No More Learning

Moon of Snow-shoes, November.
Mudjekee'wis, the West-Wind; father of Hiawatha.
Mudway-aush'ka, sound of waves on a shore.
Mushkoda'sa, the grouse.
Nah'ma, the sturgeon.
Nah'ma-wusk, spearmint.
Na'gow Wudj'oo, the Sand Dunes of Lake Superior.
Nee-ba-naw'-baigs, water-spirits.
Nenemoo'sha, sweetheart.
Nepah'win, sleep.
Noko'mis, a grandmother, mother of Wenonah.
No'sa, my father.
Nush'ka, look! look!
Odah'min, the strawberry.
Okahah'wis, the fresh-water herring.
Ome'me, the pigeon.
Ona'gon, a bowl.
Onaway', awake.
Ope'chee, the robin.
Osse'o, Son of the Evening Star.
Owais'sa, the bluebird.
Oweenee', wife of Osseo.
Ozawa'beek, a round piece of brass or copper in the Game of the
Bowl.
Pah-puk-kee'na, the grasshopper.
Pau'guk, death.
Pau-Puk-Kee'wis, the handsome Yenadizze, the son of Storm Fool.
Pauwa'ting, Saut Sainte Marie.
Pe'boan, Winter.
Pem'ican, meat of the deer or buffalo dried and pounded.
Pezhekee', the bison.
Pishnekuh', the brant.
Pone'mah, hereafter.
Pugasaing', Game of the Bowl.
Puggawau'gun, a war-club.
Puk-Wudj'ies, little wild men of the woods; pygmies.
Sah-sah-je'wun, rapids.
Sah'wa, the perch.
Segwun', Spring.
Sha'da, the pelican.
Shahbo'min, the gooseberry.
Shah-shah, long ago.
Shaugoda'ya, a coward.
Shawgashee', the craw-fish.
Shawonda'see, the South-Wind.
Shaw-shaw, the swallow.
Shesh'ebwug, ducks; pieces in the Game of the Bowl.
Shin'gebis, the diver, or grebe.
Showain' neme'shin, pity me.
Shuh-shuh'gah, the blue heron.
Soan-ge-ta'ha, strong-hearted.
Subbeka'she, the spider.
Sugge'me, the mosquito.
To'tem, family coat-of-arms.
Ugh, yes.
Ugudwash', the sun-fish.
Unktahee', the God of Water.
Wabas'so, the rabbit, the North.
Wabe'no, a magician, a juggler.
Wabe'no-wusk, yarrow.
Wa'bun, the East-Wind.
Wa'bun An'nung, the Star of the East, the Morning Star.
Wahono'win, a cry of lamentation.
Wah-wah-tay'see, the fire-fly.
Wam'pum, beads of shell.
Waubewy'on, a white skin wrapper.
Wa'wa, the wild goose.
Waw'beek, a rock.
Waw-be-wa'wa, the white goose.
Wawonais'sa, the whippoorwill.
Way-muk-kwa'na, the caterpillar.
Wen'digoes, giants.
Weno'nah, Hiawatha's mother, daughter of Nokomis.
Yenadiz'ze, an idler and gambler; an Indian dandy.


In the Vale of Tawasentha.

This valley, now called Norman's Kill; is in Albany County, New
York.


On the Mountains of the Prairie.

Mr. Catlin, in his Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and

Condition of the North American Indians, Vol. II p. 160, gives an
interesting account of the Coteau des Prairies, and the Red
Pipestone Quarry. He says:--

"Here (according to their traditions) happened the mysterious birth
of the red pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace and war to the
remotest corners of the continent; which has visited every warrior,
and passed through its reddened stem the irrevocable oath of war and
desolation. And here, also, the peace-breathing calumet was born,
and fringed with the eagle's quills, which has shed its thrilling
fumes over the land, and soothed the fury of the relentless savage.

"The Great Spirit at an ancient period here called the Indian
nations together, and, standing on the precipice of the red pipe-
stone rock, broke from its wall a piece, and made a huge pipe by
turning it in his hand, which he smoked over them, and to the North,
the South, the East, and the West, and told them that this stone was
red,--that it was their flesh,--that they must use it for their
pipes of peace,--that it belonged to them all, and that the war-club
and scalping-knife must not be raised on its ground. At the last
whiff of his pipe his head went into a great cloud, and the whole
surface of the rock for several miles was melted and glazed; two
great ovens were opened beneath, and two women (guardian spirits of
the place) entered them in a blaze of fire; and they are heard there
yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee aud Tso-me-cos-te-won-dee), answering to the
invocations of the high-priests or medicine-men, who consult them
when they are visitors to this sacred place. "


Hark you, Bear! you are a coward.

This anecdote is from Heckewelder. In his account of the Indian
Nations, he describes an Indian hunter as addressing a bear in
nearly these words. "I was present," he says, "at the delivery of
this curious invective; when the hunter had despatched the bear, I
asked him how he thought that poor animal could understand what he
said to it. 'O,' said he in answer, 'the bear understood me very
well; did you not observe how ashamed he looked while I was
upbraiding him? "'--Transactions of the American Philosophical
Society, Vol. I. p. 240.


Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!

Heckewelder, in a letter published in the Transactions of the
American Philosophical Society, Vol. IV. p. 260, speaks of this
tradition as prevalent among the Mohicans and Delawares.

"Their reports," he says, "run thus: that among all animals that had
been formerly in this country, this was the most ferocious; that it
was much larger than the largest of the common bears, and remarkably
long-bodied; all over (except a spot of hair on its back of a white
color) naked. . . . .

"The history of this animal used to be a subject of conversation
among the Indians, especially when in the woods a hunting. I have
also heard them say to their children when crying: 'Hush! the naked
bear will hear you, be upon you, and devour you,'"


Where the Falls of Minnehaha, etc.

"The scenery about Fort Snelling is rich in beauty. The Falls of
St. Anthony are familiar to travellers, and to readers of Indian
sketches. Between the fort and these falls are the 'Little Falls,'
forty feet in height, on a stream that empties into the Mississippi.
The Indians called them Mine-hah-hah, or 'laughing waters. '"
-- MRS. EASTMAN'S Dacotah, or Legends of the Sioux, Introd. , p. ii.


Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo.

A description of the Grand Sable, or great sand-dunes of Lake
Superior, is given in Foster and Whitney's Report on the Geology of
the Lake Superior Land District, Part II. p. 131.

"The Grand Sable possesses a scenic interest little inferior to that
of the Pictured Rocks. The explorer passes abruptly from a coast of
consolidated sand to one of loose materials; and although in the one
case the cliffs are less precipitous, yet in the other they attain a
higher altitude. He sees before him a long reach of coast,
resembling a vast sand-bank, more than three hundred and fifty feet
in height, without a trace of vegetation. Ascending to the top,
rounded hillocks of blown sand are observed, with occasional clumps
of trees standing out like oases in the desert. "


Onaway! Awake, beloved!

The original of this song may be found in Littell's Living Age,
Vol. XXV. p. 45.


On the Red Swan floating, flying.

The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan may be found in Schoolcraft's
Algic Researches, Vol. II. p. 9. Three brothers were hunting on a
wager to see who would bring home the first game.

"They were to shoot no other animal," so the legend says, "but such
as each was in the habit of killing. They set out different ways:
Odjibwa, the youngest, had not gone far before he saw a bear, an
animal he was not to kill, by the agreement. He followed him close,
and drove an arrow through him, which brought him to the ground.
Although contrary to the bet, he immediately commenced skinning him,
when suddenly something red tinged all the air around him. He
rubbed his eyes, thinking he was perhaps deceived; but without
effect, for the red hue continued. At length he heard a strange
noise at a distance. It first appeared like a human voice, but
after following the sound for some distance, he reached the shores
of a lake, and soon saw the object he was looking for. At a
distance out in the lake sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose
plumage glittered in the sun, and who would now and then make the
same noise he had heard. He was within long bow-shot, and, pulling
the arrow from the bowstring up to his ear, took deliberate aim and
shot. The arrow took no effect; and he shot and shot again till his
quiver was empty. Still the swan remained, moving round and round,
stretching its long neck and dipping its bill into the water, as if
heedless of the arrows shot at it. Odjibwa ran home, and got all
his own and his brother's arrows and shot them all away. He then
stood and gazed at the beautiful bird. While standing, he
remembered his brother's saying that in their deceased father's
medicine-sack were three magic arrows. Off he started, his anxiety
to kill the swan overcoming all scruples. At any other time, he
would have deemed it sacrilege to open his father's medicine-sack;
but now he hastily seized the three arrows and ran back, leaving the
other contents of the sack scattered over the lodge. The swan was
still there. He shot the first arrow with great precision, and came
very near to it. The second came still closer; as he took the last
arrow, he felt his arm firmer, and, drawing it up with vigor, saw it
pass through the neck of the swan a little above the breast. Still
it did not prevent the bird from flying off, which it did, however,
at first slowly, flapping its wings and rising gradually into the
airs and teen flying off toward the sinking of the sun. "
-- pp. 10-12.


When I think of my beloved.

The original of this song may be found in Oneota, p. 15.


Sing the mysteries of Mondamin.
The Indians hold the maize, or Indian corn, in great veneration.

"They esteem it so important and divine a grain," says Schoolcraft,
"that their story-tellers invented various tales, in which this idea
is symbolized under the form of a special gift from the Great
Spirit. The Odjibwa-Algonquins, who call it Mon-da-min, that is,
the Spirit's grain or berry, have a pretty story of this kind, in
which the stalk in full tassel is represented as descending from the
sky, under the guise of a handsome youth, in answer to the prayers
of a young man at his fast of virility, or coming to manhood.

"It is well known that corn-planting and corn-gathering, at least
among all the still uncolonized tribes, are left entirely to the
females and children, and a few superannuated old men. It is not
generally known, perhaps, that this labor is not compulsory, and
that it is assumed by the females as a just equivalent, in their
view, for the onerous and continuous labor of the other sex, in
providing meats, and skins for clothing, by the chase, and in
defending their villages against their enemies, and keeping
intruders off their territories. A good Indian housewife deems this
a part of her prerogative, and prides herself to have a store of
corn to exercise her hospitality, or duly honor her husband's
hospitality, in the entertainment of the lodge guests. "
-- Oneota, p. 82.


Thus the fields shall be more fruitful.

"A singular proof of this belief, in both sexes, of the mysterious
influence of the steps of a woman on the vegetable and in sect
creation, is found in an ancient custom, which was related to me,
respecting corn-planting. It was the practice of the hunter's wife,
when the field of corn had been planted, to choose the first dark or
overclouded evening to perform a secret circuit, sans habillement,
around the field. For this purpose she slipped out of the lodge in
the evening, unobserved, to some obscure nook, where she completely
disrobed. Then, taking her matchecota, or principal garment, in one
hand, she dragged it around the field. This was thought to insure a
prolific crop, and to prevent the assaults of insects and worms upon
the grain. It was supposed they could not creep over the charmed
line. " -- Oneota, p. 83.


With his prisoner-string he bound him.

"These cords," says Mr. Tanner "are made of the bark of the elm-
tree, by boiling and then immersing it in cold water. . . . The
leader of a war party commonly carries several fastened about his
waist, and if, in the course of the fight, any one of his young men
take a prisoner, it is his duty to bring him immediately to the
chief, to be tied, and the latter is responsible for his safe
keeping. " -- Narrative of Captivity and Adventures, p. 412.


Wagemin, the thief of cornfields,
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear.

"If one of the young female huskers finds a red ear of corn, it is
typical of a brave admirer, and is regarded as a fitting present to
some young warrior. But if the ear be crooked, and tapering to a
point, no matter what color, the whole circle is set in a roar, and
wa-ge-min is the word shouted aloud. It is the symbol of a thief in
the cornfield. It is considered as the image of an old man stooping
as he enters the lot. Had the chisel of Praxiteles been employed to
produce this image, it could not more vividly bring to the minds of
the merry group the idea of a pilferer of their favorite
mondamin. . . .

"The literal meaning of the term is, a mass, or crooked ear of
grain; but the ear of corn so called is a conventional type of a
little old man pilfering ears of corn in a cornfield.
It is in this
manner that a single word or term, in these curious languages,
becomes the fruitful parent of many ideas. And we can thus perceive
why it is that the word wagemin is alone competent to excite
merriment in the husking circle.

"This term is taken as the basis of the cereal chorus, or corn song,
as sung by the Northern Algonquin tribes. It is coupled with the
phrase Paimosaid,--a permutative form of the Indian substantive,
made from the verb pim-o-sa, to walk. Its literal meaning is, he
who walks, or the walker; but the ideas conveyed by it are, he who
walks by night to pilfer corn. It offers, therefore, a kind of
parallelism in expression to the preceding term. " -- Oneota, p.
254.


Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces.

This Game of the Bowl is the principal game of hazard among the
Northern tribes of Indians. Mr. Schoolcraft gives a particular
account of it in Oneota, p. 85. "This game," he says, "is very
fascinating to some portions of the Indians. They stake at it their
ornaments, weapons, clothing, canoes, horses, everything in fact
they possess; and have been known, it is said, to set up their wives
and children and even to forfeit their own liberty. Of such
desperate stakes I have seen no examples, nor do I think the game
itself in common use. It is rather confined to certain persons, who
hold the relative rank of gamblers in Indian society,--men who are
not noted as hunters or warriors, or steady providers for their
families. Among these are persons who bear the term of Iena-dizze-
wug, that is, wanderers about the country, braggadocios, or fops.
It can hardly be classed with the popular games of amusement, by
which skill and dexterity are acquired. I have generally found the
chiefs and graver men of the tribes, who encouraged the young men to
play ball, and are sure to be present at the customary sports, to
witness, and sanction, and applaud them, speak lightly and
disparagingly of this game of hazard. Yet it cannot be denied that
some of the chiefs, distinguished in war and the chase, at the West,
can be referred to as lending their example to its fascinating power. "

See also his history, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian
Tribes, Part II, p. 72.


To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone.

The reader will find a long description of the Pictured Rocks in
Foster and Whitney's Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior Land
District, Part II. p. 124. From this I make the following extract:--

"The Pictured Rocks may be described, in general terms, as a series
of sandstone bluffs extending along the shore of Lake Superior for
about five miles, and rising, in most places, vertically from the
water, without any beach at the base, to a height varying from fifty
to nearly two hundred feet. Were they simply a line of cliffs, they
might not, so far as relates to height or extent, be worthy of a
rank among great natural curiosities, although such an assemblage of
rocky strata, washed by the waves of the great lake, would not,
under any circumstances, be destitute of grandeur. To the voyager,
coasting along their base in his frail canoe, they would, at all
times, be an object of dread; the recoil of the surf, the rock-bound
coast, affording, for miles, no place of refuge,--the lowering sky,
the rising wind,--all these would excite his apprehension, and
induce him to ply a vigorous oar until the dreaded wall was passed.
But in the Pictured Rocks there are two features which communicate
to the scenery a wonderful and almost unique character. These are,
first, the curious manner in which the cliffs have been excavated
and worn away by the action of the lake, which, for centuries, has
dashed an ocean-like surf against their base; and, second, the
equally curious manner in which large portions of the surface have
been colored by bands of brilliant hues.

"It is from the latter circumstance that the name, by which these
cliffs are known to the American traveller, is derived; while that
applied to them by the French voyageurs ('Les Portails') is derived
from the former, and by far the most striking peculiarity.

"The term Pictured Rocks has been in use for a great length of time;
but when it was first applied, we have been unable to discover. It
would seem that the first travellers were more impressed with the
novel and striking distribution of colors on the surface than with
the astonishing variety of form into which the cliffs themselves
have been worn. . . .

"Our voyageurs had many legends to relate of the pranks of the
Menni-bojou in these caverns, and, in answer to our inquiries,
seemed disposed to fabricate stories, without end, of the
achievements of this Indian deity. "


Toward the Sun his hands were lifted.

In this manner, and with such salutations, was Father Marquette
received by the Illinois. See his Voyages et Decouvertes,
Section V.

<END HIAWATHA NOTES>


*************


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH

I

MILES STANDISH

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 doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,--
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
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,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels. "
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

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
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their 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 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! "
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted
High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose,
Steady, straight-forward, and strong, with irresistible logic,
Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen.
Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians;
Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better,--
Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow,
Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon! "

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape,
Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind,
Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean,
Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine.
Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape,
Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion,
Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded:
"Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish;
Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside!
She was the first to die of all who came in the Mayflower!
Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there,
Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people,
Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished! "
Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful.

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them
Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding;
Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Caesar,
Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London,
And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible.
Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful
Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort,
Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans,
Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians.
Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman,
Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence
Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the margin,
Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest.
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling,
Busily writing epistles important, to go by the Mayflower,
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!



II

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling,
Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain,
Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Caesar.
After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards,
Heavily on the page: "A wonderful man was this Caesar!
You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow
Who could both write and fight, and in both was equally skilful! "
Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful:
"Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his weapons.
Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate
Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs. "
"Truly," continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other,
"Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Caesar!
Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village,
Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it.
Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after;
Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered;
He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded;
Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus!
Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders,
When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too,
And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together
There was no room for their swords? Why, he seized a shield from a soldier,
Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the captains,
Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns;
Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons;
So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other.
That's what I always say; if you wish a thing to be well done,
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others! "

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 Mayflower,
Filled with 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 the 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:
"'T is 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.
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.
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.
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. "

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, 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,
Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning,
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'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it!
So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar,
Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases. "
Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful,
Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added:
"Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that prompts me;
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 moulding the gentler,
Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.



III

THE LOVER'S ERRAND

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 blue-birds and robins were building
Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure,
Peaceful, 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.
To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing,
As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel,
Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean!
"Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a wild lamentation,
"Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion?
Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence?
Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow
Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England?
Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption
Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion;
Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan.
All is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it distinctly!
This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon me in anger,
For I have followed too much the heart's desires and devices,
Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols of Baal.
This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift retribution. "

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;
Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled over pebble and shallow,
Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers blooming around him,
Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness,
Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber.
"Puritan flowers," he said, "and the type of Puritan maidens,
Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla!
So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the May-flower of Plymouth,
Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will I take them;
Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and perish,
Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the giver. "
So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;
Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean,
Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the east-wind;
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,
Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist,
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.
Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth,
Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together,
Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a churchyard,
Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses.
Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan anthem,
She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest,
Making the humble house and the modest apparel of home-spun
Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being!
Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless,
Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his errand;
All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished,
All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion,
Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces.
Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it,
"Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards;
Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its fountains,
Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and the hearths of the living,
It is the will of the Lord; and his mercy endureth for ever! "

So he entered the house: and the hum of the wheel and the singing
Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold,
Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome,
Saying, "I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage;
For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning. "
Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingled
Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden,
Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer,
Finding no words for his thought. He remembered that day in the winter,
After the first great snow, when he broke a path from the village,
Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that encumbered the doorway,
Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered the house, and Priscilla
Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the fireside,
Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her in the snow-storm.
Had he but spoken then! perhaps not in vain had he spoken;
Now it was all too late; the golden moment had vanished!
So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers for an answer.

Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful Spring-time,
Talked of their friends at home, and the Mayflower that sailed on the morrow.
"I have been thinking all day," said gently the Puritan maiden,
"Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedge-rows of 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,
And, at the end of the street, the village church, with the ivy
Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves in the churchyard.
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 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 her 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 the 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 no 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?
That is the way with you men; you don't understand us, you cannot.
When you have made up your minds, after thinking of this one and that one,
Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with another,
Then you make known your desire, with abrupt and sudden avowal,
And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, that a woman
Does not respond at once to a love that she never suspected,
Does not attain at a bound the height to which you have been climbing.
This is not right nor just: for surely a woman's affection
Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking.
When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it.
Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed that he loved me,
Even this Captain of yours--who knows? --at last might have won me,
Old and rough as he is; but now it never can happen. "

Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla,
Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding;
Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles in Flanders,
How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction,
How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain of Plymouth;
He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly
Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England,
Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of Thurston de Standish;
Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded,
Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent
Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon.
He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature;
Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew how during the winter
He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle as woman's;
Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and headstrong,
Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and placable always,
Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature;
For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous;
Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England,
Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish!

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 over-running with laughter,
Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John? "



IV

JOHN ALDEN

Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered,
Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the sea-side;
Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east-wind,
Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him.
Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendors,
Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle,
So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire,
Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted
Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city.

"Welcome, O wind of the East! " he exclaimed in his wild exultation,
"Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlantic!
Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of sea-grass,
Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the grottos and gardens of ocean!
Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap me
Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me! "

Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing,
Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the sea-shore.
Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contending;
Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding,
Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty!
"Is it my fault," he said, "that the maiden has chosen between us?
Is it my fault that he failed,--my fault that I am the victor? "
Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the Prophet:
"It hath displeased the Lord! "--and he thought of David's transgression,
Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle!
Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation,
Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the deepest contrition:
"It hath displeased the Lord! It is the temptation of Satan! "

Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there
Dimly the shadowy form of the Mayflower riding at anchor,
Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow;
Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage
Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors' "Ay, ay, Sir! "
Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight.
Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel,
Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom,
Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow.
"Yes, it is plain to me now," he murmured; "the hand of the Lord is
Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error,
Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around me,
Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me.
Back will I go o'er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon,
Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended.
Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England,
Close by my mother's side, and among the dust of my kindred;
Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor!
Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber
With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers
Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and darkness,--
Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter! "

Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong resolution,
Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight,
Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and sombre,
Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth,
Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening.
Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain
Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Caesar,
Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders.
"Long have you been on your errand," he said with a cheery demeanor,
Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue.
"Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us;
But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming
I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city.
Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened. "

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,
Even as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it.
Wildly he shouted, and loud: "John Alden! you have betrayed me!
Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me!
One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler;
Who shall prevent me from running my own through the heart of a traitor?
Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship!
You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother;
You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keeping
I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most sacred and secret,--
You too, Brutus! ah woe to the name of friendship hereafter!
Brutus was Caesar's friend, and you were mine, but henceforward
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.

Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council,
Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming;
Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment,
Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven,
Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth.
God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting,
Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation;
So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people!
Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant,
Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect;
While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible,
Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland,
And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattle-snake glittered,
Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge of warfare,
Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance.
This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating
What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace,
Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting;
One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder,
Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted,
Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior!
Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth,
Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger,
"What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses?