasant foliage of many creeping plants, that made a [v]tapestry for
the naked rock by hanging their festoons from all its rugged angles. At
a small elevation above the ground, set in a rich framework of verdure,
there appeared a [v]niche, spacious enough to admit a human figure. Into
this natural pulpit Ernest ascended and threw a look of familiar
kindness around upon his audience. They stood, or sat, or reclined upon
the grass, as seemed good to each, with the departing sunshine falling
over them. In another direction was seen the Great Stone Face, with the
same cheer, combined with the same solemnity, in its benignant aspect.

Ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what was in his heart and
mind. His words had power, because they accorded with his thoughts; and
his thoughts had reality and depth, because they harmonized with the
life which he had always lived. The poet, as he listened, felt that the
being and character of Ernest were a nobler strain of poetry than he
had ever written. His eyes glistening with tears, he gazed
reverentially at the venerable man, and said within himself that never
was there an aspect so worthy of a prophet and a sage as that mild,
sweet, thoughtful countenance with the glory of white hair diffused
about it. At a distance, but distinctly to be seen, high up in the
golden light of the setting sun, appeared the Great Stone Face, with
hoary mists around it, like the white hairs around the brow of Ernest.

At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was about to utter,
the face of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expression, so full of
benevolence, that the poet, by an irresistible impulse, threw his arms
aloft, and shouted:

"Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of the Great Stone
Face! "

Then all the people looked and saw that what the deep-sighted poet said
was true. The prophecy was fulfilled. The man had appeared at last.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.


=HELPS TO STUDY=

The Great Stone Face is a rock formation in the Franconia Notch of the
White Mountains of New Hampshire, known as "The Old Man of the
Mountain. "

I. What picture do you get from Part I? Tell in your own words what
the mother told Ernest about the Great Stone Face. Who had carved
the face? How? Find something that is one hundred feet high, and
picture to yourself the immensity of the whole face, judging by the
forehead alone. Describe Ernest's childhood and his education.

II. What reason had the people for thinking that the great man had
come in the person of Mr. Gathergold? Explain the reference to
Midas. What was there in Mr. Gathergold's appearance and action to
disappoint Ernest? What comforted him? Why were the people willing
to believe that Mr. Gathergold was the image of the Great Stone
Face? What caused them to decide that he was not? What was there to
indicate that Ernest would become a great and good man?

III. What new character is now introduced? Wherein was Old
Blood-and-Thunder lacking in resemblance to the Great Stone Face?
Compare him with Mr. Gathergold and decide which was the greater
character? How was Ernest comforted in his second disappointment?

IV. What kind of man had Ernest become? What figure comes into the
story now? Find a sentence that gives a clew to the character of
Stony Phiz. Compare him with the characters previously introduced.
Why was Ernest more disappointed than before? Where did he again
look for comfort?

V. What changes did the hurrying years bring Ernest? What sentence
indicates who the man of prophecy might be? Who is now introduced
in the story? Give the opinion that Ernest and the poet had of each
other. Find the sentence which explains why the poet failed. Who
was the first to recognize in Ernest the likeness to the Great
Stone Face? Why did Hawthorne have a poet to make the discovery? In
what way was Ernest great? How had he become so? What trait of
Ernest's character is shown in the last sentence?

The story is divided into five parts. Make an outline telling what
is the topic of each part.


SUPPLEMENTARY READING

The Sketch Book--Washington Irving.
Old Curiosity Shop--Charles Dickens.
Pendennis--William Makepeace Thackeray.
The Snow-Image--Nathaniel Hawthorne.
The Legend Beautiful--Henry W. Longfellow.
William Wilson--Edgar Allan Poe.

[Illustration: Priscilla and John Alden]




THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH


I

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims,
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in [v]doublet and hose, and boots of [v]Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold the glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,--
Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty [v]sword of Damascus.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window;
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion.
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the May Flower.
(Standish takes up a book and reads a moment. )
Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of
Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the warlike weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this
breastplate,
Well, I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mold, in the grave in the Flemish morasses. "
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you to be our shield and our weapon! "
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent [v]adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers! "
All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading.
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling
Writing epistles important to go next day by the May Flower,
Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing,
Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter,
Letters written by Alden and full of the name of Priscilla,
Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla.
Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla,
Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret
Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla!
Finally closing his book, with a bang of its [v]ponderous cover,
Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket,
Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth:
"When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell
you.
Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient! "
Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters,
Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention:
"Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen,
Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish. "
Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases:
"'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.
Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla,
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.
Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it,
Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part.
Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth;
Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of actions,
Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier.
Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning;
I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. "

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, [v]taciturn stripling,
All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered,
Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness,
Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom,
Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered:
"Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it;
If you would have it well done--I am only repeating your maxim--
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others! "
But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose,
Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth:
"Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it;
But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing.
Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases.
I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender,
But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not.
I'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon,
But of a thundering No! point-blank from the mouth of a woman,
That I confess I am afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it!
Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship! "

Then made answer John Alden: "The name of friendship is sacred;
What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you! "
So the strong will prevailed, subduing and molding the gentler,
Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.


II

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand,
Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest,
Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were building
Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of [v]verdure,
Peaceful, [v]aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom.
All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict,
Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse.

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;
Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow;
Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla
Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem,
Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many.
Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden
Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift
Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle,
While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion.

So he entered the house; and the hum of the wheel and the singing
Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold,
Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome,
Saying, "I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage;
For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning. "
Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingled
Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden,
Silent before her he stood.
"I have been thinking all day," said gently the Puritan maiden,
"Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedgerows of
England,--
They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden;
Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet,
Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbors
Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together.
Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion;
Still my heart is so sad that I wish myself back in Old England.
You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it; I almost
Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched. "

Thereupon answered the youth: "Indeed I do not condemn you;
Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in this terrible winter.
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on;
So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage
Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth! "
Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters,--
Did not [v]embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases,
But came straight to the point and blurted it out like a schoolboy;
Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly.
Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden
Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with wonder,
Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned and rendered her
speechless;
Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence:
"If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me,
Why does he not come himself and take trouble to woo me?
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning! "
Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter,
Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy,--
Had no time for such things;--such things! the words grating harshly,
Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and swift as a flash she made answer:
"Has he not time for such things, as you call it, before he is married,
Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding? "
Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla,
Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding.
But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language,
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival,
Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes overrunning with laughter,
Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John? "

With conflicting feelings of love for Priscilla and duty to his friend,
Miles Standish, John Alden does not "speak for himself," but returns to
Plymouth to tell Standish the result of the interview.

Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure,
From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened;
How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship,
Only smoothing a little and softening down her refusal.
But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken,
Words so tender and cruel: "Why don't you speak for yourself, John? "
Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his
armor
Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen.
All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion,
E'en as a hand grenade, that scatters destruction around it.
Wildly he shouted and loud: "John Alden! you have betrayed me!
Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed
me!
You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother;
Henceforth let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable
hatred! "

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber,
Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his
temples.
But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway,
Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance,
Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians!
Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or
parley,
Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron,
Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed.
Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard
Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance.
Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness,
Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult,
Lifted his eyes to the heavens and, folding his hands as in childhood,
Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret.


III.

A report comes to the settlement that Miles Standish has been killed in
a fight with the Indians. John Alden, feeling that Standish's death has
freed him from the need of keeping his own love for Priscilla silent,
woos and wins her. At last the wedding-day arrives.

This was the wedding-morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden.
Friends were assembled together; the Elder and Magistrate also
Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and the
Gospel,
One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing of heaven.
Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz.
Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal,
Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate's presence,
After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland.
Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of Plymouth
Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in
affection,
Speaking of life and death, and imploring Divine benedictions.
Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold,
Clad in armor of steel, a somber and sorrowful figure!
Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition?
Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder?
Is it a phantom of air,--a bodiless, spectral illusion?
Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal?
Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed;
Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression
Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them.
Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent,
As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention;
But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last benediction,
Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement
Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth!

Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with emotion, "Forgive me!
I have been angry and hurt,--too long have I cherished the feeling;
I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! it is ended.
Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish,
Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error.
Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden. "
Thereupon answered the bridegroom: "Let all be forgotten between us,--
All save the dear old friendship, and that shall grow older and
dearer! "
Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla,
Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband.
Then he said with a smile: "I should have remembered the adage,--
If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and, moreover,
No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas! "

Great was the people's amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing,
Thus to behold once more the sunburnt face of their Captain,
Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gathered and crowded about him,
Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom,
Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other,
Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and bewildered,
He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment,
Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited.
Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at the
doorway,
Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning.
Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine,
Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation;
But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden,
Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the
ocean.
Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure,
Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delaying.
Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder,
Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla,
Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand of its master,
Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils,
Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle.
She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noonday;
Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant.
Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others,
Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband,
Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey.
Onward the bridal procession now moved to the new habitation,
Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together.
Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors,
Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended,
Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the
fir-tree,
Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of [v]Eshcol.
Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages,
Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac,
Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,
Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers,
So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.


=HELPS TO STUDY=

Miles Standish was one of the early settlers of Plymouth colony. He came
over soon after the landing of the _Mayflower_ and was made captain of
the colony because of his military experience. The feeble settlement was
in danger from the Indians, and Standish's services were of great
importance. He was one of the leaders of Plymouth for a number of years.
Longfellow shaped the legend of his courtship into one of the most
beautiful poems of American literature, vividly describing the hardships
and perils of the early life of New England.

I. Where is the scene of the story laid? At what time did it begin?
What is the first impression you get of Miles Standish? of John
Alden? Read the lines that bring out the soldierly qualities of the
one and the studious nature of the other. What lines show that
Standish had fought on foreign soil? Read the lines that show John
Alden's interest in Priscilla. What request did Standish make of
Alden? How was it received? Why did Alden accept the task?

II. What time of the year was it? How do you know? Contrast Alden's
feelings with the scene around him. What were Priscilla's feelings
toward Alden? Quote lines that show this. How did he fulfill his
task? With what question did Priscilla finally meet his eloquent
appeal in behalf of his friend? How did Standish receive Alden's
report? What interruption occurred?

III. What report brought about the marriage of John Alden and
Priscilla? Read the lines that describe the beauty of their
wedding-day. What time of year was it? How do you know? What custom
was followed in the marriage ceremony? Look in the Bible for a
description of the marriage of Ruth and Boaz. Find other biblical
references in the poem. Who appeared at the end of the ceremony?
How was he received? Contrast his mood now with the mood when he
left to fight the Indians. What adage did he use to show the
difference between his age and Priscilla's? Describe the final
scene of the wedding--the procession to the new home. Tell what you
know of early life in Massachusetts.


SUPPLEMENTARY READING

Gareth and Lynette--Alfred Tennyson.
The Courtin'--James Russell Lowell.
Evangeline--Henry W. Longfellow.




THE FRIENDSHIP OF NANTAQUAS


This story is taken from Mary Johnston's novel, _To Have and to
Hold_, which describes the early settlement of Virginia. The most
important event of this period was the Indian massacre of 1622. For
some years the whites and Indians had lived in peace, and it was
believed that there would be no further trouble from the savages.
However, Opechancanough, the head chief of the Powhatan
confederacy, formed a plot against the white men and suddenly
attacked them with great fury. Hundreds of the English settlers
were slain. The author of the novel, taking the bare outline of the
massacre as given in the early histories, has woven around it the
graphic story of Captain Ralph Percy and his saving of the colony.
Percy, unlike Miles Standish, is not a historical character.


I.

A man who hath been a soldier and adventurer into far and strange
countries must needs have faced Death many times and in many guises. I
had learned to know that grim countenance, and to have no great fear of
it. The surprise of our sudden capture by the Indians had now worn away,
and I no longer struggled to loose my bonds, Indian-tied and not to be
loosened.

Another slow hour and I bethought me of Diccon, my servant and companion
in captivity, and spoke to him, asking him how he did. He answered from
the other side of the lodge that was our prison, but the words were
scarcely out of his mouth before our guard broke in upon us, commanding
silence.

It was now moonlight without the lodge and very quiet. The night was far
gone; already we could smell the morning, and it would come apace.
Knowing the swiftness of that approach and what the early light would
bring, I strove for a courage which should be the steadfastness of the
Christian and not the vainglorious pride of the heathen.

Suddenly, in the first gray dawn, as at a trumpet's call, the village
awoke. From the long communal houses poured forth men, women, and
children; fires sprang up, dispersing the mist, and a commotion arose
through the length and breadth of the place. The women made haste with
their cooking and bore maize cakes and broiled fish to the warriors, who
sat on the ground in front of the royal lodge. Diccon and I were loosed,
brought without, and allotted our share of the food. We ate sitting side
by side with our captors, and Diccon, with a great cut across his head,
even made merry.

In the usual order of things in an Indian village, the meal over,
tobacco should have followed. But now not a pipe was lit, and the women
made haste to take away the platters and to get all things in readiness
for what was to follow. The [v]werowance of the [v]Paspaheghs rose to
his feet, cast aside his mantle, and began to speak. He was a man in the
prime of life, of a great figure, strong as a [v]Susquehannock, and a
savage cruel and crafty beyond measure. Over his breast, stained with
strange figures, hung a chain of small bones, and the scalp locks of his
enemies fringed his moccasins. No player could be more skillful in
gesture and expression, no poet more nice in the choice of words, no
general more quick to raise a wild enthusiasm in the soldiers to whom he
called. All Indians are eloquent, but this savage was a leader among
them.

He spoke now to some effect. Commencing with a day in the moon of
blossoms when for the first time winged canoes brought white men into
the [v]Powhatan, he came down through year after year to the present
hour, ceased, and stood in silence, regarding his triumph. It was
complete. In its wild excitement the village was ready then and there to
make an end of us, who had sprung to our feet and stood with our backs
against a great bay tree, facing the maddened throng. Much the best
would it be for us if the tomahawks left the hands that were drawn back
to throw, if the knives that were flourished in our faces should be
buried to the haft in our hearts; and so we courted death, striving with
word and look to infuriate our executioners to the point of forgetting
their former purpose in the passion for instant vengeance. It was not to
be. The werowance spoke again, pointing to the hills which were dimly
seen through the mist. A moment, and the hands clenched upon the weapons
fell; another, and we were upon the march.

As one man, the village swept through the forest toward the rising
ground that was but a few bowshots away. The young men bounded ahead to
make the preparation; but the approved warriors and the old men went
more sedately, and with them walked Diccon and I, as steady of step as
they. The women and children for the most part brought up the rear,
though a few impatient hags ran past us. One of these women bore a great
burning torch, the flame and smoke streaming over her shoulder as she
ran. Others carried pieces of bark heaped with the [v]slivers of pine of
which every wigwam has store.

The sun was yet to rise when we reached a hollow amongst the low red
hills. The place was a natural amphitheater, well fitted for a
spectacle. Those Indians who could not crowd into the narrow level
spread themselves over the rising ground and looked down with fierce
laughter upon the driving of the stakes which the young men had brought.
The women and children scattered into the woods beyond the cleft between
the hills and returned bearing great armfuls of dry branches. Taunting
laughter, cries of savage triumph, the shaking of rattles, and the
furious beating of two great drums combined to make a clamor deafening
me to stupor. Above the horizon was the angry reddening of the heavens
and the white mist curling up like smoke.

I sat down beside Diccon on the log. I did not speak to him, nor he to
me; there seemed no need of speech. In the [v]pandemonium to which the
world had narrowed, the one familiar, matter-of-course thing was that he
and I were to die together.

The stakes were in the ground and painted red, the wood was properly
fixed. The Indian woman who held the torch that was to light the pile
ran past us, whirling the wood around her head to make it blaze more
fiercely. As she went by she lowered the brand and slowly dragged it
across my wrists. The beating of the drums suddenly ceased, and the loud
voices died away.

Seeing that they were coming for us, Diccon and I rose to await them.
When they were nearly upon us, I turned to him and held out my hand.

He made no motion to take it. Instead, he stood with fixed eyes looking
past me and slightly upward. A sudden pallor had overspread the bronze
of his face.

"There's a verse somewhere," he said in a quiet voice,--"it's in the
Bible, I think--I heard it once long ago: 'I will look unto the hills
from whence cometh my help. ' Look, sir! "

I turned and followed with my eyes the pointing of his finger. In front
of us the bank rose steeply, bare to the summit,--no trees, only the red
earth, with here and there a low growth of leafless bushes. Behind it
was the eastern sky. Upon the crest, against the sunrise, stood the
figure of a man--an Indian. From one shoulder hung an otterskin, and a
great bow was in his hand. His limbs were bare, and as he stood
motionless, bathed in the rosy light, he looked like some bronze god,
perfect from the beaded moccasins to the calm, uneager face below the
feathered head-dress.